The morning air was crisp and fragrant with the scent of blooming roses. The grand chapel of the Lyst Castle bustled with servants preparing for the most anticipated event—the union of Prince Belin of Eastanzarth and Lady Ingrid of House Lyst.
Inside her chamber, Ingrid stood tall, regal in a gown of silver and gold, the fabric embroidered with delicate vines and blossoms symbolizing unity and prosperity. Despite her confident posture, her heart was a storm of emotions. Her maids flitted around her, adjusting the cascading veil, securing the last of the golden pins into her intricate braid, and dabbing a perfumed cloth against her damp palms.
"My Lady," one of the maids murmured gently as she wiped Ingrid's clammy hands.
Ingrid exhaled sharply. "My heart feels uneasy. Yesterday, I was so sure of this union, convinced that it was the right path. But now…" She hesitated, her voice unsteady. "Now, I feel as though the burden of the realm has been placed upon my shoulders, and I fear I will not bear it."
One of the younger maids, eager to offer reassurance, spoke up. "Prince Belin is a good man, my Lady. He will make a great king." Then, with a shy giggle, she added, "And he is rather handsome."
The other maids stifled their laughter, but Ingrid's sharp gaze silenced them. She was not in the mood for girlish fantasies.
"I apologize, my Lady," the maid said, lowering her eyes to the floor.
Ingrid took a steadying breath. She had made peace with her duty long ago. But was this truly her destiny? A part of her longed for adventure, for freedom. And yet, here she stood, moments away from binding herself to a man she barely knew.
… … …
Meanwhile, in the chapel, Prince Belin stood near the altar, his back straight and hands clenched tightly at his sides. The grand space, adorned with golden candelabras and vibrant banners bearing the sigil of Eastanzarth, was slowly filling with guards, maids, and Lord Gruhl's relatives, all eager to witness the royal union.
At his side, Varek, his most trusted companion, observed him in silence. Though he said nothing, his presence alone was a silent show of support.
Belin swallowed hard, his mind clouded with thoughts. Was he truly ready for this? Ingrid was strong-willed, intelligent, and more than capable of being a queen. But did she truly want this? Did she want him? Or was she merely resigning herself to duty, as he was?
He shifted on his feet, the weight of expectation pressing down on him. The murmurs of the growing crowd filled the chapel, yet he barely heard them. His pulse thundered in his ears as he waited.
Then, the wooden doors at the end of the chapel creaked open, and all sound hushed at once.
Lady Ingrid had arrived.
She stepped into the chapel with measured grace, her silver gown glistening under the candlelight. A diadem of white gold rested upon her dark locks, and in that moment, she was no longer just Lady Ingrid—she was a queen in waiting. Her father walked beside her, his face a mask of stoic pride as he guided her toward the altar.
Belin's breath hitched in his throat. She was beautiful—more than beautiful. She was radiant, powerful, and entirely mesmerizing.
As Ingrid walked forward, her heart pounded. She locked eyes with Belin, searching for something—assurance, warmth, familiarity. And for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw it, a silent promise in his olive-green gaze.
She reached the altar, and her father released her hand before stepping back. Belin extended his own toward her hesitantly. Ingrid hesitated for only a heartbeat before placing her hand in his. His grip was firm, warm, grounding.
The High Priest stepped forward, his robes of deep crimson billowing as he raised his hands to silence the assembly. "We are gathered here under the watchful eyes of the heavens, to witness the sacred union of Prince Belin of Eastanzarth and Lady Ingrid of House Lyst."
The priest continued, speaking of duty, loyalty, and the unbreakable bond of marriage. Ingrid listened intently, her eyes never leaving Belin's. She studied him—his strong jaw, his tense shoulders, the way his thumb brushed over her knuckles as though to comfort her.
Then came the moment of vows.
Belin spoke first, his voice unwavering. "I, Belin of Eastanzarth, take you, Ingrid of House Lyst, to be my wife, my queen, and my partner. In war and in peace, in darkness and in light, I vow to stand beside you, to honor and protect you, for as long as the stars burn in the sky."
Ingrid's throat tightened. The weight of the words settled over her. She had spent her whole life preparing for this moment, yet she had never truly imagined what it would feel like.
"I, Ingrid of House Lyst," she began, her voice clear despite the emotion swelling inside her, "take you, Belin of Eastanzarth, to be my husband, my king, and my partner. I vow to stand beside you, to guide and support you, and to protect our people as fiercely as I would my own kin. For as long as the stars burn in the sky."
The priest nodded approvingly before lifting his hands once more. "By the power bestowed upon me, I declare this union sealed. May the gods bless this bond and grant prosperity to the realm."
The moment had come. Belin stepped forward, lifting Ingrid's veil, and for the first time, he truly saw her—not just as a bride, but as the woman who would share his burdens, his triumphs, and his failures.
Slowly, he leaned in, pressing his lips softly against hers. The kiss was brief but held the promise of something more, something unspoken yet understood.
The chapel erupted into applause as the newlyweds turned to face their people, their hands still entwined.
As they stepped forward together, Ingrid felt the weight on her shoulders ease—if only slightly. Perhaps she did not know what the future held, but one thing was certain.
She was no longer alone in it.