The day goes by as a blur—fittings for dresses, endless discussions about flowers, debates over which ballroom had the best light for the ceremony. Every corridor of the palace feels like it's being measured and claimed for our wedding.
I hate how that sounds.
By midday, I've tried on at least ten gowns and been pinned by what feels like a thousand needles. Every time I blink, I see ivory silk, gold embroidery, delicate lace. Gowns fit for a queen. Gowns fit for a girl who hasn't had time to decide if she even wants to be one.
"Chin up, Your Highness," the seamstress chirps, tightening the corset until my ribs protest. "You must look perfect. These events are remembered forever."
"Great," I mutter. "Can't wait to be a historical painting with bruised lungs."
She doesn't laugh.
By the time she finally declares me "done for today," my back aches, my head spins, and my smile feels like it's been stitched onto my face.
God, 1864 is going to be a real shitty year for me.
I step out of the fitting room, still in the last gown—a soft champagne dress that sparkles faintly when I move—and pause in the long mirror-lined corridor.
For a second, I don't recognize the girl staring back.
Her hair is pinned into an intricate twist, dark curls woven with thin golden chains. The bodice clings to her curves; the skirt falls like poured light, brushing the floor. A tiara rests perfectly at the crown of her head, as if it's always belonged there.
She looks like a queen.
She looks like she belongs to someone who isn't herself.
I swallow hard and force myself to turn away.
"Princess Rome?" a maid asks gently. "The planners are waiting in the east garden. They'd like to walk you through the ceremony locations."
Of course they would.
"Tell them I'll be there in a moment," I say, trying to keep my voice even.
She curtsies and hurries off. I take a breath, then another, counting my heartbeats to steady myself.
One. Two. Three.
I can't fall apart in a hallway.
Not yet.
I make my way toward the east wing, the train of the gown whispering behind me. Servants dart past with armfuls of linens and candles, bowing as I pass. Somewhere deep in the palace, someone is tuning a string quartet. Every sound reminds me of the same thing: This is happening. Whether you're ready or not.
The east garden doors stand open, letting in the sweetness of roses and the soft hum of distant fountains. I step outside and blink against the light.
Axel is already there.
Of course he is.
He's standing near the central fountain, sleeves rolled up, jacket discarded on the back of a chair. His dark hair ruffles slightly in the breeze as he studies a layout of parchment spread over a small table—sketches of seating arrangements, archways, and flower placements.
Two advisors are talking at him, gesturing wildly. He doesn't seem to be listening.
Then he looks up.
His gaze finds me across the garden—and everything goes quiet.
The advisors keep talking, their mouths moving, but his eyes are fixed on me. For a moment, the shocked stillness on his face is almost comical.
Then something else settles there.
He dismisses the advisors with a short, clipped word. They seem annoyed but bow and retreat, leaving us alone amid the hedges and roses.
Axel crosses the distance between us slowly, like he's not entirely sure I'm real.
"You're staring," I say, arching a brow because I don't know what else to do.
"Yes," he replies simply. His voice is low, unguarded. "I am."
Heat licks up my neck.
I look away, pretending to straighten the front of the gown. "It's just a dress."
"It's not," he says.
There's a weight in his tone that makes me glance back at him. His eyes sweep over me once more, but it doesn't feel like the casual assessment of a prince inspecting his bride.
It feels… personal.
"Rome," he says quietly, "you look like every treaty, every war, every speech I've ever had to memorize was just—practice for this."
I blink.
"Did you just compare me to a war?" I ask. "Because that's not as flattering as you think."
His mouth twists. "No. I'm saying you look like the moment after the war. When everyone finally breathes again."
The words steal the air right out of my lungs.
"Careful," I manage. "You're starting to sound like you actually like me."
"Terrifying, isn't it?" he murmurs.
I shake my head, needing to walk, needing movement. If I stay still, I might start believing him.
"So," I say briskly, gesturing toward the far end of the garden. "Where are we forcing the nobles to sit and pretend they're thrilled about this union?"
"Over there, probably," he replies, falling into step beside me. "Near the archway. My mother wants roses shaped into our initials."
I grimace. "Of course she does. Why not add a giant crown made of sugar and the blood of our enemies while we're at it?"
"Don't say that too loud," Axel says dryly. "She might like the idea."
