On the day Prince Garrin was to meet his betrothed, a light dusting of snow fell over the castle grounds. The court Tellers said it was an omen, though what the omen meant remained unspecified. Garrin took little interest in the weather. He had been planning the night for six months, handpicking the traits he desired for his bride, preparing for the ceremony and following feast. Portends and politics didn’t matter to him; he simply wanted the event over with.

On his desk was a scroll decorated with flowing script, detailing the characteristics of his new wife. The Architects had worked for months to design the princess, and they spared no feature in matching her perfectly with Garrin. She was to be a head shorter than him to appear delicate while accenting his otherwise average height. Her hair would be a lovely auburn red to match his darker brown, and her eyes a deep blue to offset his gray. She would be slim and light and beautiful, as every princess should be, and possess a voice both soft and sweet for singing. In addition to her appearance, Garrin had selected several talents befitting of a future queen: she would be adept in painting, embroidery, horseback riding, poetry, calligraphy, letter writing, and music. All in all, she would be the perfect bride for Garrin and for the kingdom.

Garrin sighed, seeking the cool gray window on the wall opposite his desk. Part of the tradition of marriage was that he would not learn his princess’ name until the betrothal ceremony, but that would be the only surprise of the night. He knew everything there was to know about her, and she’d been made with a complete knowledge of him. There would be nothing new to learn, no adventure to face—his freedom would end with the betrothal. Like his father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him, the law of court and country would bind Garrin to the politics and ceremonies and empty words and laws of his position.

State affairs could not hold Garrin’s interest in his studies, and he doubted they would suddenly become more interesting after tonight. As the only heir, Garrin was expected to carry on the tedious duties of the king, though he would not officially take over for another four years, after his 25th birthday.

A light knock announced a servant in the hallway, and Garrin stood and assumed what he thought of as his “prince stance”: his hands clasped behind his back, spine straight and stiff, feet together, chin up. “Come,” he commanded.

“Her Majesty the Queen,” the servant said, bowing and backing away to give Garrin’s mother room to enter. She swept through the doorway with a warm smile, holding out her arms as if Garrin were still a child in need of comfort.

“My son,” she bubbled. Her fingers sought Garrin’s, landing lightly in his grasp as she leaned in to kiss his cheek. “I’ve come to see how the preparations are going. I hear the Architects have been working nonstop to get everything ready.”

“All is well,” Garrin said, pressing his mother’s fingers. The queen shared several characteristics with his bride—understandable given Garrin’s resemblance to his father—though Garrin hadn’t realized just how similar they were until now. What would it be like, gazing into the eyes of his betrothed and seeing his mother?

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The thought made him shudder.

“You are working too hard,” the queen admonished, reaching out to cup Garrin’s cheek in her hand. “You should have delegated more tasks. You look exhausted.”

“The excitement has kept me awake,” Garrin lied. Excitement, nightmares; it was all the same to her. Like everyone in the palace, the queen put on a show of affection for Garrin, but never offered realistic solutions to his problems. He wanted to see more of the kingdom before becoming king—his advisors gave him more books about economy and history. He’d composed a new song but was having problems finding lyrics moving enough to match the melody—the queen was a wonderful singer, and would gladly perform with him once he had finished writing. He didn’t want to be trapped under restrictions and customs as his father was—the advisors gave him control over his betrothal ceremony, a task usually reserved for the king. Surely the excitement of designing and meeting his princess would banish all unhappiness from his mind.

It hadn’t.

“You must promise me that you will rest before tonight,” the queen said. “No staying up late thinking about your princess. I know your father was horribly nervous before meeting me, though I can’t imagine why. I have always loved him, as your princess will love you. There is nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing at all,” Garrin agreed. “Thank you, Mother. Your words have soothed my anxiety.”

She beamed at him, beautiful as sunlight reflected off a puddle, and just as deep. Garrin walked his mother to the door, promising to take things easier until the ceremony, and wondered absently if his princess would be as shallow. No, shallow wasn’t the right word—Garrin knew his mother cared for him, because she could do nothing else. Maternal love had been woven into her being the same as her looks and her ability to sing. But it was the love of a mother to her son as an extension of herself and her husband. Garrin himself was of little importance. Only the Prince mattered.

His fingers touched the strings of his harp before he realized he’d picked it up. They plucked a melody he’d been working on, setting his thoughts to music as he struggled out of the dismal mood that had gripped him the last few days. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he had been working too hard. He’d taken the last bit of ill-conceived advice and thrown himself into planning his ceremony, hoping to trick himself into feeling excitement about it, but so far that hadn’t happened. His life had only seemed more bleak as the date approached, and now that it was upon him, all he felt was a kind of resigned dread.

The song dropped into a minor key. Garrin would put on a show for the rest of the palace, but here in his chambers, alone, he could give in to the hopelessness as he looked to a future trapped within the richly tapestried walls of Whitecliff Castle. Words drifted through his mind—lyrics he had no intention of writing down.

Who looks at a palace and sees a cage?

Any who does is thankless,

for what is a kingdom without a prince?

Garrin froze, his fingers leaving the last chords unfinished as the answer to his stanza and his problem came together in his head. What is a kingdom without a prince?

A kingdom with a princess.

A princess who could possess any quality he desired, including the ability to rule. He could give her the skills to be the greatest queen in history, and he—well, what would the kingdom need from him with such a competent ruler in his place? He would be free to travel, to see the world, to sing his songs for an audience who could appreciate them. It was perfect.

Garrin dropped his harp on his bed, snatching up a cloak for the drafty walk to the Architects’ chambers. The ceremony was tonight; there was no time to waste.

Garrin had a request to make.