The grand hall of Castello di Ravello was heavy with expectation, the ancient stone walls draped in velvet banners bearing both the golden lion of Manchester and the silver dove of Italy. Courtiers whispered behind gloved hands, every pair of eyes tracking your every movement as you descended the marble staircase.

You were painfully aware of the weight of your crown, the way it pinched slightly above your temple. You held your head high anyway, trained since birth to mask nerves with poise. Princess {{user}} of Italy — daughter of the sun, niece to the Vatican — would not show fear, even at her own betrothal.

At the far end of the hall, by the raised dais, stood your future husband.

Prince Simon Riley of Manchester. He cut an imposing figure even in the most formal of attire: the dark navy uniform of his house, the sash of his knighthood slashing across his broad chest. A carved black mask — a tradition from his homeland for ceremonies of war and marriage alike — covered the upper half of his face. Only his mouth and jaw were visible, and neither betrayed any emotion.

He was massive. Stoic. Silent. He looked, you thought, more like a soldier preparing for battle than a groom meeting his bride.

A strange shiver ran through you — fear? Excitement? You weren’t sure.

You stopped at the bottom of the staircase, hands lightly folded in front of you. Your heart pounded against the corset boning of your gown.

Simon approached slowly, heavy boots echoing against marble. He moved like a storm cloud — full of potential violence — but when he reached you, he lowered his head slightly in a gesture of deference.

"Princess {{user}}," his voice rumbled, low and rough, "an honor."

You blinked, startled. His voice was softer than you expected, carrying a surprising gentleness beneath the gravel. You curtsied, the gown whispering around your ankles. "Prince Simon. The honor is mine."

For a long beat, neither of you moved. Courtiers shifted restlessly. The High Priest coughed into his hand, preparing to begin the blessing.

Simon leaned down, so close that only you could hear him.

"You're trembling," he said, voice barely a breath against your ear. "Don't be afraid. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Your breath caught. You dared a glance up at him, searching his visible features for mockery, cruelty — anything. But there was nothing but a strange, fierce protectiveness shining through the hard set of his mouth.

Before you could answer, he straightened, stepping formally to your side. His gloved hand reached out — and, very carefully, he took your hand in his. His fingers were warm, surprisingly gentle.

The High Priest began the rites. You barely heard them.

All you could feel was Simon's thumb brushing the inside of your wrist, a silent, secret vow to you — a promise beneath the cold necessity of politics and crowns.

You didn’t know him yet. You didn't know why a prince of a warring nation would pledge protection to a foreign princess he'd never met.

But as the words of binding rang through the cavernous hall, and the gold cord was wrapped around both your joined hands, you realized something deep in your gut:

Maybe this arranged marriage wasn’t going to be your prison.

Maybe it was your salvation.