The chapel was so quiet Katherine could hear the tremble of her own breath.

Light from tall, narrow windows cut across the polished marble floor, painting the aisle in fractured beams of gold and shadow. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, as if even the particles hesitated to intrude on this union. The scent of incense clung heavy, sweet enough to suffocate.

She stood at the entrance, her gloved hands clutching a bouquet of white roses that had already begun to droop. They were not from her gardens in France — these roses were bred here in England, thornless, stripped of their defense before being placed in her hands.

How fitting.

Beyond the length of the aisle, the Crown Prince of England waited. Adrian stood like a statue carved from dark stone, his posture unyielding, shoulders squared under the heavy weight of his embroidered mantle. The gold circlet on his head caught the light, but his eyes — sharp, winter-gray — were fixed on her with the kind of stillness that burned hotter than any fury.

The walk began.

Every step rang against the stone, echoing through the chapel, each one a nail in the coffin of the life she had once known. The guests — nobles of England, ambassadors, and her own carefully chosen French delegation — sat rigid in their pews. No one smiled. No one whispered. Peace, after decades of hostility, was a brittle thing; it hung here like glass ready to shatter.

Her mother had not been permitted to accompany her down the aisle. In England, the bride walked alone to her groom. So Katherine carried her own silence with her, feeling the absence of Queen Anna like an ache in her chest.

Her father, King Albert of France, sat near the front with the English emperor. Albert’s eyes were like polished marble, unyielding and cold. He had orchestrated this marriage as one might arrange the movement of troops, and she was simply the soldier he had sent into enemy territory.

Halfway down the aisle, she allowed herself to glance at Adrian again. His jaw was set, lips pressed into a thin line, a man carved for war rather than vows.

He doesn’t want this any more than I do.

The thought brought no comfort.

When she reached him, he did not offer his hand. Instead, he gave the barest nod — the same greeting he might give an unfamiliar diplomat — before turning to face the Archbishop. Katherine mirrored him, keeping her chin high though her stomach churned.

The ceremony began in the heavy, resonant voice of the Archbishop. Vows were spoken. Rings exchanged. Katherine’s voice was steady — her tutors had drilled dignity into her since childhood — but her heart thudded painfully when Adrian spoke his turn. His tone was clipped, the words delivered like a soldier reciting an order, not a promise.

When the blessing was given and the applause rose, it was brief, polite, and utterly without warmth.

---

The banquet was a masterpiece of splendor — and discomfort.

Tables laden with roasted meats, fruits, gilded goblets of wine. The banners of both kingdoms hung side by side, though the tension in the air made them seem like two armies glaring across a battlefield. Katherine sat at Adrian’s side, her gown heavy with jewels, her corset a cage that bit into her ribs.

She spoke little, answering questions from nobles with measured politeness. The English lords looked at her with curiosity at best, disdain at worst. Even her French escort kept their eyes down, their loyalty first to her father’s politics, not to her.

Adrian ate in silence. He addressed her only once, when a servant poured her wine:

“Don’t drink too much. You’ll need your wits here.”

It was not concern in his voice — only warning. She inclined her head and took a small sip, tasting the bitterness of English grapes.

The Empress Eva, regal in deep crimson, leaned forward from across the table.

“I trust, Princess, you understand your role here,” she said in flawless French. “To bring peace. And peace is obedience.”

Katherine smiled faintly, as she had been trained to do in the face of insult. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Eva’s answering smile was sharp enough to cut.

---

When the banquet ended, Adrian rose, offering a shallow bow to his parents before turning to Katherine.

“Come.”

She followed him out of the hall, the echo of their steps following them through a series of cold stone corridors lit by flickering torches. Servants bowed quickly as they passed, eyes never meeting hers.

At last, they reached a set of double doors carved with the crest of England — a lion’s head surrounded by a crown of thorns. Adrian pushed them open and stepped inside.

The chambers were vast: a central sitting room with a crackling hearth, doors leading off to bedchambers and a private study. Tapestries lined the walls, depicting England’s victories over France. She felt their presence like eyes watching her.

Adrian closed the doors behind them. His silence was not hesitation — it was deliberation, the calm before a strike.

“You will stay here,” he said finally, voice low but edged in steel. “These are your rooms. You will not enter mine.”

Katherine’s fingers tightened on the folds of her gown. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

“I am not your ally,” he continued. “Do not mistake my restraint for kindness. My father believes this marriage will keep the peace. I think it is a mistake. You are here because the Emperor wills it, not because I want you here.”

Her throat tightened, but she forced her voice to remain even. “I understand.”

Adrian stepped closer, the faint scent of steel and leather clinging to him.

“You will attend public functions with me when required. You will say nothing that could shame me or my country. You will be watched. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

His eyes narrowed, searching her face for defiance. Finding none, he stepped back. “Good. Rest. You will need it.”

Katherine inclined her head, relief flickering briefly that the encounter was over — until she heard the sound of the key turning in the lock.

She turned sharply toward the door.

“What are you doing?”

Adrian’s gaze was unreadable. “Making sure you stay where you belong.”

Her pulse quickened. “I am not a prisoner.”

“Then you have nothing to fear,” he said, voice cold. “But this palace is not safe for someone like you to wander. Consider this… protection.”

Without another word, he stepped out, locking the door behind him.

Katherine stood frozen for a moment, the firelight throwing her shadow long against the wall. The bouquet of white roses lay on a nearby table — perfect, unmarked, and already wilting.

Her hands trembled as she reached for them. One petal came loose, drifting soundlessly to the floor.

From outside the door came the unmistakable sound of booted feet — but not moving away.

They stopped directly on the other side.

And stayed there.

Someone was standing guard.