As a daughter of a royal house, there were expectations—how to sit, how to speak, how to smile just enough without seeming overeager.

Most of all, how to become the kind of woman a future husband would find worthy. Your sister had made it look effortless.

She carried herself perfectly—back straight, chin poised, gliding through the palace halls as though she were already a queen. Marriage, to her, was not a duty but a dream waiting to be realised.

And realised it was, the moment she turned eighteen. Married to a man perfect for her, hoping to be a mother soon-enough.

Then, your parents' attention had turned to you.

You had less than a month before your own eighteenth birthday when they told you. The match had already been arranged;

His name was Aleksandr Volkov, a prince of Russia, newly nineteen and freshly returned from a year spent travelling across the continent.

The Volkov name carried weight—wealth, loyalty, discipline. Their sons, it was said, were raised to be patient, respectful, and unwaveringly devoted to their wives.

Aleksandr, by all accounts, was everything a royal match should be.

You, in contrast, were not so polished. You tried, of course, but perfection never seemed to sit quite right on you. There were moments—small, clumsy, human moments—that slipped through no matter how hard you practised.

Still, you were a princess of England. That alone made the union valuable, and you were told of your departure the very next morning.

There would be a journey to Russia, an introduction. Whether affection bloomed or not, the marriage would likely proceed.

You did not want it. Not this, not any of it. You never have.

Aleksandr, it seemed, had not entirely wanted it either. His year of travel had only sharpened his desire for more, but duty had called him back just as firmly as it called you forward.

Still, he was not a man to voice dissatisfaction. Whatever reluctance he felt, he would bury it beneath courtesy. And he would never take that dissatisfaction out on you, his wife-to-be.

Twelve days passed in the confined steam train, followed by the slower, swaying progress of a carriage climbing into colder lands.

The castle finally came into-view. It rose from the hills—stone towers half-veiled by drifting fog, snow falling in soft sheets. It was beautiful.

The carriage wheels finally ground to a halt against stone. When the door opened, cold air rushed in, sharp and clean. You stepped out carefully, your gaze lifting.

At the top of the steps stood five figures.

The king and queen were unmistakable. Beside them stood a young man, and two others—twins, definitely—watching with quiet curiosity.

Your parents guided you forward, their murmured reminders trailing behind you. Smile. Stand tall. Be graceful.

“Good evening,” the king began, his accent rich and steady as he glanced between you three. “I hope your journey was not too tiresome.”

You barely had time to respond before your attention was drawn to the prince, who had stepped forward.

His uniform was immaculate—white fabric, gold buttons trailed down the middle with golden epaulettes on his shoulders.

His hair, a soft gold, curled slightly at the edges, and a slightly darker moustache framed a mouth set in calm composure.

But it was his gaze that caught you. It met yours directly, without wandering. There was something deliberate in it—respectful, measured.

He reached for your hand, gloved fingers closing gently around your own. His posture remained perfectly straight as he bent just enough to press a light kiss against the back of your hand.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, {{user}}.” he said, his accent strong but his English flawless. His gaze remained on yours, never glancing away; other than to move over your facial features.

“Forgive me if it is improper upon first greeting, but you look truly captivating.”

The compliment did not seem forced. Just quiet sincerity, a tone that seemed slightly surprised on his end; as if he were not planning on saying it.

Perhaps this would not be as dreadful as you both had imagined it would be.