"With all due respect, my lady—are you crazy?!"Anya's voice pitched higher than usual the moment the door to the powder room clicked shut. The flickering blue glow of a small light stone floating in the corner of the ceiling gave the room a soft ambiance, but the atmosphere was anything but calm.
Ivy sat on a cushioned stool in front of the vanity, watching herself in the mirror as Anya fussed behind her with a cosmetic brush in hand. The scent of pressed lavender drifted faintly from the powder jars.
"Relax, Anya," Ivy said, adjusting the folds of her gown. "It's not that bad. Besides, rumors are mostly wrong. Did you personally see him freeze someone to death? And even if it's true, I doubt Prince Tristan would agree to marry someone he intended to freeze."
Anya let out a strangled groan. "My lady. Prince Tristan is a dangerous man. And not just because he has ice magic! He's the only surviving brother of the king! You might not care much for politics, but everyone knows the king eliminated every threat to the throne—including his own siblings. Wars, accidents, quiet assassinations..." She dropped her voice. "And yet somehow Prince Tristan survived it all."
"I'm beginning to like him already," Ivy murmured with a small, involuntary smile.
"Rumor has it," Anya continued, ignoring her, "that he commands a private army—one that rivals the Crown's."
"Really?" Ivy's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Isn't it delightful?"
Anya gawked. "My lady, are you sure that fall didn't rattle something in your brain?"
Ivy just laughed, brushing her off with a graceful flick of her fingers. "Oh, come on. That fall opened my eyes. Now make me look even prettier. I've got a handsome husband to impress."
Still speechless, Anya grabbed the powder brush and got to work, dabbing faint shimmer across Ivy's cheekbones. A tiny warmth stone embedded beneath the vanity kept the room cozy, warding off the chill of early spring.
A knock at the door interrupted them. A guard's muffled voice followed: "The carriage is ready, your highness."
Anya sighed, clearly not ready to let Ivy out of her sight, while Ivy only beamed as she rose, smoothing her gown.
I have a feeling this will be fun, she thought.
Tristan was already seated in the carriage when Ivy arrived.
Of course he was.
He had changed into clothes befitting a groom—deep charcoal and silver, embroidered subtly with his house sigil near the collar. His posture was regal: back straight, gloved hands resting lightly on his lap. He didn't so much as glance at her as she stepped in—just shifted slightly to make room on the padded bench.
A light crystal embedded near the carriage roof gave off a steady glow, flickering just faintly with movement.
Ivy slid in beside him, gathering her skirts, the soft hiss of fabric the only sound as the carriage began to roll. Outside, a pair of magic lanterns fastened to the carriage frame hummed quietly, drawing on faintly charged wind stones to keep the path ahead illuminated.
Inside, silence.
It stretched between them—taut, heavy, almost suffocating. This was the first time they were alone since the blessing. The reality of what had just happened pressed in on her like a second skin.
Just last week, she was Ivy Reed—the assassin with a head injury and a death wish. Now? Ivy Ravenshield Embercrown Iceborne. The Ninth Prince's wife. Wife.
Couldn't they just let an assassin die in peace?! she screamed internally.
"Well, this isn't awkward at all," Veyra muttered through their mind-link, her tone dry as desert sand.
Ivy almost smiled. "What am I supposed to say to the guy I just randomly married? Congratulations?"
"Ask him about his magic or something," Veyra groaned. "Make small talk. This silence is killing me. And seriously, isn't he supposed to have a thousand questions? He just married his nephew's bride!"
Ivy gave a soft exhale, amused despite herself.
"I see you came with a change of clothes," she said aloud, voice cool and lightly amused. "Came prepared to be a groom, did you?"
That earned her a glance from him.
"You're nothing like the rumors say," Tristan replied coolly, turning his gaze back to the carriage wall.
Ivy's lips curved slightly. "Oh?" She leaned in a touch—just enough to close a sliver of the distance. "Did some research on your new bride, did you?"
A flicker of amusement passed over his features. "Well, I did just marry my nephew's fiancée. The least I could do was learn more than the name scribbled next to mine on the marriage certificate."
He paused.
"But that seems to have been a waste of time."
Ivy smiled. "The best way to learn about me," she said softly, "is to ask."
Before he could reply, the carriage slowed. The driver called out, "We've arrived, your highnesses."
The palace was a glittering expanse of marble and magic. Light crystals floated like soft stars overhead, flickering just enough to mimic candlelight. The grand banquet hall shimmered with golden enchantments—small runes carved into the walls pulsing gently to a rhythm only mages would recognize.
