Chapter Text
Chin up. Eyes steady. Don’t look sad or weak.
These were your instructions from day one. You hated them, resented them, wished them to hell and death and damnation. Every heavy layer of fabric you wore, gilded with golden thread and silk embroidery all done by the finest hands in colors that shined like firelight and jeweled mornings, felt like the robes of the reaper hanging off of you, and the docks that had come into view, your execution grounds.
Colorful flags were soaring above the city. It spanned far, straight down through the valley that was protected by shale mountains capped with snow miles above. Maybe in a different time, a different life, you could have appreciated it. The Theatian Kingdom was known for its vivid beauty, its marvelous scenery, after all.
But this was not that time, nor that life. This was your death sentence.
The ferry landed sooner than you could have ever wished for.
–
“The Young King,” the raspy voice of the old woman said, “Minghao.”
Those were some of the only spoken words you had understood so far. Even though you were provided with endless tutors, books, opportunities, you rejected every single attempt at being taught the culture and language of your new captor’s home. But you had known his name. And you had known his title.
The tall doors of gold and lattice parted, exposing the atrium’s exit to the ceremonial room. The whole thing was lit by candles and heavily perfumed with something sweet-smelling but heady, and notes of jasmine. At the altar, naturally, was the monk assigned to wed you.
And to his left was the Young King.
Minghao, you had been told, was the only son of a king who had long passed of illness. The queen regent, his mother, had fallen desperately into grief, and rumors had it she was locked away deep in the palace grounds, never to see the light of day again. For all intents and purposes, your new king, you anticipated, was to be young, scrawny, decisive, gangly, and hardly a year older than you. A child.
Heart slamming nauseatingly inside your skull, you wondered who had explained so ruefully to begin with. You couldn’t believe the male to the monk’s left was the Young King, but… but he wore the gleaming headpiece of the king. He wasn’t short, or gangly – he was spry-looking. Like a sparrow. His chestnut hair swept neatly to the side, and his dark eyes watched you evenly – waiting. Waiting.
Most upsettingly of all, the Young King Minghao was handsome.
Bile rose in your throat. One of the maids said something to you that you could not understand, but you assumed it to be an urging forward. There was a marriage to get on with, after all.
At the altar, lightheaded from the perfumes and mind attempting to detach from the horrible reality of the situation you’d been thrust into and groomed for, you were not able to meet your husband-to-be’s eyes. But you felt them on you. Watching. Waiting.
The monk spoke. Then, Minghao took your hands in his – delicately, serenely, and it took you by surprise enough to make you gasp softly and glance up at him – and he was looking at you more curiously now.
The procession began. The monk began reciting whatever poetic nonsense that would bind you to the royalty that stood before you.
Minghao seemed to have made up his mind on something you could not grasp. And very, very quietly, he tilted his head and mumbled something at you. Just loud enough for you to make out.
But that didn’t matter.
Your heart was going into overdrive. The heat of embarrassment and nervousness and stress flooded your cheeks, turning them even redder than the rouge that had been applied to them, and you tried not to look panicked as Minghao repeated himself.
“I don’t understand,” you whispered back.
Minghao blinked. Then, his eyes went wider – just a touch. You did not want to be here. You did not want to feel guilt. You did not want to feel attraction.
You wanted to hate this boy.
Minghao didn’t say anything after that. The monk’s deep voice rumbled in the air, still talking through his vows and divine promises, and Minghao simply returned to watching you closely – except his brows ticked in with the vaguest worry.
Chin up. Eyes steady. Don’t look sad or weak.
Your betrothed’s hands, lithe and cool, hold yours just a little tighter. As if he’s trying to comfort you without words – words he doesn’t have, and neither do you.
Your head lowers, and your eyes shut tight to keep in the moisture. You look like a broken bride.
Minghao murmurs something, something soothing, and you’re not sure your heart will be able to last this.