The east wing had settled into its evening hush, shadows stretching long across the stone floors as servants carried warm water into the private chambers.
Sophia sat before her dressing mirror, her handmaidens undoing the intricate pins in her hair until the glossy black waves fell loose over her shoulders. The faint scent of rosewater lingered in the steam rising from the bath. She let her fingers trail absently over the rim of the basin, her thoughts not on the scented water but on the prince who occupied the chamber down the corridor.
The image of his storm-gray eyes at dinner lingered, sharp and calculating. Yet when she closed her own eyes, what remained was not suspicion, it was the way his gaze had softened, barely, when she had pressed him into agreeing.
A flicker of warmth stirred in her chest before she shook it away. She could not afford softness. Not yet.
With a sigh, she slipped into the bath, the water lapping against her skin. The quiet echoed her thoughts: Does he wonder as I do, what the other is doing in this moment?
Across the wing, Alexander dismissed Damien with a nod. The knight left silently, carrying away the day's armor of duty. Servants moved with careful precision, helping the prince from his chair into the waiting bath.
The water was hot, almost scalding, and Alexander welcomed the sting against his skin. It grounded him, reminded him that he was alive despite the body that betrayed him daily. His thoughts, however, betrayed him worse.
They drifted to Sophia, her careful poise, the way her words slid like polished steel across the dining table, and the faint scent of lavender that had clung to her when she leaned closer.
He clenched his jaw, submerging himself deeper.
Fool. She is Valehart's daughter, a pawn sent into your exile. Do not think of her lips, or of her steps echoing against these halls.
Later, changed into a simple night robe, he sat propped against the pillows of his bed, the candlelight flickering low. For a heartbeat, his mind betrayed him again, whispering that the door might open, that she might come as she had the night of their wedding, uninvited yet undeniable.
He waited.
The silence stretched.
But disappointment settled like a weight against his chest, and his lips twisted bitterly.
"Pathetic," he muttered to himself, dragging the covers higher. "To think of her like some lovestruck boy."
With that scolding, he closed his eyes. But the image of her still lingered.
Morning Preparations
The dawn came early, sunlight cutting through the pale curtains of both chambers. Servants bustled with renewed energy, laying out garments suitable for a formal visit.
In her chamber, Sophia stood as Elena fastened the last clasp of her gown. The gown of muted sapphire trimmed with silver embroidery, regal yet understated. She studied her reflection, the long black hair cascading freely today with only a delicate circlet to tame it.
"Do I look a bride content?" she asked softly.
Elena hesitated, then nodded. "You look as though no one could doubt it, Your Grace."
That was the goal. The mask must hold.
Meanwhile, in his study, Alexander gave Damien his instructions.
"Ensure the carriage is prepared with the royal crest polished," he said evenly. "Let the guards ride in formation, it should be dignified, not ostentatious. This is not a parade."
"Yes, Your Highness," Damien replied, his hand over his chest.
"And the gifts," Alexander added, his voice colder now. "They are to be respectable but not lavish. I will not give Valehart cause to boast that his daughter brought him fortune through me."
Damien inclined his head. "It shall be done."
Alexander paused then, his gaze flicking toward the corridor that led to Sophia's chambers. His words came lower, almost reluctant.
"And make certain… the servants speak of harmony between us. Let no rumor leave this wing that would shame her or me, when we stand in her father's hall."
Damien gave him a rare smile, faint but sincere. "Understood, my lord."
By mid-morning, the couple stood at the entrance of the east wing. The carriage gleamed beneath the pale sun, the Daxton crest glinting on its polished surface. Guards mounted their horses in disciplined rows, the household gathered discreetly to watch.
Sophia descended first, her handmaids trailing behind. The blue gown shimmered like water as she approached.
Alexander, already in his chair, regarded her in silence. His attire was dark, severe, the silver clasp at his throat the only concession to finery.
Their eyes met, brief but heavy with all the unspoken tension of the night before. Then, with a faint smile, Sophia curtsied, and Alexander nodded.
Neither spoke.
They seated across from one another as the door closed, the world outside muffled.
The wheels turned. The carriage lurched forward. And with it, the performance of unity began.