The night air held a crisp bite as our carriage inched forward in the seemingly endless procession leading to the palace. Through the window, I could see the magnificent structure aglow with hundreds of lanterns, looking like something from a fairytale. King Theron's birthday celebrations were always extravagant affairs, but this year seemed particularly grand.
"Are you certain about this?" Alaric asked, his voice low and intimate in the privacy of our carriage.
I turned to face my husband, the familiar weight of my mask conspicuously absent. The cool air kissed my exposed skin—both the unmarred side and the scarred one that had been hidden for so long.
"Yes," I said firmly, though my stomach twisted with nerves. "It's time."
Alaric's eyes softened as he reached across to take my gloved hand. "You look breathtaking, Isabella. But if anyone so much as looks at you wrong—"
"You'll have them beheaded?" I finished with a small smile.
