Tristan had planned to be anywhere else.
The northern villa was quiet this time of year—white-capped mountains, silence thick enough to drown in. That was where he belonged. Not here. Not stuffed into ceremonial black and silver, seated at the back of the royal chapel surrounded by peacocks in brocade and powdered wigs.
He shifted once on the polished pew. It creaked in protest.
Gods, he hated ceremonies.
This one, especially.
The crown prince's wedding. A public affair. An obligatory celebration of unity and diplomacy. An "honor to attend," or so the King had said, voice sharpened with expectation. "You are the only surviving uncle. The court will notice your absence."
So here he was. The ghost prince in the back row, cold as ever.
He didn't even know the bride's name. Just another noble pawn pushed across the board by Embercrown's endless appetite for alliances. All he knew about her was that she was the infamous eldest daughter of Marquis RavenShield. No magic attributes, no talent whatsoever. He expected a dull speech, a dull vow, a dull kiss. A dull end to a dull afternoon.
Instead, what he got—was silence.
Long. Stretched. Suspicious.
The priest fumbled at the altar. Eyes darted. The pews shifted with whispers.
Tristan frowned.
Where was the groom?
The girl stood alone. White gown. Pale roses. No trembling hands. No visible grief. Just… waiting. Still as winter.
Most girls would cry.
She didn't.
He watched her more closely now. Not because he cared. But because she didn't behave like someone who had just been humiliated before half the court. There was no breakdown. No plea. Only quiet calculation behind her lashes.
Interesting.
Then she spoke.
Sweet voice. Sharp spine.
A challenge disguised as courtesy.
She was maneuvering. Politely. Publicly. Every word a scalpel.
Tristan leaned back slightly, folding his arms.
Well then.
She invoked a forgotten law. She wielded it like a knife, the way one would pull a hidden blade from a sleeve—graceful, casual, devastating. A noblewoman abandoned at the altar may choose her own groom, she said. Her right. Ancient law.
The King looked ready to seize.
Tristan arched a brow.
He hadn't expected the girl to have teeth.
And then—she turned to the crowd.
"I will choose someone worthy to stand at my side—today. Right here. Now."
A ripple ran through the pews. Panic. Mortified shuffling. Nobles dodging her gaze like she were Medusa incarnate.
She began scanning the crowd.
One by one, men dropped their eyes, stiff with fear or shame. The air was tight, like everyone was holding their breath.
And then—
Her gaze landed on him.
Tristan blinked.
That was… not expected.
She stared. Long enough to be deliberate. And then pointed.
"Him," she said. "I choose him."
For a single heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then chaos.
Gasps. Shouts. Scandalized muttering. A woman dropped her fan. A man hissed his drink through his teeth.
"Tristan?!"
"She picked him—?!"
"She must be mad!"
He sat still, letting the weight of their words crash around him like ocean waves breaking against stone.
The bride was watching him. No fear. No regret. Just curiosity.
Poor girl didn't know what she'd done.
Tristan rose.
The temperature dipped as he moved. His magic brushed against the walls, misting faintly. Nobles flinched. A path cleared before him—fear was useful that way.
She didn't move when he reached her.
She tilted her head up, eyebrows slightly knit. "Do you know who I am?" he asked, voice soft as falling snow.
"A noble," she said, plainly. "Obviously."
He blinked. Not the answer he expected.
"Prince Tristan. Ninth of Embercrown. Iceborne."
There it was. Recognition dawning like a sun through storm clouds.
Her lady's maid whispered frantic warnings, something about freezing a man alive for scuffing his boots. About isolation, danger, frost.
Her answer?
A smile.
Not a nervous one. Not an awkward one.
A genuine, wicked little smile.
"Fascinating," she said.
Tristan blinked again. This time slower. More intrigued.
She's not afraid of me.
Foolish? Maybe. But not afraid.
And he couldn't help but wonder—was it bravery, or something darker?
The King roared, but the girl didn't flinch. She stood her ground with icy elegance and curtseyed like a queen in her own right.
"With all due respect, Your Majesty," she said, "the Crown sought a political match. You now have one. Prince Tristan is royal. And, unlike your heir… he showed up."
Tristan's mouth twitched.
Just slightly.
He didn't smile. But nearly.
And when she turned to him again, eyes bright with fire and defiance, and asked—"Do you object to marrying me?"—he heard something deeper beneath the words.
Not just challenge.
Invitation.
The court held its breath.
He answered.
"I suppose not."
And so, the priest spoke. Voice trembling. The words were old, sacred, meaningless.
And then—
"You may kiss the bride."
More silence.
Every eye on them.
Tristan didn't move.
He hadn't expected any of this. Hadn't planned for a marriage. Certainly not this marriage. But before he could decide how to react—
She did.
Ivy stepped forward. Her fingers brushed his collar. Bold. Gentle. Steady. Her chin lifted, her gaze flicked to his lips, then back to his eyes—
And then she kissed him.
Firm. Unapologetic. Fierce.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
Her mouth was warm. Confident. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic like she was claiming it—claiming him.
He stiffened.
Then moved.
His hand slid to her jaw, the other to the small of her back. He kissed her back, slow and exacting. Frost met flame. Power pressed against power. And something ancient cracked open in the space between them.
When she pulled away, her breath caught slightly. "Guess we're married now."
Tristan didn't smile.
But inside?
He was very entertained.
She turned to the crowd like she hadn't just upended the kingdom.
"You may now rise," she said sweetly. "The wedding continues."
And it did.
Shocked. Silent. Terrified.
But none dared object.
After all—
The bride had chosen her groom.
And no one said no to the Ice Warden.