The carriage ride passed in silence.
The wheels rolled steadily over stone and dirt, the rhythm relentless, as though marking time toward something inevitable.
Elowen sat opposite Cassian, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her posture composed enough to pass for calm. He did not look at her.
His attention remained fixed on the narrow window, jaw set, shoulders rigid, as if the journey itself were an inconvenience he endured rather than a return he welcomed.
The quiet pressed in on her, heavy and unforgiving.
Her thoughts, however, refused to be still.
Consummation lingered at the edge of her mind, unwelcome and persistent. She had been taught what was expected of her, taught that obedience would ease the process, that duty dulled pain. Still, she could not banish the fear that it would be rough, hurried, and stripped of gentleness.
She was new to this, untested, unprepared for a man who had already proven patience was not his strongest virtue.
She wondered if he would notice her fear. Or worse, if he would not care.
Cassian shifted once, the movement sharp, irritated. The carriage had slowed.
When they emerged, the palace of Solcar rose before them, all pale stone and sharp angles, vast and imposing. Torches lined the entrance, their flames bright and steady, revealing banners untouched by age or wear. Wealth announced itself here without apology.
Cassian exited first, stepping down with a stiff formality that felt almost resentful. He surveyed the palace not with pride but with something colder. Distance. As though this place, for all its grandeur, did not quite claim him.
He did not belong among equals here. He ruled above them.
Elowen followed, the weight of the moment settling heavily on her shoulders. This was his world now. And by marriage, it would be hers as well.
As they approached the entrance, she noticed them.
Women stood gathered just beyond the welcoming party, positioned carefully so as not to seem too bold. They were beautiful, unmistakably so. Draped in silks and fine linens, their gowns clung elegantly to their figures, cut low at the neckline, or slit just enough to suggest intimacy without impropriety. Jewels adorned their throats and wrists, catching the torchlight with practised ease. Their hair was styled with care, loose curls, and intricate braids framing faces shaped by indulgence and attention.
They watched Cassian openly.
Not as subjects. Not as courtiers.
Elowen's steps slowed almost imperceptibly as understanding dawned.
They were not wives. There was no dignity of station in their bearing, no reserve. There was familiarity instead.
Possession. Expectation.
Mistresses.
The word settled uncomfortably in her chest.
His mistresses?
She glanced toward Cassian, searching his expression for surprise, discomfort, anything that might suggest this gathering unsettled him. She found none.
His face remained controlled, unreadable, as though their presence was neither unexpected nor unwelcome.
One of the women smiled at him, slow and confident.
Elowen felt something tighten inside her. Not jealousy, not yet. Something quieter. More unsettling.
So this was the man she was to share a bed with. A man already accustomed to bodies offered freely to affection without obligation. A man for whom she would not be a desire, but a duty.
As the doors to the palace opened and the crowd bowed, Elowen lifted her chin and stepped forward beside him.
Whatever awaited her here, she would face it with her eyes open.