Garrin’s respite didn’t last long. He was swept up in last-minute details, solving multiple tiny crises as servants brought them to his attention. He joined his parents and the Teyrnelis and Kirahan families for a midday meal, which was only slightly less elegant than that night’s feast would be. Garrin tried several times to catch Princess Lliane’s eye, but she continued to avoid him. He approached her at the end of the meal, standing before her and her parents so she had no choice but to acknowledge him.

“Princess Lliane,” he said formally. “I hoped you might help me with a matter concerning the ceremony. I have always valued your opinion.”

She scowled, but since declining him was no longer an option, she gave a stiff nod and allowed him to guide her away.

“I knew it,” Garrin said as they settled in an empty corner of the room. “I knew you were upset with me.”

Lliane seemed fascinated by the details in the molding along the walls. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”

“There is so much else to look at.”

“I don’t see what I could have done,” he said, frowning. “I haven’t even had a chance to say anything to you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, it isn’t you I’m upset with. It’s this whole farce of a ceremony. I don’t mind visiting, really, but to drag us down here in the dead of winter just so you can pretend to be betrothed is—”

“I will be betrothed,” Garrin interrupted.

“Right,” she said. “To a thing made to look and speak and act exactly the way you want it to. Not to a real woman.”

“Just because Eiliad doesn’t have the same customs doesn’t make ours wrong,” Garrin said stiffly.

“Just because you’ve always done it doesn’t make it right,” she fired back.

“What is wrong with it?” he asked. “The crown prince has always married a princess designed by the Architects. Since the very beginning of Fyrest.”

“Designed by,” Lliane echoed. “Don’t you see how wrong that is? The poor thing is made to be your ornament, nothing more. Do you even know how they are made?”

Garrin frowned uncomfortably. “It’s a secret. Only the Architects know the process for creating a princess.”

“And you never thought to ask?” Lliane pressed.

“If it was good enough for my ancestors...” Garrin said.

Her blue eyes flashed—as light and as cold as ice. “Come on, Garrin. I know you better than that. You always used to talk about going off on an adventure, finding true love, battling pirates. What happened to you?”

Nothing, he wanted to say. But much as he liked Lliane, he wasn’t sure he trusted her. He couldn’t give away his plan yet, not until he’d had a chance to meet his princess and verify her knowledge. If something went wrong... well, he didn’t want to get his hopes up.

So he simply shrugged at her and mumbled, “It’s my duty.”

“Duty,” she spat. “Well, you are free to perform your duty however you wish. And I am free to dislike it.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Garrin said. Unease stirred in his stomach, mixing with the nerves and leaving him in abject discomfort. His one ally had apparently turned her back on him, leaving him to face the coming ceremony—and interactions with Senjay—alone. He wanted to argue, but Lliane looked so sure of herself, and he didn’t have the same conviction.

He’d never really thought about the princess as a thing before. He hadn’t thought of her as much of anything, really. Just the next hinderance in his overburdened life, another obstacle keeping him from adventure. That the practice of creating a princess was strange had never occurred to him. It was simply The Way Things Were. But now that he considered it, he knew very little about the whole process. The Architects had always guarded their procedures carefully, almost jealously, and Garrin had never pressed for more information.

Perhaps it was time he did.

“Well,” Garrin said, stepping back and executing a shallow bow. “Since you are so disenamoured by my presence, I will leave you. Perhaps you can find Senjay if you prefer the opposite of my company.”

She didn’t argue, but he thought he heard a snort as he stalked away. He’d meant to speak to Aremus, to order him to explain the Architects’ methods, but as soon as he left the banquet room he was ambushed by a frazzled servant babbling something about a floral disaster. Resigned, he went off to solve the problem, only to be met by another three.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

The rest of the day passed in a blur until Garrin extracted himself from the latest (and, hopefully, final) catastrophe to prepare for the night’s activities. As the sun set, Garrin’s manservant helped him into his formal clothes, complete with the cold silver circlet he wore at every ceremony. The betrothal would happen in one of the outdoor courtyards, under the light of the full moon, so his dark blue clothing was thick with furs and covered by a heavy cloak.

“Are you ready, Your Highness?” asked the servant.

“If you say I am,” Garrin answered.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” the servant said. “But you don’t seem to be excited. Has something displeased you?”

Garrin looked at the servant. “Your name is Jakin, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

Jakin blinked in surprise. “Yes, Your Highness.”

He was tempted. Jakin had been his manservant for a few years now, and he’d done nothing to make Garrin think he could not be trusted. It would be such a relief to confide in someone—anyone—especially now that Lliane was no longer speaking to him. But he had a reputation to maintain, and gossip spread among the servants faster than sickness through a village.

So he only smiled and said, “I am very tired. The preparations took longer than I expected. I’ll be grateful when it’s all over.”

“Your Highness has done well,” Jakin said kindly. “Everything is in its place. The guests are seated, the music’s playing, the feast is prepared for afterwards. The rest of it is the simple part, isn’t it?”

