The Ceremony
The grand hall of the palace sparkled with an almost aggressive amount of gold and crystal, as if someone had said "subtle" and the decorators had taken it as a challenge.
Nobles filled the space, whispering behind jeweled fans and pretending not to gossip.
At the center of it all stood Ines, parked at the altar like a very tense, very well-dressed statue. The weight of her emerald gown was only slightly less crushing than the anxiety trying to claw its way up her throat. She clenched her hands to keep from twitching. Her fingers were icy, which was impressive considering the room felt like it had been pre-heated for awkwardness.
Don't let them see you crack, she told herself.
Smile.
Nod.
Pretend this isn't happening.
You've survived worse… probably.
Beside her, Ian looked irritatingly perfect, like the cover model for Arrogant Princes Monthly. His silver-gray eyes scanned the crowd with that casual detachment only the profoundly bored or the wildly self-assured could pull off. His coat was pristine. His hair was perfect. He didn't even seem to be sweating. Naturally, Ines hated him a little.
"Are you always this smug," she whispered, "or is this a limited-time performance?"
His lips twitched into a smirk. "Smug? I prefer 'devastatingly charming.' But if it's ruining your concentration, I can dial it back. Slightly."
"Nothing about you is distracting," she replied, a touch too fast. She regretted it instantly—especially when he turned his head just enough to catch her eye, and smolder happened. Actual smolder. Was that even allowed? She looked away immediately, silently scolding herself. Get a grip, Belladonna.
Ian had been expecting boredom. He was prepared for it, had mentally braced himself for hours of ceremonial droning and fake smiles. What he hadn't prepared for was Ines.
Specifically, how close she was. Or how good she smelled. Or how he was one brush of her shoulder away from losing all focus and saying something deeply inappropriate.
She's not even my type, he reminded himself for the fifth time. Too intense. Too sharp. But his brain, traitorous as ever, was busy rerunning last night's dream in glorious high-definition.
"You always look this serious during ceremonies," he murmured, "or is it just the magnetic pull of my presence?"
Ines didn't blink. "I'm focusing all my energy on not accidentally setting the curtains on fire. It's harder than it looks."
Ian raised an eyebrow, a quiet chuckle escaping. "Do give me a heads-up if you lose control. I'd rather not get flambéed in front of the nobility."
Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile before she forced her expression neutral again.
"Don't tempt me."
The priest was still talking. Possibly reciting the full family trees of both houses, starting from the dawn of time. Ines caught maybe every tenth word. Her mind was too busy replaying the festival—the moment her magic flared, the terror of losing control.
What if it happened again? Right here, in front of everyone? What if she accidentally flash-fried her new husband?
She glanced at Ian. He looked so at ease, like he'd done this a hundred times. Probably had. He wore power like it was tailored into his coat.
Still, he kept sneaking glances at her. She caught one of them and narrowed her eyes. What's he thinking? Probably something smug. Or possibly wondering if she was about to bolt.
Ian, for his part, was trying to ignore the fact that Ines kept brushing his arm like a storm cloud threatening to zap him. Each time she touched him—even accidentally—it felt like someone had short-circuited his brain.
It's just a ceremony, he told himself. You've done much scarier things. Like duels. Or public speaking. Or dinner with your mother.
But when the priest finally turned to Ines and spoke the words they'd all been waiting for, Ian found himself holding his breath like an idiot.
"Ines Belladonna, do you take Ian Estalto to be your husband?"
Ines hesitated—of course she did, who wouldn't—but then her voice rang out, firm and clear.
"I do."
The priest turned to him. "And do you, Ian Estalto, take Ines Belladonna to be your wife?"
Ian's throat was dry, his thoughts suddenly too loud.
This was the easy part.
Say yes.
Flash a smile.
Charm everyone.
But he looked at her.—head high despite the weight of the moment—something shifted.
"I do," he said quietly.
Which was weird, because he never said anything quietly. But the moment felt… weird. So, it fit.
When the blessing was complete, the court erupted into the kind of applause that was too polite to be enthusiastic. Ian and Ines turned to face the crowd, both wearing smiles that said, Yes, this is fine. Nothing is on fire. Yet.
Side by side, they shared the same unspoken thought:
This is going to be an absolute disaster.
The banquet that followed was the kind of over-the-top luxury that made you question whether gold leaf was a food group. Candlelight sparkled on every surface, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine thick in the air.
Nobles mingled, gossiped, and pretended they weren't all watching the newlyweds like hawks.
Ines sat at the head table beside Ian, trying not to pass out from either nerves or lack of oxygen. Corsets: humanity's greatest mistake.
"Smile a little, Lady Belladonna," Ian whispered, his voice full of devilish amusement. "You're starting to look like you'd rather stab the dessert."
"Don't tempt me," she replied sweetly, her smile so sharp it could cut glass.
Ian leaned in, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You do realize you've got the entire court convinced you're the brooding heroine of some tragic romantic ballad?"
"I'm thrilled that my suffering is fueling someone's drama fantasy," she muttered, reaching for her wine like it was a life preserver.
"You're making it way too easy," he said, grinning as he leaned back. "I didn't even have to try today."
"Oh, I noticed," she shot back, raising her goblet in mock toast. "Believe me—I noticed."
The evening dragged on like a royal hostage situation—complete with toasts, speeches, and exactly three different people mispronouncing Ines's name in increasingly creative ways.
By the time dessert appeared—an unnecessarily tall pastry tower that looked like it had been designed by a sugar-obsessed architect—Ines was seconds from launching herself out the nearest stained-glass window.