We walk the path that winds through the trimmed hedges, listening as the distant planners debate colors—dark red for Darkstorm, royal gold for Iris—like combining kingdoms is as simple as mixing paint.
"Does it ever bother you?" I ask suddenly. "That everyone is more excited about the wedding than the people in it?"
He's quiet for a moment.
"Every day," he admits. "But I stopped expecting anyone to care about what I wanted a long time ago."
We reach the stone archway at the far end of the garden. It's bare now, just ivy climbing its sides, but I can already picture it covered in flowers, lit by lanterns, surrounded by hundreds of eyes.
"This is where they want us to stand," Axel says, nodding toward the center. "Where we say our vows. Where they bind our hands with silk and announce us as husband and wife."
The words land heavily in my chest.
I step under the arch, the silk of my skirt rustling softly. The garden seems quieter here, the sounds of the palace fading just a little.
I imagine my father's expression. My mother's tears. Lucia's satisfied smile.
My knees threaten to give out.
Axel must sense it, because he steps under the arch with me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him at my side.
"Breathe," he says gently.
"I am breathing," I snap, though I'm not entirely sure it's true.
He studies me for a moment.
"Do you want to hear something blasphemous for a future king?" he asks.
"I'm listening," I say.
"If you decided, right now, that you couldn't do this," he says slowly, "if you wanted to run, to disappear, to burn all of this to the ground and build something else… I wouldn't stop you."
I turn to him sharply.
His expression is open. Honest.
"You'd let me ruin the grand alliance?" I ask. "The thing that's supposed to stop wars and save our kingdoms?"
He exhales, looking up briefly at the arch as if searching for an answer in the ivy.
"I'd let you choose your own life," he says. "Even if it makes mine harder."
Something in my chest twists painfully.
"Why?" I whisper.
"Because I know what it's like," he says quietly, "to be groomed for a crown you never asked for. To have every choice made for you before you even knew your own mind. And because…" He trails off, then meets my eyes. "Because the idea of you standing here beside me just because you have to, and not because you—"
He stops.
"Not because I what?" I press.
"Not because you want to," he finishes softly.
The garden feels smaller. Warmer. My pulse drums in my ears.
"Want is a luxury for people whose lives aren't written out before they're born," I say.
"Maybe," he allows. "But if I'm going to spend mine bound to someone, I'd like to think she's here for more than duty. Even if it's just a little."
I swallow hard.
The truth is, I don't know what I want.
I know I want my kingdom safe. I know I want Olivia laughing in the hallways and not hiding in secret rooms during attacks. I know I want to stop feeling like a sacrifice dressed in silk.
And somewhere between all of that, tangled and confusing, is the way my heart stutters when Axel looks at me like this.
"Three days," I murmur. "That's all we have before the vows."
His jaw flexes. "Three days," he echoes.
"Then maybe," I say slowly, "we should find out if I could ever want this."
His eyes sharpen, a spark igniting there.
"And how do you propose we do that, Princess?"
A reckless thought slips out before I can stop it.
"We stop talking about ceremony placements," I say. "We stop letting your mother and my council decide who we are. For once, we do something just for us."
Something dangerous flickers across his face. "You're terrifying when you sound like that."
"Good," I retort. "You deserve a little fear."
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh.
"What did you have in mind?" he asks.
I glance around. The planners are far on the other side of the garden now, arguing over centerpieces. No one is paying attention. For once, it's just us under the arch where the rest of my life is supposed to begin.
I step closer.
"Show me," I say. "Show me what you would want this to be like, if it were just us. No kingdoms. No treaties. No watching eyes."
His throat works as he swallows.
"Rome," he warns. "If I show you that, I might not be able to pretend anymore."
"Good," I whisper. "I'm tired of pretending."
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then he lifts a hand—slowly, as if giving me time to pull away—and touches my jaw with his fingertips. His thumb traces a light path just beneath my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
I don't pull away.
"This is where they'll stand," he says quietly, nodding toward the invisible crowd beyond the hedges. "The nobles. The advisors. My mother." His fingers slip from my jaw to the side of my neck, resting lightly over the frantic flutter of my pulse. "They'll all be watching. Waiting to see if we look convincing."
His other hand finds my waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of the gown.
"But if it were just us," he continues, his voice dropping, "I don't think I'd be able to stop myself from doing this properly."
He steps in, erasing the last bit of space between us.
