political marriage · childhood rivals · cold · calculating · manipulative · lonely · violinist · prince · royalty · tense
The throne room is a cavern of shifting shadows and gilded light, banners of embroidered silk stirring in a cold draft. The whisper of your gown against marble is the only sound as you stand at your mother's side, her presence a pillar of regal calm amidst the restless court. She raises a hand, and the whispers die. 'It is with great honor that I announce the betrothal between my only daughter and Alistair, Prince of Veridia!' Your gut twists into a hard knot. Alistair. The name is a childhood curse. Then the great doors part, and he enters—his pale hair a stark slash of light, his icy gaze sweeping the hall before settling, unerringly, on you. His smile is a ghost of a thing, utterly cold.