Garrin had never been bitten before. Not by a person—and not on the lip. He gave a strangled gasp, more from surprise than pain, and pulled away as far as he could with the Sage still holding his hand in Arya’s. The Sage apparently mistook his intake of breath for one of passion, because he chuckled and said, “The Architects have really outdone themselves with your princess. She is a rare beauty.”

The rare beauty in question blushed and looked down, the perfect example of meek submission. Garrin almost wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing, except for the throbbing in his lower lip.

“If you are ready, Your Highness,” the Sage said. “You can guide your princess into the Great Hall for the banquet.”

Garrin coughed and pulled his hand free of the Sage. Arya’s came with it, her fingers twined through his, and when he tried to let go she held even tighter. He flashed her a curious look, but her eyes were still on the ground. Maybe he had been mistaken after all. It was absurd to think that a princess would bite him during their first kiss—their betrothal kiss!—in front of so many people. Perhaps it had been a shock, not a bite.

“The Prince and Princess!” the Sage announced, and the guests once again erupted in applause. Garrin led Arya down the steps and down the aisle between rows of chairs, pausing to kiss his mother’s cheek and shake his father’s hand. Arya sent bashful smiles into the crowd, her cheeks still colored, her eyes bright. She looked exactly the way a joyful bride should look, and Garrin...

Garrin tripped on the threshold leading into the Great Hall. It was Arya who pulled him upright, pressing herself against his side as though it was she who had stumbled, not him. “Careful now,” she muttered, squeezing his arm. “What would all these people say if you fell flat on your face in front of them?”

“Pardon me?” Garrin said.

“You are pardoned. It’s not as though you were born graceful. It seems it takes some people longer to perfect the quality.”

“And biting?” Garrin hissed. “Were you born an expert in that as well?”

“Would you call me an expert?” she asked innocently.

He stared at her, but she only smiled a dazzling smile and gestured toward the head table. “Shall we eat, my lord?”

“I—” he started, but when she pulled him along he had no choice but to go with her.

A servant drew out their chairs as they approached, bowing, while another filled their cups with wine. Garrin caught them both staring at Arya, but they ducked away before he could say anything. Well, he could hardly blame them. Bathed in the warm glow of the candles, she was radiant—like a star plucked from the heavens to illuminate the dark room.

Love or not, the princess would provide plenty of inspiration for future songs and poetry. As bright in the night as the stars above, even if she is not my love...

“You should thank your guests,” Arya said.

Garrin took a drink of wine—white to fit the colors of the ceremony, though he preferred red—and looked out over the Great Hall. “I will as soon as everyone is seated. No one would hear me if I said something now.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Most of the guests were still filtering in from the courtyard, finding tables and calling for wine before the meal. It gave Garrin a chance to think about what to say. Normally the duty of addressing guests fell to his father, but of course tonight that would be Garrin’s responsibility. He would thank them for coming, of course, but then what?

“Have you not prepared a speech?” Arya asked.

He frowned at her. “A speech? No one wants to hear a speech when they’re waiting for their food.”

“Well you must say something.”

“I will.”

“Without preparation?”

Garrin took another drink to keep from glaring at her. “If you are so worried about it, why don’t you thank the guests?”

“That would be the better option,” Arya said, adding a wistful sigh. “But I can only imagine what your council would say if I made the speech instead of you.”

Her voice was light, so he couldn’t tell if she was being serious—but she had a point. He imagined the look on Renton’s face if the brand new princess, having held her position for less than an hour, addressed the assembled guests in the prince’s place.

It was almost enough for Garrin to let her do it.

“Let us dine, Garrin!” called his father, waving at him from his table. The royal families were all seated together, leaving Garrin and Arya alone at the head table. Originally he’d appreciated the distance. Now he wondered how he was to handle his princess by himself.

“Yes,” added Queen Berys. “Give us your speech, Prince Garrin!”

Beside her, Lliane rolled her eyes and sipped her wine, pointedly ignoring Garrin. He fought to keep the scowl from his face. It appeared she was not ready to let go of her anger with him, and he found himself growing angry in return. He was only following the customs of his kingdom. A fine prince he would be if he snubbed generations of princesses and queens simply because Lliane disapproved. It wasn’t fair to expect him to.

And for better or worse, Arya was here now. Garrin wasn’t about to send her away to please a foreign dignitary he only saw once every few years.

Resolved, Garrin stood up and waited for the guests to quiet. He’d never addressed a group this size before, but he was a musician. He knew how to perform.

“Honored guests,” he began, projecting his voice the way he did when he sang. “I am blessed to share such a joyous occasion with you all. Some of you have traveled for days to join in my celebration, and I am honored by your presence here tonight. On behalf of my father the king, I welcome you to Whitecliff Castle and hope your stay here will be enjoyable—starting with this feast!” He gestured toward the servants waiting on the side of the room while the guests clapped in appreciation. “With the blessings of Fyrelle under the full moon, let us give thanks and enjoy one another’s company.”

“Thanks to Fyrelle,” the assembly chanted. Garrin sat as the servants brought out platters of food, taking in a slow breath through his nose. It was much easier to play for a crowd than to speak to them, he decided, but at least now he knew he could do it.

Arya thanked the servant who set her plate before her and glanced at Garrin when he did not begin his meal. “Hmm.”

“What?” he grumbled.

“You are not a terrible speaker.”

He snorted. “My thanks.”

“Why then were you nervous?”

“I wasn’t nervous,” he said, reaching for his wine.

“Your hand is trembling.”

He stopped short of his cup and dropped his hand to the table. “It’s cold.”

“Garrin.”

It was his poet’s heart that made his name sound so melodic on her lips, he was sure. She could likely make any word sound like music. But he looked at her all the same, unable to ignore whatever she said next. Her dark eyes focused on his in a way no one else dared look at him—without deference, without fear of consequence for her boldness. She did not speak, but her point was clear.

I see you.

She noticed him, and Garrin had no idea what to do with that.

She did not speak, but her point was clear: I see you.

Being truly seen for the first time in his life was a strange mixture of exhilarating and terrifying, and he didn’t have a single idea of what to do about it. So he cleared his throat and drank his wine, turning his attention to the assortment of seafood arranged in the shape of rose on his plate. “Eat,” he said.