The morning sun bathed the land in golden light, casting long shadows over the emerald fields stretching beyond the castle walls. The scent of fresh grass and blooming wildflowers filled the air as Belin led Ingrid's horse along a well-trodden path. The distant chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves in the soft breeze were the only sounds accompanying their quiet stroll.
Ingrid sat tall in the saddle, her yellow dress flowing like a river of silk against the dark brown coat of her horse. She held the reins loosely, her fingers relaxed, yet her gaze was sharp and observant, flicking from the rolling hills to the man walking beside her. Belin, with one hand steady on the rope, walked at an easy pace, his expression unreadable.
For the first time since they had met, they were alone. No watchful eyes, no urgent discussions, just the two of them in the open field, with nothing but the vast sky stretching above them.
Ingrid exhaled softly and broke the silence. "I beg you have heard what the people said about me."
Belin glanced up at her, his olive-green eyes searching hers. He had heard the rumors—whispers of a foolish, spoiled daughter who would bring nothing but burden to her husband. He had prepared himself for disappointment, expecting an immature woman who knew nothing of the world beyond silks and feasts.
But Ingrid was not that woman.
He looked ahead, the gentle sway of the grass moving like waves in the wind. "I have," he admitted, his voice steady. "And I will admit, I believed them at first."
Ingrid tensed slightly, her fingers tightening on the reins. "And now?"
He stopped walking, tugging gently at the rope so her horse slowed beside him. Looking up at her, he allowed a faint smirk to tug at the corner of his lips. "Now, I see that they were blind."
She arched an elegant brow. "Blind?"
"Yes," he said simply, tilting his head slightly. "Blind to your wit, to your strength. I expected a woman who would shrink beneath my gaze, but instead, I find one who meets it with fire."
A flicker of surprise danced in Ingrid's eyes before she let out a quiet laugh. "You flatter me, Prince Belin."
"It is not flattery if it is the truth."
She studied him for a moment before exhaling, as if releasing a weight she had carried for too long. "I was never meant to be the woman they imagined me to be. I was never the foolish girl who wasted away in the comforts of the castle." Her voice softened, her eyes distant. "Perhaps they chose to believe those lies because it was easier than seeing me for who I truly am."
"They were right about some things," Ingrid admitted with a soft chuckle. "I used to be a fat girl." She exhaled, her gaze fixed on the endless stretch of green before them. "At Inkwell Hold, I worked to become the best version of myself because I know this realm does not favour women, especially the ugly ones."
Belin remained silent, watching her as she rode beside him, her posture poised yet distant.
"Mostly, I studied medicine," she continued, her voice quieter now. "I wanted to help people."
Belin finally spoke, his tone thoughtful. "And did you change for them? Or for yourself?"
Ingrid turned slightly, as if the question had caught her off guard.
"You are not the woman they described," he continued. "Not weak, not simple, not shallow. They saw only what they wished to see." He met her gaze then, steady and sure. "But I see someone who carved her own path."
A flicker of something passed through her eyes—surprise, perhaps even relief. Then, slowly, she smiled.
"Perhaps," she murmured. "Or perhaps I'm still carving."
Belin nodded, understanding more than he had expected. He, too, knew what it was like to be seen as something he was not—cursed by a fate he had not chosen, hunted for a crime he did not commit.
They continued their slow journey through the fields, the silence between them no longer awkward, but rather filled with an unspoken understanding.
"You finished your studies earlier than expected," Belin said after a while. "Why?"
She turned her gaze to the horizon, where the sun kissed the hills in warm hues. "I wanted more than just knowledge. I wanted freedom. The faster I finished, the sooner I could return and decide my own fate."
Belin let out a low chuckle. "And yet, you return only to find yourself betrothed to a man you barely know."
Ingrid smiled wryly. "Yes, fate has a cruel sense of humor."
He looked up at her again. "Do you regret it?"
She did not answer immediately. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, considering. "I do not know you, Belin Valemont. Not yet. But I do not regret coming back." She turned her gaze to him, the wind playing with the loose strands of her golden hair. "Do you?"
He exhaled, feeling the weight of her question. He had not expected this marriage, nor had he sought it. But standing beside her now, feeling the warmth of the morning sun and the steady presence of the woman who would soon be his wife, he found himself less resistant to the path laid before him.
"No," he said at last, his voice softer than before. "I do not."
Ingrid smiled at his answer, and for the first time, it was not a smile of formality or expectation, but something genuine, something real.
They walked a little further before Ingrid spoke again. "Tell me, Belin, what do you desire most?"
He glanced at her, amused. "You ask a dangerous question."
"And yet, I ask it."
He sighed, running a hand through his crimson hair. "Peace," he admitted finally. "Freedom from this life of running, of hiding. To wake up one day and not have to look over my shoulder."
She nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Then I hope, for both our sakes, that peace finds you."
Belin studied her once more, the way the light caught in her emerald eyes, the quiet confidence she carried in every word she spoke. He had entered this engagement prepared for duty, prepared for sacrifice. But perhaps, just perhaps, he had found something else entirely.
A companion.
A partner.
A woman who might just understand the burdens he carried.
As they made their way back toward the castle, the wind whispered through the fields, carrying with it the promise of something new, something unspoken yet understood between them.
Tomorrow, they would be wed. But today, amidst the green fields and golden sunlight, they had taken the first steps toward something far greater than obligation—toward understanding, and maybe, in time, something more.