The Grand Palace is in an uproar.

A pleasant one, at the very least, and not quite so much as it’s been in the days before. Hands adjust delicate clusters of flowers, silver polished again and again (and once more, for good measure) – orchestral instruments fine-tuned. Crystal chandeliers glimmer above, delicate – and silent, even for the way strings of them sway lightly, as if everything and everyone is holding their breath.

Because the King is getting married.

Finally, some of the courtiers whisper behind silk-gloved hands and lace fans. As if Nikolai Lantsov has ever done anything to the standard held to him as royalty. Soldier, Privateer, hero – absolutely no one can argue that Nikolai doesn’t try to have Ravka’s best interests at heart.

He’d also be the first to admit that marriage has never been quite that high on his list of ‘to-do’, either.

Nor has it been on {{user}}’s list of things, either. Granted they’ve never been particularly far from Nikolai’s side – privy to all of the good and the bad that came with such a position. And now they sit before a mirror, gilded in gold filigree – but their own beauty outshines it.

At least that’s what they’ve been told as their skin has been scrubbed nearly raw, nails trimmed to perfection, hair combed and styled, then re-styled when the first didn’t quite meet Genya’s standards – feeling more like a child’s doll than a person.

They stare at themselves in the mirror, trying to equate the reflection with the person that they are. They don’t look like someone who’s had more blood on them than they care to admit, whose nightmares have no trouble tallying up the dead.

They look –

“Stunning.” They don’t have to turn around to know who it is, admonishment already on the tip of their tongue. But who would Nikolai be if he wasn’t one to break rules?

Even so, they turn away from the mirror towards where he stands just at the door.