Meanwhile, Ian looked like he was having the time of his life, smiling, laughing, dazzling the aristocracy like he'd been born to it. Which, infuriatingly, he had.
"Do you ever get tired of being the perfect prince?" she muttered as yet another noble woman walked away swooning and possibly in heat.
He gave her a tragic sigh. "Exhausting, truly. Sometimes I even forget what it feels like to blink without charm."
Ines gave a low snort. "Right. Because pretending to care about these people must be so hard."
He leaned toward her, eyes twinkling. "Oh, I don't pretend. I genuinely enjoy watching them try to out-fake each other. It's like theater, but with worse costumes."
She smirked despite herself. Damn him.
A flicker of light caught Ines's peripheral vision, a brief distortion—a shimmer in the air, like a ripple in water—but when she blinked, it was gone. Must be the wine, she thought. Or the exhaustion.
Definitely the exhaustion.
When the room became too thick with perfume, ego, and smug aristocratic laughter, Ines pulled the classic noblewoman escape move: citing the need for "fresh air" and fleeing at a brisk, dignified pace.
She wandered the palace in search of silence. What she got instead was a front-row seat to some Grade-A gossip.
"She's not much to look at, is she?"
Ines froze.
"It almost looks like someone stuffed a cow into a corset," another girl giggled.
Don't, Ines told herself. Don't burn anyone. Or anything. Or—damn it, just walk away.
The mark on her chest tingled like a live wire. Her magic stirred beneath her skin like a dragon waking up with opinions. Fighting back the storm, she turned and walked—fast, heels clicking like angry punctuation marks across the floor.
But then she stumbled slightly. Just for a second. As if the ground had shifted beneath her feet. Okay, she thought, I'm definitely losing it now. First wine-induced dizziness, now this?
By the time she reached the balcony, she was practically vibrating with emotion and poorly repressed firepower.
She grabbed the railing, breathing hard. "Okay," she muttered, "maybe it is time to finally start that diet. Or set the next person who speaks on fire. Whichever is easier."
The joke tasted bitter. The laughter didn't come. Just that sinking weight in her chest—the sense that she didn't fit, that this world didn't want her to.
Will I ever belong here? she wondered, hating that she even cared.
———
Ian's Perspective
If Ian had to listen to one more noble regale him with tales of their third cousin's military exploits or compliment his "stunning cheekbones" one more time, he was going to lose what little soul he had left.
He scanned the room, searching for Ines.
Not because he was worried, of course. Just… curious. Mildly invested.
She was gone.
He excused himself with a charming smile and left the ballroom, his steps quickening the farther he got from the crowd. Somewhere between a statue of a semi-nude war hero and a dramatic flower arrangement, he heard it.
"She's not much to look at, is she?"
Ian stopped.
"It almost looks like someone stuffed a cow into a corset," another girl giggled.
He didn't move. He just stood there, jaw tightening, wine glass forgotten in his hand. The insult wasn't even clever—it was lazy cruelty, dipped in jealousy and served cold.
And yet it burned.
He spotted her a moment later, rounding a corner. Her shoulders were rigid, her steps brisk. She looked like someone trying very hard not to punch a wall or cry—or both.
Focus, Ian told himself. She's fine. She'll be fine. You're just tired. You didn't need to follow her.
But then, for a brief instant, he swore he saw a shadow—something out of place—darting behind her. As if the light itself had… moved. But it was gone before he could register it.
Just lack of sleep, he thought, pushing the thought away. You're seeing things. Again.
Without thinking, Ian followed her. Not closely. Just enough to keep her in sight. He wasn't sure what he was going to say. Probably something dumb. That was his specialty.
But seeing her like that—angry, vulnerable, barely keeping herself together—hit him somewhere deep and unexpected. Maybe it was the memory of the fire she'd tried so hard to control at the festival. Maybe it was how she'd tried to hide her hurt with sarcasm. Or maybe it was the way she hadn't looked back, even once.
He saw her round the corner and make her way toward the nearest balcony, her silhouette framed briefly by the golden hallway light before disappearing into the night.
Ian followed, his footsteps slow and deliberate, until he reached the edge of the balcony. He paused there, letting the shadows swallow him whole.
By the time he stepped closer, he moved in near silence, careful not to disturb the stillness of the moment. He lingered just out of sight, his gaze locked on Ines as she stood bathed in moonlight, her figure outlined against the night sky, lost in thought.
The cool breeze swept through her hair, making it catch the light, her dress fluttering slightly in the wind. She was staring out into the distance, her face partially turned towards the moon.
For a moment, Ian forgot to breathe. He had seen many beautiful women in his time, but there was something about the sight of her, bathed in the pale, ethereal light of the moon, that struck him deeply.
The way the shadows played across her face, the curve of her neck, the way her dress clung to her form—everything about the scene seemed to slow down.
But then, for a split second, the moonlight flickered. What the hell? Ian blinked, but the brief distortion in the light was gone in an instant, as if nothing had happened. He rubbed his eyes, but the scene before him remained unchanged.
The distortion he had just seen left him unsettled, but he brushed it off. It's nothing. Probably just fatigue.
Ian took a step back, his breath catching in his throat. Focus, damn it, he told himself. She's just standing there. You're not a teenager having his first crush. He smirked at himself, trying to shake the tension that had suddenly flooded his body. But even as he said it, he couldn't shake the raw magnetism of the scene.
After a long moment, Ian finally moved away from the balcony.
He walked back into the palace, but his mind was still spinning, trying to make sense of what had just happened. You need to get a grip, he thought. This is not the time for distractions.
But deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that this engagement, this forced union, might turn out to be a lot more than either of them had bargained for.