Johan POV

The chamber smelled faintly of starch and pressed linen, of new fabric laid across polished wood. The tailors moved like shadows, murmuring measurements, tugging threads, the scrape of chalk faint against the heavy brocade.

I stood at the center of it all, arms spread, my reflection multiplied in the tall mirrors surrounding me.

The attire was weighty, layered black silk over steel-gray lining, the crest of Avenlor embroidered across the chest in threads of silver and platinum. A mantle clasped at the shoulder with a clasp of obsidian shaped like flame. Each detail was meant to project power, authority, inevitability.

And yet, as they pinned and adjusted and whispered, I felt the minutes dragging like shackles. I was still, outwardly patient, but inside, the coil of impatience tightened with every stitch.

I wanted it finished. I wanted the moment when the world would see him at my side, bound to me, sealed by vow and flesh. Every day that passed with him out of reach was a day too long.

"Hold steady, Your Highness," one of the tailors murmured as he adjusted the fall of fabric near my shoulder.

I did. My body was a statue of control. But my mind was not still. It circled, relentless, around the memory of his eyes the night of the betrothal-the fire in them, the refusal, the way he trembled yet still burned.

The ring on my finger caught the candlelight as I flexed my hand slightly. A simple band, yet it felt like an oath already carved into bone. He wore the same, somewhere in his palace, probably twisting it in restless hands. I imagined that-the weight of it on him, the way it marked him already. Mine. Even now.

"Mm," a voice hummed from the chaise. "It suits you."

I glanced sideways. Easter reclined with graceful ease, his chin propped against his palm, his gaze warm and curious. Unlike the tailors, he was not cowed by silence. His presence was softer-lilies and dusk in the air, familiar and unintrusive.

He smiled faintly. "You look less like a groom and more like a general ready to march into conquest."

"Marriage is conquest," I replied evenly. The tailor flinched at the sudden words but quickly bent back to his work.

Easter snorted. "Spoken like a man who's never spent a night in an omega's skin." His eyes gleamed, deliberately baiting.

I did not bite.

Instead, I adjusted my hand as the tailor fastened the cuff, the silver glinting faintly. "The crown requires proof, not sentiment."

Easter rose, padding closer, his presence carrying the softer cadence of omega pheromones-lilies and dusk. Familiar. Insignificant. "And what of him?" he asked lightly. "North. Do you intend to treat him as proof as well?"

The air tightened, though my expression did not shift. "He will be my consort," I said calmly. "Proof is inevitable. So is the bond."

Easter tilted his head, studying me with too-sharp curiosity. "You speak of inevitability as though it comforts you. Does it comfort him?"

My jaw tightened, only slightly. Enough that he noticed. His smirk widened.

"Ah. So it doesn't."

I let silence settle. The tailors moved like shadows, stitching, pinning, draping, careful not to breathe too loudly.

At last, I spoke. "North resists because he does not yet understand. Resistance is a spark. Sparks burn out when faced with flame."

Easter's laughter was soft, not unkind. "And if he burns brighter? If he refuses to be consumed?"

For the first time, I shifted, turning my gaze fully on him. He stilled, caught in it, though he'd invited it. My voice was low, precise, deliberate:

"Then I will not douse him. I will contain him."

The words lingered, sharper than any pin, heavier than the brocade across my chest.

The tailors stepped back at last, bowing low. The garment was complete-severe, flawless, inevitable.

I studied myself in the mirror once more. Not a groom. Not merely a prince. A sovereign-in-waiting.
A man prepared to claim what was his.

Behind me, Easter exhaled, half-amused, half-resigned. "Poor North," he murmured, almost to himself. "He has no idea the storm he's walking into."

I adjusted the cuff once more, my reflection unyielding. "No," I said softly, a final seal upon the silence. "But he will."

✿✿✿

North POV

The afternoon light slanted across the chamber, soft gold spilling through gauze curtains. The palace hummed faintly in the distance-distant voices, the clatter of trays, the ever-present thrum of preparation.

But here, in the quiet corner of my sitting room, the world slowed.

I sat curled on the low divan, knees drawn slightly toward me, the ivory robes for tomorrow folded neatly at the other end of the couch, their presence looming like a silent sentinel. My fingers toyed restlessly with the golden band on my hand, twisting it, tugging lightly, though I knew it would not come off.

The door creaked open without warning. I startled, but the scent that slipped in first calmed me-warm, faintly like cinnamon and clean parchment. Familiar.

"North," Nao said softly, stepping in.

My cousin's smile was small, tired but genuine, the kind of smile that reached his eyes even when worry dulled them. He closed the door behind him and crossed the room with that quiet grace of his. He had always been that way-gentle in presence, but unshakable when it mattered.

"You should be resting," he murmured, settling beside me.

"I cannot," I said honestly. My voice was rougher than I intended.

Nao tilted his head, studying me with calm patience. His gaze lingered on my hand, on the way I twisted the ring over and over, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't speak of it immediately, and for that I was grateful.

For a few moments, we sat in silence, the faint rustle of the curtains filling the space between us. Finally, he said, "The whole palace feels different now. Every maid, every guard-they're moving as though this wedding were the only thing the gods themselves cared for."

A bitter laugh escaped me, hollow and sharp. "To them, perhaps it is."

"And to you?"

I turned my gaze away, toward the window where the sky stretched pale blue above the gardens. My chest tightened, breath shallow. "To me, it feels like a funeral. They speak of peace, of unity, of prosperity. But I..." My throat closed on the words. "I feel like I am being buried alive."

Nao's hand reached for mine, warm and steady, covering the restless twisting of my fingers. His touch stilled me, anchoring me back to the couch, to the present.

"You are not alone," he said quietly. "You have me. You have Hill. Even if the palace forgets you are a person, we will not."

I swallowed hard, a knot forming in my chest. His words should have comforted me more, but the weight of inevitability pressed too heavy.

"I don't want to belong to him, Nao," I whispered. The words felt dangerous, traitorous, yet they spilled out anyway. "I don't want to be his possession, his prize. But no one asks me. They all just... tell me."

Nao's brows knit, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "Then remember this," he said firmly, his voice low but fierce. "You are not his possession, no matter what crown, ring, or mark says otherwise. You are North. You are my cousin, my family, my blood. That is not so easily taken."

For the first time in days, my chest eased slightly, though the ache did not vanish. My eyes burned, though I refused to let the tears fall.

"Do you think..." I faltered, my voice trembling. "Do you think I will survive it?"

Nao looked at me then-not with pity, but with certainty. His hand squeezed mine again, grounding, unwavering. "Yes. Because you are stronger than you think. And because you are not alone, no matter how much they try to make you feel so."

The silence that followed was softer, less suffocating. I leaned slightly against him, letting my shoulder brush his, and he did not move away.

For that moment, the palace outside could clamor, could prepare, could dress me in silk and gold and march me toward inevitability. But here, beside Nao, I felt something fragile, something worth clinging to.

Not freedom. Not safety. But the faintest echo of both.