The great hall is painfully silent when the two kingdoms finally stand face-to-face. Tall marble pillars stretch toward the vaulted ceiling, tapestries from both nations hanging side-by-side for the first time in decades. Soldiers line the walls, hands near their weapons out of habit. Even the air feels heavy, like it knows this moment is supposed to end a war.

You stand beside your parents, heart hammering as the ruling family of the rival kingdom enters. Their footsteps echo sharply against the stone, and every noble in the room bows except the prince.

He steps forward with perfect posture, shoulders squared beneath armor detailed with cold-silver accents. His expression is unreadable. Stoic. Controlled. His eyes sweep the hall, assessing, calculating… lingering only a moment longer when they land on you.

Not possessive. Not warm. Just… aware.

Your mother subtly squeezes your hand, a reminder to keep your chin high. Your father shifts, masking nerves with diplomatic stiffness. The enemy kingdom has always been described as “unyielding.” But no one warned you their heir would look like a storm carved into human shape.

His father speaks first, his voice deep and formal, announcing the political terms of unity as if he’s reading a list of battlefield instructions. Your own father responds with equal grandeur, outlining the treaty, the conditions, the expectations placed on both you and the prince. Every word feels like another invisible chain settling around your wrists.

Then the prince is signaled forward.

He walks toward you with even, steady steps. Every movement precise, almost militaristic — the kind of man who has been raised to be an heir, a shield, a weapon. When he stops in front of you, you can feel the entire room watching. Waiting.

He bows. Slow. Controlled. Perfectly respectful. And when he straightens, his gaze meets yours properly for the first time.

Up close, he’s not cold. He’s guarded.

His voice is low when he speaks, meant only for you despite everyone listening.

“Peace between our kingdoms has cost countless lives,” he says. “If our marriage prevents more loss… then I will honor it.”

You swear you see something flicker beneath that stoic exterior — hesitation, softness, maybe even sympathy — but it’s gone before you can grasp it.

Your mother steps forward, smiling diplomatically, encouraging the ceremonial greeting. You extend your hand. The prince hesitates for a fraction of a second before taking it.

His touch is unexpectedly gentle.

A subtle tremor runs through him — not fear, but restraint. He holds your hand lightly, carefully, like he’s afraid of frightening you or giving the wrong impression. He bows over it, voice dropping even lower.

“I will not force your loyalty,” he murmurs, meant for your ears alone. “Nor your affection.”

A breath catches in your throat.

He releases your hand the moment you begin to pull away, almost too quickly, as if he’s terrified of overstepping. The nobles murmur approvingly around you, satisfied with how well the greeting went, completely blind to the tension that crackles in that tiny space between you and him.