The palace feels different after dark.
It always has.
The corridors that buzz with servants and advisors during the day turn hushed and echo-soft. Candles burn lower in their sconces. The marble floors lose their shine and keep only the faintest hints of our reflections.
Tonight, every shadow feels sharper.
Every footstep sounds louder.
Because every step I take is carrying me toward the same destination.
Our chambers.
Our.
Not mine.
Not his.
Ours.
The thought alone is enough to make my pulse trip over itself.
Axel walks beside me, close enough that our hands brush now and then. He doesn't try to take my hand again; he seems to sense that I'm holding myself together by careful, invisible stitches.
We've already survived the reception.
The endless congratulations.
The first dance as husband and wife.
The way people watched us as if we might shatter or ignite at any second.
We've survived the Temple.
The vows spoken where only stone and old gods could hear.
This should be the easy part.
It doesn't feel easy.
"So," Axel says at last, voice quiet but steady, "on a scale of one to 'throw me off the balcony,' how much do you regret today?"
Despite myself, I snort.
"Depends," I say. "Does the scale include your mother?"
He huffs out a laugh.
"In that case, I'd say you handled today like a goddess of controlled chaos," he replies. "Which is a compliment, in case that wasn't obvious."
We turn down the last corridor.
Only two guards stand at the far end, flanking a tall, carved door. Our door.
Someone has tied a length of white silk around one of the handles.
A symbol.
Of what, exactly, depends on which courtier you ask.
My stomach flips.
Axel must feel the way I tense, because his arm brushes lightly against mine.
"Rome," he says under his breath. "Look at me."
I drag my gaze away from the door.
His eyes are softer now that it's just us again. No crowns. No parents. No advisors.
"Before we go in," he says, "we need to make something very clear."
A hundred possibilities flash through my mind.
He's changed his mind.
He expects…
He doesn't want…
"Okay," I say, trying to keep my voice even. "Say it."
He draws in a breath.
"Nothing happens tonight that you don't want," he says simply.
The words land like a stone dropping into water.
Everything inside me ripples.
"I know what everyone expects," he goes on, his voice low. "I heard the whispers on my side of the hall as well as yours. Heirs. Proof. 'Proper' royal weddings." His jaw tightens briefly. "They can expect whatever they like. This is ours."
My throat goes tight.
"What if I don't know what I want?" I ask, before I can stop myself.
He doesn't flinch.
"Then," he says, "we figure it out together. Slowly. At your pace."
He hesitates.
"And if all you want," he adds, softer now, "is to take off your shoes, erase your makeup, talk about how awful everyone's dance moves were, and fall asleep with a safe amount of space between us—then that's what we'll do."
A laugh escapes me, half-choked, half-relieved.
"A safe amount of space?" I echo.
He manages a crooked smile.
"I was thinking at least one grumpy princess' arm's length," he says. "Possibly two."
I breathe out slowly.
The tight band I've been carrying around my chest all day loosens, just a little.
"Okay," I say.
He nods toward the door.
"Ready?"
"No," I admit.
He smiles.
"Good," he says. "Neither am I."
He lifts our joined hands—no silk now, just skin—and knocks once.
The guards bow and step back.
A pair of maids opens the doors from the inside, their eyes widening for a heartbeat when they see us.
"Your Highnesses," one says, dropping into a low curtsy. "Everything is prepared."
Prepared.
As if they can actually prepare anyone for this.
"Thank you," Axel says. "You may go now."
They scurry past us, cheeks flushed, murmuring blessings under their breath.
The doors close with a soft, decisive click.
Silence.
Our chambers are lit by a hundred candles, their flames dancing in the soft draft from the balcony doors, which stand slightly ajar.
Someone has scattered rose petals across the floor and the bed and the small table by the window.
There are trays of food—fruit and sweet cakes and little tarts I recognize from celebrations in the Iris kitchens.
The bed itself looks like something from one of the old stories: carved posts, sheer curtains tied back with silk, pillows piled in an inviting, terrifying cloud.
I stand just inside the door and stare.
"Subtle," I say at last.
Axel follows my gaze and grimaces.
"Remind me to have a word with whoever thinks we needed half the kingdom's rose supply in here," he mutters.
I step carefully over a trail of petals.
"There's probably a courtier somewhere taking notes right now," I say. "Counting candles. Imagining terrible details."
He snorts.
"Then we should give them a very boring report," he replies.
He shrugs off his formal jacket, draping it neatly over a chair. Without the extra layers, he looks younger. More like the boy who finds me in the gardens than the prince who stood beside me under an arch while two kingdoms held their breath.
"You look…tired," I say.
He raises an eyebrow.
"So do you," he counters. "Beautiful. Terrifying. But tired."
I kick off my shoes one by one, sighing when my feet finally touch cool stone.
"Better," I murmur.
"Can I help with anything else?" he asks carefully. "The tiara? That thing looks like a weapon."
I hesitate.
Then turn.
"Please," I say.
He steps closer, slow enough that I can change my mind.
I don't.
