North POV

The garden was quiet, though the palace beyond hummed with activity. I sat on the cold stone bench, sunlight filtering through the leaves in pale gold streaks, glinting off the band on my finger.

I traced it idly, circling my thumb over the smooth gold, feeling its weight, both literal and metaphorical.

Ten days.

Ten days until it wasn’t just a piece of jewelry.

Ten days until it became a tether I could not escape, a bond I could not undo. Until it marked me as someone else’s, not merely mine.

I let my gaze drift across the neatly clipped hedges, the fountain spraying fine arcs of water that glittered in the morning light.

The world seemed serene, yet I felt the pull of inevitability pressing in from all sides.

In ten days, I would leave this home, this place of quiet comfort and unremarkable safety, to be paraded before gods, kings, and courts as the consort of Johan—the Crown Prince of Avenlor.

The thought made my chest tighten, the pool of anxiety more suffocating than any corset ever could.

A rustle of movement drew my attention. Hill’s shadow fell across the path, long and deliberate.

He approached silently, each step measured, the weight of his presence a familiar counterpoint to my spiraling thoughts.

He stopped a pace or two from the bench, eyes catching mine, sharp and unrelenting even in the soft morning light.

“The tailors are here,” he said, voice low, even, carrying authority beneath its calm. “They need to check the fittings for your wedding garments.”

I exhaled slowly, the tension in my shoulders coiling tighter. “Of course,” I muttered, fingers curling reflexively around the ring. The metal felt heavier than ever, a symbol of everything I feared, everything I would soon be compelled to accept.

Hill’s gaze followed mine, lingering on the gold band. “You’ll need to move soon,” he added, almost gently. “They won’t wait, and neither will the palace.”

I wanted to protest, to linger here in this small oasis of quiet, away from the expectations and eyes that would devour me in the coming hours. But I knew it was pointless.

The palace did not pause for hesitation, nor for despair, nor for any fragile resistance I could muster. “How… long do they think this will take?” I asked finally, my voice small, brittle, betraying my unease.

“A few hours,” Hill replied. “Then adjustments. Embroidery work. Every stitch, every fold… accounted for.”

I felt my stomach tighten, a cold pit opening beneath the gold band on my finger.

Tomorrow, it would be worn in full—the final manifestation of my captivity in silk and silver.

My pulse thrummed painfully in my ears.

Hill crouched slightly beside me, placing his hand over mine, brushing against the ring. “North, look at me,” he said quietly. “I know this feels like the world is closing in, like there’s no air left for you to breathe. But you are not alone. Not now. Not ever.”

I met his gaze, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the warmth in his eyes offered a fragile sanctuary.

Even so, the weight of inevitability pressed in around me.

The garden’s flowers, the fountain’s water, the soft morning sun—they felt distant, irrelevant against the horizon of duty that loomed like a storm.

“I… I just…” I faltered, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to be… taken like this, Hill. I don’t want to be presented like an ornament, like a prize to be displayed.”

Hill’s expression tightened just enough, not in anger, but in silent agreement with my dread. “You won’t be,” he said firmly. “You’ll endure, yes. But you are still yourself, North. Even with the ring, even with him… nothing can take that from you. Not them. Not the ceremony. Not him.”

I wanted to believe him, to anchor myself to that fierce, stubborn defiance still alive within me.

Yet, my gaze drifted again to the ring, glinting cruelly in the sun, and I felt the cold certainty pressing against me. In ten days, the choice would no longer be mine.

In ten days, I would belong—to him, to the crown, to the ritual that demanded I surrender.

Hill rose, the faintest echo of movement across the stone path. His hand lingered near mine before he stepped back, a silent promise of protection that seemed both too little and too vital. “We should go,” he said, voice firm but calm. “The tailors are waiting. The palace will not pause for hesitation, and neither can you.”

I drew a deep breath, letting the garden air fill my lungs, the scent of lilacs and jasmine sharp and sweet.

For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine slipping back into the quiet of night, back to a place untouched by ceremony and expectation. But the sun had risen. The day was here, and with it, the world that would claim me.

