The atmosphere of the chapel was suffocating.
On one side sat the Valehart family. Advisor Valehart's face was carved into granite, each line speaking of unspoken fury. He had always groomed his daughter for a match that would elevate their house—not bind them to a forgotten prince with a crippled body. Sophia's mother dabbed her eyes with a lace kerchief, but the tears were shallow, born of social disappointment rather than maternal concern. Her brothers whispered behind jeweled cuffs, their smirks betraying how they relished the fall of their once-spoiled sister.
Across the aisle, the Royal family presented a carefully painted mask of dignity—one cracked at its seams. Concubine Selene, the King's favorite mistress, tilted her chin in satisfaction, lips curved in a faint, poisonous smile. Two of her sons exchanged glances of amusement, barely restraining their laughter at the sight of their half-brother rolling forward in his chair, accompanied by the weight of pitying stares.
The King himself was detached, reclining as though the ceremony bored him. He did not even glance at his son. The vacant throne at his side, once belonging to the late Queen, was a more painful declaration than any words spoken aloud.
And then there was Prince Alexander.
He sat in a finely crafted chair of polished darkwood, the wheels gilded with subtle gold yet no amount of ornament could disguise its purpose. His posture was straight, regal despite the cruel reality binding him to it. His gray eyes were storms held behind a wall of ice; cold, piercing, but hollowed at their depths. He did not look at Sophia once during the ceremony. To him, she was nothing but another link in his chain.
Whispers swirled through the pews:
"The crippled prince, bound in wheels, takes a bride at last."
"Poor girl, shackled to him for life."
"She was vain… perhaps this is her punishment."
Sophia lowered her lashes, concealing the flicker of defiance hidden in her gaze. They saw only a discarded pawn. None of them could imagine the storm she carried within.
Later the ceremonial procession wound its way toward the east wing. Guards marched at either side, while curious nobles trailed behind, whispering wagers on whether the night would end in humiliation.
The bridal chamber was opulent—curtains of crimson velvet, golden candelabras casting flickering light, rose petals scattered over the bed. The air reeked of incense meant to inspire passion, but all Sophia smelled was the staleness of expectation.
Damien, Alexander's loyal knight, was already waiting within. A broad-shouldered man with steady eyes, he bowed slightly as Alexander's chair was guided into the chamber.
"My prince," Damien said quietly, voice lined with reverence. "Shall I assist you to bed?"
Alexander inclined his head, voice steady though cool. "Yes. Let us not prolong this farce."
Damien moved forward, strong arms prepared to lift the prince from his chair. The routine was practiced, almost ritualistic, unspoken understanding flowing between master and knight. But before Damien could reach him, Sophia's voice cut through the charged silence.
"Wait."
Both men turned, surprised by her interruption.
Sophia stepped closer, her long black hair gleaming under candlelight, her dark eyes unwavering.
"Before anything else, I ask for a private word with His Highness."
Damien hesitated, looking to his prince for command.
Alexander's gaze narrowed, suspicion clouding his storm-gray eyes. "What could you possibly have to say, Lady Valehart?" His tone was sharp, dismissive.
She lifted her chin. "Something that concerns both our honor. And the whispers outside this door."
The silence stretched, thick as the velvet curtains. Alexander's grip on the armrest tightened, the faintest tremor visible in his knuckles. Finally, he gave the smallest nod.
"Leave us, Damien," he ordered, voice low.
Damien's jaw tightened with unspoken concern, but his loyalty was absolute. Bowing, he stepped back and withdrew, leaving the prince and his new bride alone in the crimson chamber.
Sophia turned fully toward Alexander, the fire in her gaze challenging the frost in his. "I will not leave for my own chambers tonight," she said, steady and unyielding. "If I do, they will laugh louder. They will claim I rejected you. They will use me to shame you further. I won't allow that."
His eyes flickered, a shadow of surprise breaking through the mask.
"You think to protect me?" he said coldly, almost scoffing. "Or yourself?"
"Both," she answered without hesitation. "I will stay."
For the first time since she entered his world, Alexander faltered. The silence between them throbbed with unspoken weight, fragile but unbreakable.
At last, he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.
"Very well," he murmured. "Stay."
And as the candles burned low, their first true battle of wills ended but at least not in distance, but in the faintest step toward something neither yet understood.