The announcement did not come as a shock.
That, perhaps, was what unsettled Ellora the most.
The marquis' residence lay quiet beneath the late afternoon light, sunlight spilling gently across polished floors while pale curtains stirred with the winter air. Everything appeared unchanged—orderly, restrained, familiar.
Ellora sat straight-backed across from her parents, hands folded neatly in her lap. She had been raised not only as the daughter of a marquis, but as a future princess—her life measured in duty long before desire.
No servants were present.
No witnesses.
"Ellora," her father said calmly, "the palace has sent word."
She already knew what that meant.
"The date has been set," her mother added. "Your marriage to Crown Prince Aster will be announced within the week."
The future king.
Ellora lowered her gaze—not in submission, but in thought.
So it has finally arrived.
This union had been decided long before she had learned to read. Long before she had understood what it meant to belong to the royal family not by choice, but by agreement. As the marquis' only daughter, her path had never truly been her own.
"I understand," she said evenly.
Her mother studied her expression, searching for hesitation. "Is there anything you wish to say?"
Ellora paused, just briefly.
"There is nothing to object to," she replied. "This was always expected."
Her father nodded, relief flickering subtly across his features. "You were raised with this responsibility in mind."
"Yes," Ellora said softly. "I was."
The matter ended there—without argument, without raised voices. What had been decided would not be undone.
Later, alone in her chamber, Ellora stood by the window overlooking the distant city. Dusk settled quietly beyond the glass, rooftops fading beneath the pale winter sky. She reached up and removed the pins from her hair one by one, placing them carefully upon the vanity.
As her hair fell loose over her shoulders, honey-blonde strands catching the last light of dusk, Ellora barely recognized the girl reflected in the glass.
Only then did the memories come.
The palace garden, bathed in warm afternoon light.
Ellora and Amellia sat beneath the pavilion, porcelain teacups resting delicately between their fingers. Amellia—the viscount's daughter—laughed softly as she poured the tea, her features gentle, her smile perfectly composed, as though she had learned early how to be pleasing.
Laughter rang out across the lawn.
Aster and Hayes stood a short distance away, wooden swords clashing with more enthusiasm than precision. Aster's golden hair caught the sunlight as he turned, his confidence effortless even then, a presence that naturally drew the eye.
"Watch this," he called out, grinning as he lunged forward.
Hayes parried easily, stepping back with practiced calm. Dark hair shadowed his eyes, his movements controlled, his presence quieter—but somehow heavier—than the others. Even in play, there had always been something restrained about him.
Ellora rose from her seat, unable to hold back her smile.
"Don't hurt each other," she called.
Aster turned at once when he heard her voice, his expression brightening as he crossed the grass toward her, sword forgotten.
"When we marry," he said lightly, as though it were already decided, "we'll be the perfect couple."
Ellora blinked—then laughed.
"That's a bold promise."
He took her hand without hesitation and pressed a brief kiss against her knuckles, careless and sincere.
A few steps away, Hayes stood still.
His wooden sword lowered, forgotten in his grip. He said nothing—he never did—but his gaze lingered on Ellora a moment longer than it should have, unreadable even to himself.
Beneath the pavilion, Amellia lifted her teacup.
The porcelain trembled faintly against her fingers.
The memory faded.
Ellora opened her eyes to the quiet of her chamber.
Somewhere between that afternoon in the garden and the present, something had shifted.
Aster no longer spoke to her with the same ease. Their conversations had grown careful, distant—polite where warmth once lived.
And the letters from the North—
Ellora turned toward her writing desk.
It remained untouched, just as it had for years.
At first, there had been letters. Short ones. Formal ones.
Then, nothing at all.
Ellora rested her hand against the cool surface of the desk, uncertain when familiarity had turned into absence.
But she told herself it was only time.
Time changed everything.