Garrin laughed. “I suppose it is.” He smoothed his hand down the front of his cloak and adjusted the circlet over his brow. “There’s nothing left to do then. Am I ready?”

“You are ready, Your Highness.”

With Jakin’s blessing, Garrin pulled his cloak tight and abandoned the sanctuary of his room. The courtyard was just outside the Great Hall, so Garrin used one of the side doors to make his way around the hedges to the front of the yard. Servants had spent the last few days clearing the grounds of snow and setting up chairs for the guests, all arranged in circles around the crescent platform in the center of the yard. White and silver cloth streamers were draped along the evergreen hedges, and lanterns lit the shadows where the full moon couldn’t reach. Most of the seats were already filled, and a hush came over the crowd as Garrin made his way up the steps to the crescent platform. One of the court Sages, a middle-aged man with a neat black beard, waited at the top. He smiled as Garrin approached and gestured for him to stand in the center of the platform. Over the Sage’s shoulder, Garrin watched as his parents took their seats in the front row. His mother beamed at him. His father looked bored.

“The blessing of Fyelle be upon us,” the Sage intoned, raising his arms to begin the ceremony.

“Fyelle be with us,” answered the crowd.

The Sage smiled and spoke to the assembly. “We meet under Fyelle’s full moon to ask her blessing on this betrothal. We meet with the children of the Second and Third Kingdoms, and we ask the blessing of Randfre and Hylde to be with us as well.”

At the names of their patron goddesses, the Teyrnelises and Kirahans touched their foreheads in reverence.

“As our people were once one,” the Sage continued. “We join again to witness the union of our Crown Prince, Garrin Brego Athweald of Fyrest. With this betrothal, our prince moves closer to the day when he will become our king.”

“Long live Prince Garrin!” called the crowd.

“Long live indeed,” smiled the Sage. “Then with the blessing of all present and of those above, I call forth the bride.” All heads turned. The guests craned their necks, shifting to get a better view of the princess as the door to the Great Hall opened to let her pass.

She entered the courtyard the way spring overcame winter—unhurriedly, but with a presence that was impossible to ignore. Her hands were clasped demurely in front of her, not lifting the hem of her white gown as the other ladies did as they walked. She seemed not to notice the fabric at her feet, or anything at all. Her eyes were focused on Garrin, and his, he noticed abruptly, on hers.

All princesses made by the Architects were beautiful, but she was… breathtaking. Her skin was as pure and flawless as the moonlight which seemed to gather about her, drawn by her presence. Honey-gold hair trailed down the sides of her elegant neck, framing a head that bowed respectfully as soon as she was near enough for Garrin to study her face. In the moonlight, her features were as soft as the petals of the most delicate flower, so perfect that he had to wonder if he was imagining her beauty through the shadows. He’d known exactly what she would look like, and it hadn’t been nearly enough to prepare him for the reality. She was perfect. Everything about her was perfect.

Garrin swallowed, his face flushed. Not everything. She was beautiful, but she was not his destiny. That waited outside the castle walls.

As the princess reached the base of the stairs, Garrin fought to regain his composure. Her eyes came up to meet his, just darker than the shade of his shirt, the perfect complement to his own. He swallowed again and held out his hand to help her ascend the steps.

Her skin was softer than silk and her fingers fit in his palm perfectly. Had the Architects measured his hand? He couldn’t remember. He was having a hard time remembering anything.

“Princess,” said the Sage, jolting Garrin back to reality. “What is your name?”

She turned her gaze from Garrin and met the Sage’s. “Arya,” she breathed.

“Princess Arya,” the Sage announced, turning slightly to address the entire crowd. “You were created as a companion to the Crown, to serve it as your life’s purpose. From this day forward, your life is bound to it through Prince Garrin, who you will aid in the governing of Fyrest and the support of its allies. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Arya said, her voice gentle as falling snow.

“Prince Garrin,” said the Sage. “Do you accept Princess Arya as your betrothed?”

“Yes,” Garrin said faintly.

“Then I name you betrothed, in accord with and under the care of one another, until you make your formal vows at your wedding. May Fyelle bind you and bless you as She has blessed this kingdom.”

The crowd cheered. The Sage took Garrin’s hand—which still held Arya’s—and held them in his own. “Blessings upon you, Prince and Princess. Your kiss will seal the betrothal.”

Garrin turned to his bride, uncomfortably aware of all the eyes on him. He expected her to blush, to look down and wait shyly, and he intended to get the spectacle over with as quickly as possible.

Instead, Princess Arya stared back at him. There was no meekness in her gaze, no flush across her cheeks. Just dark eyes that bored into his, waiting. Challenging.

“Your Highness?” the Sage prompted.

Arya broke their stare, dropping her eyes to her feet. “My lord,” she murmured, her voice as sweet as before. For a moment Garrin could do nothing but blink at her, but the Sage cleared his throat until Garrin finally leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

She bit him.