“The Morning of the Wedding”

The rain had started before dawn. A cold, whispering drizzle that clung to the windows of the western wing like fingers unwilling to let go.

Prince Thiago stood alone in front of the tall mirror in his chambers, half-dressed in ceremonial armor. The rest of the palace buzzed like a hive—maids, guards, lords, and distant cousins preparing for the empire’s most anticipated union in decades—but here, in his room, silence reigned.

He stared at his reflection. At the faint scar across his throat. At the shadows beneath his eyes. At the crown he did not yet wear.

His fingers moved slowly, buttoning the final piece of his collar. The black fabric was stiff with embroidery, woven with silver threads that caught the gray light. It was beautiful. Regal. But it felt more like a shackle than celebration.

He didn’t even know her name.

The girl—no, the woman—he was to marry. She had arrived two nights ago under heavy guard. Locked away in the eastern guest wing, surrounded by silk and politics. He had not seen her. Not yet. That was intentional.

He didn’t believe in fate. He believed in choices. In war. In steel and blood and silence. But this morning, something in his chest ached.

Not love. Not longing. But… something.

A whisper of curiosity. A shadow of a possibility he refused to name.

Would she flinch when she saw him? Would she ask about the scars, or pretend not to see them like the rest? Would she be afraid?

He didn’t want her to be afraid.

Thiago turned away from the mirror and walked toward the window. Outside, the rain painted the marble gardens in shades of slate and bone. Bells echoed faintly across the courtyard, signaling the hour. The hour of his own binding.

He exhaled.

“They will expect a smile,” he muttered under his breath.

But the corners of his mouth never moved.

Instead, he slid on his gloves—soft leather, worn from use—and flexed his fingers once. Twice. Then he reached for the sword that would hang at his side during the ceremony. Not drawn. Merely symbolic. A gesture of peace.

Symbolism. Promises. Lies in silk.

And still… he wondered. What kind of eyes would she have?