Music spilled from the corner where a small enchanted quartet played—a harp, strings, and flute suspended mid-air, guided by subtle magics embedded in their cores. Nobles chattered, danced, and sipped wine from glasses cooled by frost-stones tucked beneath the silver trays.
Then the herald stepped forward.
"Announcing: His Royal Highness, Prince Tristan of House Embercrown Iceborne. And Her Highness, Princess Ivy Embercrown Iceborne!"
A sudden hush fell over the room.
Every head turned as the couple entered—his face unreadable, hers glowing with an easy smile. Arm in arm, they made their way forward under the glowing archway of suspended light crystals. Their presence stirred confusion, curiosity, awe… and more than a few whispered questions.
The bride abandoned at the altar had returned. Married to the king's brother.
And she looked like she was having the time of her life.
---
As tradition dictated, the newlyweds made their way to greet the king and queen.
It had only been two hours since the ceremony, but King Alaric already looked like he'd aged several years. A polished gold lightstone floated lazily above the royal dais, casting a warm, flickering glow over the throne room—like sunlight, but colder.
"Your Majesties," Ivy said with practiced grace, curtsying low. Beside her, Tristan dipped his head in a shallow bow.
"Congratulations," the king said through gritted teeth. "May the holy flame bless this union."
The words were hollow, brittle, forced. Anyone with half a brain could tell.
"May you be fruitful," the queen added smoothly, her smile porcelain and perfect. Formality. Nothing more.
Tristan's mouth curved, just barely. He stepped half a pace closer to the king, lowering his voice. "Now don't be like that, brother. Aren't you the one who insisted I wed? Why the long face? Sure, she's not one of your personal recommendations, but you did want her married to the crown prince… So I'm sure she's perfect. Right?"
The king's jaw clenched.
He had planned to place a pawn at Tristan's side—a harmless, manageable bride with no political sway. Someone who would serve as a leash, not a partner. The Ravenshields had been a calculated move to strengthen his influence, not his brother's. But his foolish son had upended everything. Ivy was now aligned with the one man he couldn't control.
Across the dais, the queen sensed his temper rising and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. Her touch, feather-light, was enough to keep him from snapping.
King Alaric forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Of course. Congratulations." A nod, curt and dismissive.
They bowed and stepped away, approaching the bride's family next.
The Marquis Ravenshield wore a carved expression, blank and unreadable. No one could tell what he was thinking—and that in itself was telling. Lucas and Liam said little to nothing, their shoulders drawn tight, glances flicking warily toward Tristan as though expecting to be turned to ice on the spot.
Only one member of the family seemed genuinely pleased.
Lady Victoria was beaming. Radiant, even.
Why wouldn't she be? She had never supported the original match. Ivy was never her favorite. She had always wanted her precious Irene to be the crown princess, not some "magicless failure," as she'd once whispered not-so-quietly behind a fan. Who Ivy married now was none of her concern—so long as it wasn't the prince meant for her daughter.
"Congratulations," she said brightly, voice sharp enough to slice through sugar.
Formalities done, the hall shifted.
The music changed—smooth, sweet, and slow. The quartet of enchanted instruments, suspended near the ceiling, responded to a conductor's subtle spellcast, their melody drifting through the ballroom like fog over still water.
The bride and groom's first dance.
Ivy looked up at Tristan. "Shall we?"
He said nothing. But his hand was already extended. She placed hers in it.
They stepped onto the dance floor, lightstones casting soft gleams over them as the crowd parted in a ring of silence. All eyes followed.
His gloved hand settled lightly at the small of her back. Respectful. Steady. Her fingers brushed his shoulder. Their joined hands held firm—not clinging, but present, anchored.
They moved in unison, precise and poised, the measured waltz of the Embercrown court dictating each turn. Tristan's form was sharp, practiced. Ivy matched him step for step, her gown trailing behind like frost-glazed silk. She glided, graceful as snowfall, letting him lead without surrendering her presence.
"For someone I heard never danced at any balls," Ivy said softly, "you're not bad at this."
"I don't like dancing," Tristan replied, voice low but clear.
The music came to its gentle close, the final note lingering like breath against glass.
Ivy dipped into her curtsy with playful elegance, her eyes never leaving his. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Tristan bowed. Straight-backed. Composed.
"It was tolerable."
Before they could return to the edge of the hall, the herald stepped forward again, voice rising above the lull.
"Announcing: His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Lucius of House Embercrown."