His fingers brush my hair as he lifts the tiara from my head.
It's the lightest it's felt all day.
He sets it gently on a nearby table, as if it might explode if jostled.
"Necklace?" he asks.
I touch the familiar chain at my throat.
My mother's.
"I'll do that one," I say softly.
He nods, backing away.
I unclasp it myself and lay it beside the tiara, the two pieces of my life glinting together in the candlelight.
For a moment, I just stand there.
Bare feet.
Crownless.
Still in the gown, but lighter.
Not being given away, my father's voice echoes in my mind. Standing beside someone.
I glance at Axel.
He hasn't moved far.
He leans against one of the bedposts, sleeves rolled up now, the top buttons of his shirt undone.
He looks…nervous.
The realization steadies me more than any speech could.
"You really aren't sure what to do with yourself, are you?" I ask.
He lets out a startled laugh.
"Rome, I can handle war councils," he says. "Trade disputes. Training fields full of boy-soldiers who think they'll never die. But this?" He gestures vaguely around us. "This is…new."
He pauses.
"And important," he adds quietly. "Which makes it worse."
Something softens inside me.
"We don't have to solve 'important' tonight," I say.
He tilts his head.
"What do you want to do, then?"
The question is simple.
It feels enormous.
I think of a thousand expectations.
Then I think of what I actually want.
My gaze drifts to the open balcony doors. Beyond them, the night sky is thick with stars. The faintest hint of distant ocean wind slips through—the phantom of a place I once called home.
"Can we…" I hesitate, then push through it. "Can we go outside? Just for a moment? Before everyone starts imagining what we're doing in here?"
His mouth curves.
"Princess," he says, "I thought you'd never ask."
He crosses the room and pushes the doors open wider, letting the night air flood in.
The balcony is smaller than the one off the main ballroom, more private. A low wall, a pair of stone benches, a view that looks out over the dark city and the ink-black line of the horizon where the land ends.
The stars feel closer out here.
We step into the cool.
The sudden quiet is almost shocking.
No music.
No clinking glasses.
No distant voices.
Just the night.
"Better?" Axel asks.
I grip the rail and close my eyes for a second.
"Yes," I say. "Much."
He leans beside me, leaving enough space that I don't feel boxed in.
Down below, the city still sparkles with scattered pockets of light. Somewhere, a group of people laugh, the sound drifting up faintly.
"Do you think they're talking about us?" I ask.
He considers.
"Some are," he says. "Some aren't. Some are probably just glad they got an excuse to drink more than usual."
"Lucky them," I mutter.
He glances at me sideways.
"Do you wish you were down there?"
I picture myself in a plain dress, hair loose and crownless, slipping through crowded streets, melting into groups of strangers who don't care what my last name is.
"Yes," I say.
Then, after a beat:
"And no."
He waits.
"I don't want to be somewhere else tonight," I admit. "I just…don't always want to be watched."
"I know the feeling," he says.
We stand there for a long moment, just breathing.
The stars are bright above us. The moon hangs low, a thin silver curve.
"Is it awful," I ask quietly, "that I'm relieved we're here instead of…out there? That I'm glad it's just us now?"
"Awful?" he repeats. "Rome, that's the least awful thing you've ever confessed to me."
I smile.
"Good," I say. "Because I'm too tired to feel guilty about it as well."
He is quiet for a moment.
Then:
"Can I ask you something?"
I nod.
"What scares you most about tonight?" he asks.
The question knocks the air from my lungs.
I could lie.
I could make a joke.
But we promised ourselves something in that Temple.
Honesty.
"Losing myself," I say.
He doesn't answer right away.
"In which way?" he asks softly.
"In all of them," I say, the words tumbling faster now that I've started. "Everyone has an idea of who I should be now. Your mother. My council. The nobles. The rebels. They all want something different. A symbol. A scapegoat. A saint."
My fingers tighten on the cold stone.
"They're all expecting tonight to turn me into someone new," I continue. "A wife. A future queen. A…proper royal." The words taste strange. "I'm afraid I'll wake up tomorrow and not recognize the girl in the mirror."
Axel is very, very still beside me.
"You won't," he says at last.
"How do you know?" I whisper.
"Because I won't let them take you," he replies simply.
Heat pricks behind my eyes.
"That's a big promise," I say.
He shakes his head.
"It's not all on me," he says. "You won't let them either. I've seen it. In council. In the gardens. In battle."
He turns, resting his elbows on the rail, facing me fully now.
"You bargained for ten days before the old women even finished demanding an heir," he says. "You negotiated for two ceremonies instead of one. You told my mother no to her face and lived." His mouth quirks. "You are not easy to rewrite, Rome."
I huff out a damp laugh.
"You make me sound insufferable," I say.
"You are," he says. "It's one of the reasons I like you."
The word tumbles between us.
Like.
Not duty.
Not must.
Like.
Something in my chest loosens.
"Can I ask you something now?" I say.
"Always," he replies.
"What scares you most about tonight?"
He looks out over the city, jaw working.
