The carriage jolted slightly as it rolled over the gravel path, the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoing against the high stone walls that now loomed before them. Sophia straightened in her seat, smoothing her gloved hands over her gown in a motion that was more about calming her nerves than perfecting wrinkles. Beside her, Alexander remained poised in his usual quiet dignity, his pale features unreadable. The sunlight caught the sharp edges of his face, lending him a sculpted, almost cold quality that matched the man she was quickly realizing he was distant, guarded, impossible to pin down.
Her family's estate was sprawling, proud, and a little too ostentatious in its grand displays. Stone turrets stretched toward the sky, draped in banners of the House crest. The gardens were meticulously trimmed, though to Sophia's eyes, the perfection felt sterile rather than beautiful. She had grown up in this place, had walked its corridors and known its shadows. Today, however, she returned as a wife, no longer the temperamental daughter they had indulged, but the Princess Consort, tethered to the man they had all pitied or dismissed.
Her hand clenched into her skirts. She inhaled slowly, releasing her breath before anyone could notice the tremor in her body.
"Are you unwell?" Alexander's voice broke the silence, soft but edged with that usual reserve.
Sophia forced her lips into a small smile. "Not unwell, merely… aware of what awaits us."
His brow arched faintly. He had learned to read subtleties in people, out of necessity, perhaps, given the scrutiny he lived under. But he did not press further. Instead, he turned his gaze back toward the estate gates as they swung open.
The carriage slowed, wheels crunching against the paved courtyard stones, before it drew to a halt in front of the wide staircase that led into the manor. Waiting there was a gathering of her family: her father, Lord Alaric Valehart, standing tall in his velvet coat; her mother, with her carefully perfected smile that never reached her eyes; her two elder brothers, both stiff-backed and polished; and a scattering of cousins and retainers, their faces a mixture of curiosity and restrained disdain.
The coachman descended first, pulling open the door. Sophia moved instinctively, prepared to step down but she paused, remembering the prince beside her. She glanced at him, hesitant.
Alexander shifted forward slightly, his hands braced on the carriage sides. Damien, ever at his side, stepped in smoothly. The loyal knight's expression was unreadable as he lifted his master with practiced ease, lowering him into the waiting chair that had been placed outside the carriage.
The air shifted.
Sophia felt it, like a ripple across still water. The poised masks of her family faltered for a fraction of a second, their gazes sharpening as the sight registered: the prince, not standing, not walking with cane in hand, but seated, confined, dependent. A frailty laid bare before them.
Her mother's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. Her father's nostrils flared with the faintest trace of disappointment. The cousins whispered behind gloved hands, barely audible.
Sophia's nails dug into her palms, hidden beneath her gloves. She clamped her jaw to stop herself from speaking, from snapping at the gaping faces and poisonous smirks. This was exactly why she had warned Alexander, why she had apologized in advance. They saw him as less. They always would.
But she would not let them voice it. Not today. Not in his presence.
She lifted her chin and stepped down gracefully, her posture regal, her smile unwavering as she moved to Alexander's side. Her hand rested lightly on the arm of his chair not in pity, but in solidarity.
He noticed. She knew he did. His gaze flickered toward her hand, then to her clenched jaw. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing.
"Your Grace," Duke Valehart intoned, bowing stiffly. "Your Highness. Welcome."
The words were correct, but the tone… distant. Begrudging.
The grand dining hall was a place Sophia knew too well—long polished table, glittering chandeliers, portraits of ancestors glaring down from the walls as though judging every breath taken within. She had once thrown tantrums here as a spoiled daughter. Today, she sat at the right hand of a prince, her posture perfect, her every motion measured.
Servants moved with quiet efficiency, laying dishes of roasted game, spiced vegetables, and glistening fruits across the table. The scents of rosemary and cloves filled the air.
Alexander was seated beside her, his chair positioned neatly at the table. He cut an imposing figure despite the chair—his posture straight, his gaze steady, his aura of command intact. Yet she felt, acutely, the undercurrent of scrutiny directed at him. Every movement, every bite he took, was observed, dissected, judged.
Her brothers spoke of politics and trade, their words carefully chosen to exclude rather than include. Her mother inquired after Sophia's adjustment to palace life with honeyed tones that thinly veiled her skepticism.
"And how fares the royal household, dear?" Lady Valehart asked sweetly, "We hear so many… interesting stories."
Sophia smiled politely, her reply poised. "The household is stable. His Highness runs it with precision."
A flicker of surprise crossed her mother's features, as though she had expected Sophia to complain, to whine about the life she had been forced into.
Alexander said little, speaking only when directly addressed, his responses short but cutting. His restraint, his command of composure, only seemed to unsettle them more.
At one point, Sophia noticed her father's eyes lingering too long on Alexander's hands steady as he held his utensils, no tremor, no weakness. The lord's lips tightened, as if disappointed that he could not find further fault.
Sophia's chest burned.
She forced herself to sip her wine calmly, to keep her voice light when her cousins tried to provoke her with subtle jabs about her sudden transformation from rebel to dutiful bride. She let their barbs slide off, but her fingers trembled beneath the table, hidden in her lap.
And then Alexander's voice cut through.
"Your estate is impressive, Lord Valehart," he said evenly, though his eyes never left his plate. "One can tell discipline is held in high regard here."
It was not quite a compliment. Not quite an insult either. A statement layered with meaning.
The lord inclined his head stiffly. "We value order. It is the foundation of strength."
Alexander finally looked up, his gaze steady, unblinking. "Indeed. Yet one wonders—if order is imposed too rigidly, does it not choke the life it seeks to preserve?"
The room stilled.
Sophia's breath caught. She watched her father falter ever so slightly before recovering. Her brothers shifted uncomfortably. Her mother's fan stilled mid-wave.
For the first time in the entire luncheon, it was her family on the defensive.
A small, dangerous thrill coursed through Sophia's veins.
By the time dessert was served, the atmosphere had cooled into brittle politeness. Conversation became sparse, the earlier smugness of her family tempered by Alexander's unexpected composure.
Sophia barely touched her plate. Her mind was a storm, but her face remained serene. She stole glances at Alexander, trying to decipher his thoughts. His mask remained unbroken, though she noticed the faint lines of tension at his temples, the way his fingers drummed once against the armrest before stilling.
When the time came to depart, the family gathered once more in the courtyard. The sun had shifted lower, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Servants bustled with farewells, while her mother offered perfumed kisses to Sophia's cheeks and her father delivered empty words of blessing.
Sophia endured it all with perfect poise, though her insides churned. She wanted to scream at them, to shatter their smug masks. But she bit down on the urge, knowing it would do nothing but wound Alexander further.
As Damien moved to lift the prince back into the carriage, Sophia caught sight of her clenched hands her nails biting into her gloves. She froze, realizing too late that Alexander's eyes were on her.
Their gazes locked.
For a fleeting heartbeat, something unspoken passed between them. He had noticed. He always noticed.
Sophia inhaled sharply and smoothed her skirts, composing herself once more before stepping into the carriage.
The journey back began in silence. The estate gates closed behind them, the walls shrinking into the distance. Sophia sat with her gaze fixed on the window, her chest tight, her thoughts churning.
But she could feel his presence beside her, the quiet weight of him, the unshakable awareness of his eyes watching her when he thought she wasn't looking.
And for the first time that day, she allowed herself to breathe.
The masks of her family were left behind. But the battle they had waged in silence had left its mark.