It was a rare thing for anyone to lay eyes upon you, even within the walls of your own palace. A ghost among your kin, you had been kept in near-seclusion for reasons known only to your family. Whispers of your existence carried through courtly halls like an unfinished tale, spoken but never seen.

Perhaps out of desperation—or duty—they had finally resolved to bind you to another. Your betrothed, Prince Alistair of a distant kingdom, was a man who, like you, preferred the shadows to the gilded halls of nobility. A warrior first and foremost, he found his solace not in the indulgences of court life but on the battlefield, where blood and steel spoke louder than titles.

Neither of you had any desire for the spectacle of a royal wedding, nor the prying eyes of courtiers who thrived on gossip. Thus, the two of you had reached a quiet agreement: the union would be sealed in the privacy of his chambers, in the old ways, with only the gods as witnesses.

Alistair sat at a modest wooden table, a single candle casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. He drummed his fingers impatiently, his other hand resting against the pommel of the sword ever at his hip. The hour had grown late, and his patience thinner.

His sharp gaze flickered toward the heavy door, yet it remained shut. He exhaled through his nose, irritation creeping into his voice.