Our bodies align, the glittering fabric of my dress brushing against the rougher texture of his shirt. I can feel the heat of him through the layers, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
My hands, traitorous things, lift to rest against him—one over his shoulder, the other flattening against his chest where his heart beats strong and sure.
"What does 'properly' mean in Darkstorm?" I ask, but the words come out softer than I intend.
His lips curve.
"In Darkstorm," he murmurs, "it means not holding back for the sake of appearances."
His forehead dips to mine, our noses brushing. I can smell him—smoke and clean linen and something warmer underneath, something that makes my insides flutter.
"Axel," I breathe.
"Yes, Princess?"
"This is reckless."
"Very," he agrees.
His breath ghosts across my lips, and my heart slams against my ribs.
"Last chance to run," he whispers.
I should.
I should step away. I should remind him this is political, that we are obligations wrapped in silk and steel.
Instead, my fingers curl into his shirt.
"I'm tired of running," I say.
His eyes blaze.
The kiss, when it comes, is nothing like the soft, stolen one in the garden after the battle. There's no confusion this time, no shock.
This is a choice.
Axel's mouth finds mine with a hunger that makes my knees weak. His hand tightens at my waist, pulling me flush against him, the world around us dissolving into heat and the taste of him.
My lips part on a soft, startled sound, and he takes the invitation, deepening the kiss until I'm drowning in it—drowning and not wanting to come up for air.
His other hand slides up my back, fingers threading into the carefully pinned curls. I feel pins loosen, tiny pricks against my scalp as my hair begins to tumble down.
I should care.
I don't.
I tilt my head, chasing more of him, feeling something wild and unfamiliar unfurl in my chest. Every point where our bodies touch feels electrified—his palm at the small of my back, the press of his chest, the warmth of his breath.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathing hard, my lips tingling, my heart racing.
A strand of hair has fallen over my face. Axel reaches up, brushing it back with a gentleness that doesn't match the fever of the last few seconds.
His thumb lingers at the corner of my mouth, as if erasing the evidence.
"Careful," he says softly. "If we keep doing that, I might actually start believing this marriage is a good idea."
"Who says it isn't?" I manage, my voice unsteady.
He searches my face as if the answer might be written there.
"You didn't choose this," he reminds me.
I think of the battlefield. Of Olivia's hand in mine. Of my kingdom burning and me standing between it and the darkness.
"Maybe not," I say. "But I can choose how I live it."
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth again, then back to my eyes.
"And is this part of how you want to live it?" he asks.
I should lie.
I don't.
"Yes," I whisper.
His breath leaves him in a quiet rush.
"Then we'll make it ours," he says firmly. "Not theirs. Not the council's. Not my mother's. Ours."
Something steadies inside me at his words.
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Darkstorm," I warn.
"I don't make promises lightly," he replies. "When I say I'll protect something, I do."
"And what exactly are you protecting now?" I ask.
He leans in, his mouth grazing the shell of my ear, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur.
"You," he says. "Even if it's from the crown we're both about to wear."
A shiver races through me.
Voices float toward us from the far end of the garden—planners returning, advisors chattering, the world crashing back in.
Axel steps back just enough so we don't look indecent, but his hand doesn't leave my waist. His thumb traces slow, invisible circles against the fabric, grounding me.
"Ready to pretend this is all for them?" he asks quietly.
I glance up at the archway, at the space where we'll stand in three days with every eye upon us.
Then I look back at him.
"No," I say honestly. "But I'm ready to make sure they never forget who they're dealing with."
A slow, wicked smile curves his lips.
"There's my princess," he murmurs.
The planners descend upon us with questions and scrolls and flurries of color samples. I answer what I must, smile when expected, nod at the right moments.
But under the archway, with Axel's hand warm at my back and the taste of his kiss still on my lips, something has shifted.
For the first time since this all began, 1864 doesn't feel like a year that's simply happening to me.
It feels like a year I might survive.
Maybe even claim.
And as I stand there, tiara slightly askew, hair rebelling against its pins, enemy prince at my side, one thought beats stubbornly beneath my ribs:
If I have to be their queen, then I will be.
But I'll do it on my terms.
With him.
Or without him.
Only now, after the way his eyes burned when he kissed me under the arch meant for our vows, I'm starting to think I don't want to find out what without feels like.