Together, we walked toward the palace, toward the waiting ritual, the unrelenting attention, the scrutiny of silk and gold.

Every step was a march toward inevitability, my fingers tightening around the ring until the metal bit into my skin. Ten days. And in ten days, everything would change.

✿✿✿

The chamber was quiet, the faint light of evening slipping through gauze curtains, painting the room in muted gold.

I had just returned from the endless hours with the tailors, my body aching from the weight of layered silks, the tightening of corsets, the endless measuring and pinning.

I sat at the edge of my bed, weary, when the soft creak of the door broke the silence.

Mother entered, her steps graceful, her face serene as always. She carried something small in her hands—a glass vial, narrow, filled with amber liquid that caught the last rays of sun.

She approached me slowly, her steps measured, the rustle of fabric faint against the silence.

When she reached me, she placed a hand gently on my shoulder. Her touch was cool, almost soothing, though beneath it I felt the weight of unspoken things.

“Here,” she said softly, and in her other hand was the same small glass vial. She offered it to me with an air of finality.

I frowned, confused, as I accepted it carefully. The glass was cool, delicate between my fingers. “What is this?” I asked.

“Oil,” she replied, her tone calm, practical. “Three drops in the bath will ease soreness in your muscles. The pain will vanish quickly.”

My brows knit. “But… why would my muscles ache?”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she lifted her hand and cupped my cheek, her palm soft, but her gaze unflinching.

“You are not in your heat, North,” she said, her voice low, deliberate. “And yet, your wedding night must be… consummated.”

The word struck me like a blow.

I felt the blood drain from my face, my lips parting but no words coming forth.

“C–consummated?” I managed at last, the word foreign, bitter, burning on my tongue.

Her expression did not falter. If she noticed the tremor in my voice, she ignored it. “Yes,” she murmured, her thumb brushing lightly against my cheek, a gesture that might have been tender in another moment. “It will be your first time, and such things can bring pain. This will help.”

I stared at the vial in my hand, my grip tightening until my knuckles whitened. The amber liquid seemed suddenly heavier than stone.

She continued, her voice calm but edged with iron. “Son… for your marriage to be recognized, it must be consummated on the wedding night. This has always been the tradition. Without it, the bond is only ceremony. Empty. The court, the nobles, the people—they will question it. They will whisper. They will doubt. And you—” Her hand shifted to rest lightly against my shoulder, her gaze piercing mine. “Will you be able to withstand that scrutiny?”

My throat constricted. I could scarcely breathe. The thought of it—the chamber, Johan, the marking—it pressed down on me until I thought I might suffocate.

“The mark,” she said softly, as though reminding me of something simple, inevitable. “When his teeth touch your neck, when the bond is sealed in flesh and blood—that will be proof of your union. Proof to the world. Without it…” Her eyes flickered with something colder, sharper. “Without it, everything falls into question. The strength of the alliance. The honor of your family. The future of this kingdom.”

I could not speak. My chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate breaths, the weight of her words crushing against me.

Mother’s hand lingered on my cheek, deceptively gentle, though her voice carried no comfort. “Do not fear, North. It is duty. It is what must be done. Pain is fleeting. Legacy is eternal.”

My gaze dropped to the vial again, the amber liquid glowing softly in the lamplight, its promise of relief mocking me. I felt cold, hollow, as though the walls of my chamber had drawn tighter, pressing me into inevitability.

I whispered, barely audible, “And if I can’t?”

For the first time, her fingers stiffened against my cheek. A flicker of something crossed her eyes—disappointment, perhaps, or warning. Then her voice, firm, final:

“Then you will.”

She straightened, her hand slipping away, leaving my skin chilled in its absence. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, the tailors will bring the final garments. Do not forget to use the oil.”

And with that, she turned and left, the soft click of the door echoing louder than a thunderclap.

I sat frozen, the vial clutched in my trembling hand. The words still echoed, sharp as glass. Consummation. Proof. Teeth at my neck.

The oil glimmered faintly, a promise of ease. But there was no bottle in the world that could soften the weight of what awaited me.