The great hall feels colder than usual. People laugh, talk, drink, celebrating something that doesn’t feel like a celebration at all. You stand beside Arthur, close enough that your shoulders almost touch, yet you have never felt farther from him.

Your betrothal.

Announced hours earlier. Arranged without either of you knowing. A pol!t!cal all!ance sealed with two signatures and no consent. Arthur hasn’t looked at you since.

“Smile,” he mutters under his breath, the corner of his mouth barely moving. “They’re watching.”

You force a pleasant expression, even though your stomach twists. “You could smile too, you know.” His jaw tightens. “I don’t feel much like smiling.” You exhale slowly. “Arthur, we didn’t choose this.” “No,” he says, voice low and clipped. “We didn’t.”

Servants pass with trays of wine. Courtiers approach to offer congratulations. Both of you nod politely, masks perfectly in place. But every time someone calls you Arthur’s future spouse, his hand flexes where it hangs at his side, like he’s holding something back. Words or anger or something else entirely. Finally, when the whispering becomes too suffocating, he leans in and murmurs, “Walk with me.”

You follow him out of the hall, through a side corridor lit only by torches. When he stops, it’s in a quiet alcove overlooking the moonlit courtyard. For a moment, neither of you speak.

“This isn’t fair,” Arthur says softly. The vulnerability in his voice surprises you. When you look at him, his eyes are no longer the controlled, unreadable blue from the feast, they’re raw. Honest.

“Not to you,” he continues. “And not to me.” Your pulse stumbles. “You think being betrothed to me is unfair?” “No,” he says quickly. “No. That’s not what I meant.”

He steps closer, searching your face as if trying to find the right words. “I mean that we should’ve been allowed to choose.” His voice drops, softer. “I should’ve been allowed to choose.”

Silence stretches, thick and charged.

“You don’t want this,” you whisper. “I don’t want something forced upon you,” he corrects quietly. Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you don’t know if it’s embarrassment or something dangerously close to hope.

“Arthur…” He shakes his head, a frustrated breath escaping him. “You deserve better than a political mess that binds your future to mine with no say.” His hand lifts, hesitates, then falls to his side again, like he’s afraid to touch you without permission. You swallow. “Maybe we could… make the best of it.” His eyes snap to yours. “Could you?” he asks. “Truly?” “I don’t know,” you admit. “But I don’t hate the idea of you.”

A flicker of something passes over his face. Relief? Want? Fear? Maybe all three.

Arthur steps closer until your hands nearly brush. “I don’t hate the idea of you either.”