"Same thing," he admits.
I blink.
"You're afraid of losing me?" I ask, half-teasing, half-serious.
His lips curve, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"I'm afraid of losing myself," he says quietly. "Of waking up one morning and realizing that somewhere between the councils and the laws and the expectations, I became exactly the kind of king I swore I'd never be."
He glances at me.
"And I'm afraid," he adds even more softly, "that I'll drag you down with me if I do."
The honesty of it knocks the breath from my lungs.
"You won't," I say automatically.
He arches a brow.
"Big promise," he echoes.
We stand there in the soft night, two people wrapped in more titles than we ever asked for, holding onto the last shreds of who we were before today.
"Rome," he says after a long moment, "if you tell me you want space tonight, I will take a pillow and sleep at the foot of the bed like some tragic palace dog."
I snort.
"I'm not making you sleep on the floor," I say.
"Then I'll take the chaise," he counters.
I consider the image.
Axel, crownless, limbs too long for the velvet chaise by the window, pretending he's comfortable while I lie awake on a bed big enough for three ghosts and a queen.
It makes something twist inside my chest.
"Or," I say slowly, "you could sleep…here." I gesture vaguely toward the bed. "With rules."
His eyes flick back to mine, sharp.
"Rules," he repeats.
"Yes," I say, feeling my cheeks heat. "Like…you stay on your side. And I stay on mine. And if either of us feels uncomfortable, we say something. And we…don't do anything just because some noble with too many jewels thinks it's their business."
He watches me for a long heartbeat.
"Okay," he says at last.
"Okay?" I echo.
"Okay," he repeats. "Rules. Sides. Words. No doing anything because of anyone else."
He hesitates.
"And if," he adds carefully, "at any point you want to change those rules—tonight or in a year or in ten—we talk about it first. Agreed?"
I nod.
"Agreed," I say.
He offers his hand.
"Then, Your Highness," he says quietly, "may I share your terrifyingly large royal mattress?"
I laugh.
"Yes," I say. "You may."
We go back inside.
The room feels different now.
Not less charged.
Just…less heavy.
I turn my back politely as he changes behind a folding screen, trading stiff formalwear for a simple dark shirt and loose trousers. He does the same for me, holding up a blanket like a curtain while I slip out of the gown and into a soft nightdress the maids must have laid out earlier.
It feels strange, being this bare in front of him and yet somehow more covered than I've been all day.
When we're both done, the bed looks both inviting and terrifying.
Axel walks to one side, hesitates, then lies down carefully on top of the covers.
On his side.
As far from the middle as he can get without falling off.
I bite back a smile.
"You're ridiculous," I say.
"I'm respecting boundaries," he protests.
I circle to my side and slide beneath the sheets.
For a few long, awkward minutes, we lie there.
Him on top of the blankets, staring at the ceiling.
Me under them, staring at the canopy.
The candles gutter lower.
Finally, I sigh.
"This is stupid," I mutter, and reach over to tap his shoulder.
He turns his head, startled.
"Get under," I say. "You look like you're waiting for a dragon attack."
He laughs, the sound low and pleased.
"As my queen commands," he says lightly.
He slips under the covers on his side, careful not to jostle me.
There is still a respectable, comfortable space between us.
I can feel the warmth of him, even without touching.
"Better?" he asks.
"Yes," I admit.
The silence that follows isn't heavy this time.
It feels…full.
"Can I…" I hesitate. "Can I do one more terrifying thing?"
He shifts, turning slightly toward me.
"Always," he says.
I inch a little closer.
Not enough to erase the space completely.
Just enough that when I reach out, my fingers can find his.
I curl my hand around his, heart pounding.
He squeezes back immediately.
"Is this okay?" he asks.
"Yes," I say.
My voice sounds small.
But sure.
"Good," he murmurs.
The steady rhythm of his pulse under my fingertips calms something frantic inside me.
"I know today was…a lot," he says into the dim. "But for what it's worth, there's no one else I'd rather have shared it with."
A lump forms in my throat.
"You say that to all your political brides?" I mumble.
He chuckles.
"Only the ones who stab rebels in their own halls," he replies.
We fall quiet again.
My eyes grow heavier with each slow breath.
"Axel?" I whisper as sleep starts to pull at me.
"Mm?"
"If I wake up tomorrow and panic," I say, "will you remind me of everything we said in the Temple?"
His grip on my hand tightens.
"Every word," he promises. "And if I forget, you can hit me with a pillow until I remember."
"Deal," I murmur.
"Rome?" he says softly, just as my thoughts start to blur.
"Mm?"
"I'm glad it's you," he says.
The warmth that spreads through my chest at that nearly chases away the fear entirely.
"Me too," I whisper.
The last thing I feel before sleep claims me is the solid weight of his hand in mine and the comforting knowledge that, for tonight at least, the world can spin without us.
We have done enough.
We have chosen enough.
Tomorrow, we will be crowns and performance again.
Tonight, we are just two people in a too-big bed, holding on to ourselves and to each other in the quiet between storms.