Chapter 1
The Silverward on the left preferred sweet wine. The one on the right had a girl in Rhuhn’Fjel he was secretly writing poetry for. Dasmon hadn’t judged either, but they owed him, so he simply handed over the bottle.
“Five minutes,” he murmured.
They didn’t even blink as they pushed the heavy door open, their maroon armor clinking.
The corridor was silent. Only the hush of polished stone and frost-clad windows. The hallway to Evelyne’s chamber had been colder than the rest of the palace—facing north, built of thicker stone, left near-empty by design. But today, it felt wrong in a way he couldn’t name.
He adjusted the drape of his grey fur over his ceremonial white robe and slipped through her door without a sound.
The room reflected Calveran taste: austerity made beautiful.
The walls were black marble, polished to a mirror sheen, veined faintly with silver so that candlelight glimmered like threads in the dark.
A single crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling; its light fractured into cold shards across the fur-lined carpets.
The furniture was spare but elegant—an ebony desk, a low couch draped in white wolf pelt, and a narrow bed framed in dark wood, its linens crisp and white beneath a folded fur throw.
On the broad windowsill, where the light fell in a pale band across the black stone, she sat—dressed in an ivory gown that caught the dim glow like snow beneath starlight, a thin silver veil cascading over her shoulders.
He’d forgotten the faint circles beneath her eyes, candlelight only deepened them, softening her pale skin until she looked carved from frost. Her hair, light brown with a touch of ash, framed her face too neatly, the single curl at her shoulder the only thing out of place.
It was her signature look; one she always wore.
Snow had gathered along on the other side, which was not surprising in the land of eternal nivalen.
“You’d think someone as precious as you might warrant more than two half-frozen guards and an empty hallway,” he observed.
She spun around.
Her veil caught the light, her spine ramrod-straight. Her eyes, always so quick to mask, flickered with surprise.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she scolded him.
Dasmon entered the room, shutting the door with a muted click. His hair—white-blond and hopeless in winter—were melting slowly into soft curls.
He gave her the smallest of smiles. “The guards were easy to bribe.”
She folded her arms, one foot tapping with practiced patience.
“You’re going to ruin the ceremony. It brings bad luck.”
Of course she was worried about that. Evelyne Tresselyn would face a kingdom’s scrutiny with her chin held high but panic at a misstep in ritual.
“I needed to make sure you were all right,” he said.
“I’m not looking,” he added quickly, covering his eyes, then peeking through his fingers. “Promise.”
That earned him what he was aiming for: a laugh, soft and reluctant. She looked down, but her mouth curved all the same.
“You are being absurd,” she muttered.
He hesitated mid-stride. “And you are,” he faltered for a moment, noting the strain around her mouth, “—beautiful. But also, paler than usual.”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
She was always fine, even when she wasn’t.
He leaned against the windowsill beside her, careful not to touch her gown.
Close enough to smell the lavender she wore by habit.
His own collar still held the rosemary oil from the morning shave, the same scent he’d worn since they met.
She had once said it smelled like old books and mountain air. He’d never changed it after that.
Dasmon watched her reflection in the window.
Even like this, she looked every inch the woman he’d written to all those years: precise, thoughtful, slightly untouchable.
The candlelight drew soft edges across her features—the faint curve of her heart-shaped face, the small, upturned nose that used to wrinkle when she laughed.
That beauty mark near her lip, barely visible, was still there; he remembered tracing it once in thought, never in touch.
“You’re not nervous?” she asked.
“Terrified,” he admitted. “But it’s the good kind.”
“Good? You’re marrying a political alliance,” she said, more to the window than to him.
He shook his head. “No. I’m marrying the girl who annotated Sons of the Winter Throne in red ink and called the protagonist a self-important hypocrite.”
“He was,” she murmured.
“I know,” his lips curved. “That’s why we’re here.”
He still remembered the first time he’d met her.
She was nine years old, small, pale, too serious for a child her age, standing in the marble hall with boots two sizes too big.
She’d slipped on the ice outside the Dvorenic estate, all dignity and no balance.
He’d caught her before she fell and thought, even then, there she is.
Every year after, he’d sent her books, each one with some note tucked inside. And every year, she’d send them back, lined with commentary sharp enough to make him laugh. She’d been his favorite conversation long before she smiled at him.
He’d not once in his life told her that he fell in love—because love, to him, wasn’t a revelation to confess. It was a practice maintained with quiet consistency, the way one learns a difficult language or restores an old painting.
He had loved her since they were children.
And today, finally, he will get to marry her.
He reached into his coat and pulled something from the inner pocket.
A red thread.
“For luck,” he said, holding it out. “I think we both need it today.”
Her hand brushed his glove as she took it. He felt the contact similar to a jolt—noiseless, but unmistakable. He could swear her throat moved when she swallowed.
“So it is truly happening,” she said.
“It is,” he didn’t let himself look away.
He wanted to kiss her. But it didn’t feel right—not because the emotion wasn’t true, but because their story had never been built that way. And that was on him.
So instead, he stepped back.
“I should go,” he said quietly. “Before Isildeth finds a way to have me executed for decorum crimes.”
That earned him another smile.
“You’ll be at the altar?” she asked.
He met her gaze. “Where else would I be?”
For a moment, her expression flickered—softening into something almost startled. “Don’t be late,” she said.
“I won’t be,” he tilted his head, stepping away. “You’re the one with the dramatic entrance.”