The music swelled.
Sheila felt it in her chest—the vibration of strings and brass, the deep thrum of the cellos, the bright trill of the flutes. The sound filled the hall, rising to the vaulted ceiling, echoing off the marble walls. The crowd had been murmuring, gossiping, trading whispers behind gloved hands, but now they fell silent. The musicians had their attention.
The King rose from his throne.
He looked like a man who had been painted into a portrait and had stepped out of the frame. His face was calm, composed, the face of someone who had performed this ritual a hundred times before.
"Lords and ladies," he said. His voice carried without effort, filling the hall, reaching every corner. "Nobles of the realm. Honored guests."
The crowd leaned forward.
"Tonight, we celebrate. Tonight, we honor the bonds that unite us. Tonight, we look to the future."
Sheila stood at the bottom of the steps, her hands clasped in front of her, her back straight. She could feel the King's eyes on her—not warm, not cold, just... assessing. Measuring her worth.
"My son, Prince Lumian Aurelia," the King continued, "has reached the age of twelve. By the laws of this kingdom, it is time for him to take a betrothed. To forge an alliance that will strengthen the Crown and secure the future of our people."
Prince Lumian stepped forward. He was shorter than his father, still boyish, his shoulders not yet broad, his jaw not yet sharp. But he carried himself with the same confidence, the same sense of entitlement. His suit was dark blue, that was on the verge of being black, the Aurelian crest pinned to his lapel.
"After much deliberation," the King said, "after consulting with the heads of the Great Houses, after considering the needs of the realm, we have chosen a suitable match."
Sheila felt her heart pound.
"Lady Sheila Karmis," the King said. "Granddaughter of Duke Charles Karmis. Daughter of the late Sarah Karmis."
The crowd applauded. Polite, measured, the applause of people who had been taught to clap at the right times.
Sheila curtsied. The motion was smooth, practiced, the result of weeks of training. She kept her eyes lowered, her back straight, her hands steady.
"Rise, child," the King said.
She rose.
The Prince walked toward her.
The crowd parted, the nobles stepping back, their eyes fixed on the two children. Sheila could feel their gazes like weights on her shoulders—measuring, calculating, judging. She kept her face calm, her breathing steady, her hands still.
The Prince stopped a few feet away. His eyes were pale, sharp, and they moved over her with the same assessment she had seen on the faces of the other nobles. But there was something else beneath the assessment—a flicker of curiosity, maybe, or surprise.
"Lady Karmis," he said. But there was something beneath his voice, something cold and careful, that reminded her of the way Duke Karmis spoke when he was discussing politics.
"Your Highness," she said.
"You may call me Lumian. We are to be married, after all."
The crowd murmured. Someone laughed—a polite, tinkling sound, like glass being tapped.
Sheila forced herself to smile. "Lumian."
He smiled back. His smile was warm, practiced, the kind of smile that was meant to put people at ease. But his eyes were still cold, still assessing.
"Shall we?" He offered his arm.
She took it.
They walked through the crowd together.
Sheila kept her pace slow, matching his, her hand resting lightly on his sleeve. The nobles parted before them, bowing and curtsying, their eyes following the two children like they were the main attraction at a theater.
"The dress is beautiful," Lumian said. His voice was light, conversational, the voice of someone who had been trained to make small talk.
"Thank you. The seamstresses worked very hard."
"The color suits you. Red is the color of House Karmis, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"My house colors are blue and gold. You'll need to learn to wear them, after we're married."
Sheila felt something tighten in her chest. "I'm sure I will."
Lumian glanced at her. His eyes were still pale, still sharp, but there was something else beneath the surface now—a flicker of amusement, maybe.
"You're very good at this," he said.
"At what?"
"Pretending."
Sheila's heart skipped a beat. But she kept her face calm, her smile steady. "I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you do." He led her toward the windows, where the crowd was thinner, the shadows deeper. "You're pretending to be happy. Pretending to be honored. Pretending that you want this."
Sheila said nothing.
"I'm pretending too," he said. "That's what we do. That's what they expect."
He gestured toward the crowd—the nobles laughing and talking, the servants carrying trays, the musicians playing their soft, sweet music.
"They want a story. A fairy tale. A happy ending." He looked at her. "So we give them one."
Sheila looked at the crowd. The faces were blurry at this distance, but she could see their eyes—bright, watching, hungry.
"What happens after the story ends?" she asked.
Lumian's smile faded. Just a little.
"After the story ends, we find out if we both achieved our goals."
They walked to the center of the hall, where the King was waiting.
The crowd formed a circle around them, the nobles pressing close, their eyes fixed on the two children. The King stood on the dais, his hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable.
"You have been introduced," the King said. "Now you must perform."
He gestured to the musicians. They began to play—a waltz, slow and sweet, the melody rising and falling like waves.
"The first dance," the King said. "Let the realm see its future."
Lumian turned to Sheila. He bowed—a formal bow, deep and graceful, the kind of bow that was meant to be seen.
"May I have this dance, Lady Karmis?"
Sheila curtsied. "You may, Your Highness."
He took her hand.
His fingers were warm, dry, steady. He led her to the center of the circle, and the crowd stepped back, giving them room.
The music swelled.
They began to dance.
Lumian was a good dancer. Better than Sheila, who had only practiced with Duke Karmis in the study, who had never danced in front of an audience before. But he guided her gently, his hand on her waist, his other hand holding hers, leading her through the steps.
"Relax," he murmured. "You're too stiff."
"I'm nervous."
"Don't be. They're not watching your feet. They're watching your face."
Sheila looked at the crowd. The faces were blurry, but she could see their eyes— watching, hungry.
"Smile," Lumian said.
She smiled.
The crowd applauded.
They danced.
The song ended.
Lumian released her and stepped back. He bowed again. She curtsied again. The crowd applauded again.
"That wasn't so bad," Lumian said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
"It was terrible."
"It was adequate." He smiled—a real smile, this time, not the practiced one. "Adequate is enough. Adequate is all they need."
He offered his arm again.
"Come. There are more people to meet. More hands to shake. More smiles to smile."
Sheila took his arm.
They walked into the crowd.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur.
Sheila met more nobles—dozens of them, maybe hundreds. She shook hands and curtsied and smiled and said the right words. Lumian stayed by her side, guiding her through the crowd, introducing her to people whose names she forgot as soon as she heard them.
Through it all, she felt his hand on her arm. Warm. Steady. Grounding.
He's pretending too, she thought. We're both pretending.
And somehow, that made it easier