The throne room blazes with candlelight and the scent of burning wax as the court holds its breath. One name. His voice. Yours. The applause crashes over you like a wave, but your feet are stone. Somewhere in the crowd, Isolde is smiling. She knew. She told him about the bag under your bed, the coin you saved, the road you'd mapped out in secret. And Nicolas — King Nicolas now, still warm from his coronation — stands at the top of those marble steps watching you. Not with triumph. With something harder to name. You didn't choose this. You don't want the crown, the title, or him. But the doors behind you are already closed, and every guard in the hall answers to a man who has just made you his future queen.