The days slip by faster than the servants can change the flowers.
At first, there's time.
Time to argue over table arrangements and the exact shade of red in Darkstorm's banners. Time to listen to advisors debate whether roses or lilies make a better symbol of unity. Time to pretend I'm only a guest at someone else's wedding and not the bride everyone whispers about.
Then the fittings start blurring together. The seamstresses stop asking if the pins are too sharp. The castle's endless corridors fill with the rustle of silk and the scent of polish and beeswax, as if the stone itself is preparing.
And before I'm ready—before I have decided what kind of queen I will be, or how much of myself I'm willing to trade for a crown—it's here.
My wedding day.
I wake before dawn, my heart already racing, like my body sensed the date circled on the kingdom's calendar and decided to panic before my mind could.
For a moment, I just lie there.
The ceiling of my chamber is still and familiar, painted with constellations I've known since childhood. The pale light creeping through the curtains is the same morning light I have seen a thousand times. The sheets are the same soft linen.
But I am not the same girl.
"Breathe," I whisper to myself.
I try.
It doesn't help. Goosebumps rise along my arms, a shiver racing over my skin even though the room is warm. It feels like there are a hundred tiny birds trapped inside my chest, beating their wings against my ribs all at once.
Princesses are not supposed to be nervous.
Princesses are supposed to glide.
Princesses are supposed to smile.
My fingers curl into the sheets.
Today I will walk through a garden turned into a ceremony hall. I will stand beneath an arch covered in roses and ivy. I will take the hand of the boy who used to be my enemy and let the world bind us together.
I will do it in front of both kingdoms.
And I am absolutely terrified.
A soft knock comes at the door.
"Rome?" My mother's voice is gentle, careful. "Are you awake, mi corazón?"
I sit up too fast. The room tilts for half a second, then rights itself.
"Yes," I manage. My voice sounds small, like it belongs to someone else. "Come in."
The door opens, and my room fills with people all at once.
Maids carrying steaming basins and armfuls of white cloth. Two hairdressers with boxes of pins and ribbons. The royal stylist, arms laden with silk and lace and something that glimmers like captured sunlight.
My mother slips through them like a queen parting the sea.
She is already dressed.
Her gown is a soft gold that makes her brown skin glow, her curls pinned back beneath a modest crown. Her mismatched eyes—the one green, the other blue—shine when she looks at me.
"Oh, my girl," she breathes, pressing a hand to her chest. "You're already beautiful and you haven't even stood up."
I try to smile.
"I feel like I'm going to faint," I confess.
She laughs softly, crossing the room to sit beside me. Up close, I can see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the faint shadows of worry and sleepless nights.
"You won't faint," she says. "You're a warrior. You've taken blades to the stomach. You can handle a few roses and a boy in a suit."
"Are you sure?" I ask. "Because the boy in a suit comes with an entire kingdom attached."
Her smile falters for just a breath.
"I know," she says quietly. "But you won't be carrying it alone."
Won't I? a small part of me thinks.
I push the thought away.
The maids draw a bath, filling the room with the scent of lavender and rosewater. Steam curls in the air, softening the morning light.
"Come," my mother says, standing as the servants bustle around us. "Today, we let them fuss. Tomorrow, you can go back to scandalizing them with muddy boots in the garden."
I snort. "I do not scandalize—"
She arches a brow.
"Fine," I grumble. "Maybe a little."
She kisses my forehead and steps back as the maids help me into the bath.
The water is hot enough to make my skin tingle. I sink down until it closes over my shoulders, letting the warmth wrap around me.
For a few stolen seconds, there are no crowns. No rebels. No broken crowns painted on gates. No council meetings or sharp-eyed queens testing my resolve.
Just water.
Just breath.
When I step out, the world closes in again.
Towels. Hands. Voices.
They dry my skin with careful pats. They smooth scented oil along my arms and shoulders, murmuring about softness and glow and how the entire realm will sigh when I walk past.
My hair is next.
The stylist makes a pleased noise when he sees it loose around my shoulders, a dark, unruly cloud down my back.
"Goddess," he says. "You will drive them all mad."
"Good," I mutter.
He laughs and begins his work, fingers deft and sure.
They twist and braid and pin, weaving my curls up and back, leaving a few loose tendrils to frame my face. Thin golden chains are threaded through, catching the light, turning my hair into something that looks like it belongs in a painting.
"Tiara, please," someone says.
My mother opens the velvet-lined case herself.
The tiara is the same one I wore at the first ball.
Dark metal, almost black, set with blood-red gems that catch the light like captured drops of wine—or something darker. It looks fierce and delicate at once, a crown forged from war and roses.
She lifts it with both hands, her expression softening.
"This was your grandmother's," she says quietly. "She wore it when she married your grandfather. I wore it when I married your father."
I swallow.
"And now me," I whisper.
"And now you," she echoes.
She sets it gently atop my hair, adjusting it until it sits perfectly.
It is heavier than I remember.
"Look up, Rome," she murmurs. "Make sure it doesn't slide. Make sure they all see why it belongs there."
I raise my chin.
"Perfect," the stylist sighs.
Next comes the gown.
They bring it out like it's made of glass.
It spills from the maid's arms in a soft river of champagne silk, the bodice embroidered with tiny pearls and threads of gold that shimmer when they move. The skirt is full but not overwhelming, layers of sheer fabric catching the light like mist over water.
It is nothing like Darkstorm's black and red.
This is Iris.
Sunrise instead of storm.
"Step in, Your Highness," one of the maids says, her voice trembling with excitement.
I do.
The silk whispers against my skin as they draw it up over my body.
The bodice settles perfectly against my ribs, the corset firm but kinder than the one from my fittings. Someone must have argued on my behalf.
Mother.
"I told them if they laced you too tightly, I'd untie you myself at the altar," she says when I glance at her.
I laugh, the sound shaky.
Sleeves fall off my shoulders in delicate drapes; the neckline is modest, but leaves just enough skin to feel like I'm still me beneath all this tradition.
When they are done, they step back as one.
For a moment, no one speaks.
"Princess," one of the younger maids breathes, eyes shining. "You look like…"
"A miracle," another finishes.
My mother doesn't say anything.
She just looks at me.
Her eyes glisten.
"Oh," she says softly, a hand over her mouth. "My girl."
Tears prick at my own eyes.
"Don't cry," the stylist warns dramatically. "If you cry, I cry, and then your eyeliner cries, and then the whole kingdom cries."
I choke out a laugh.
"Fine," I say. "No crying. Yet."
Someone presses my mother's necklace into my hand.
I know it by heart.
Simple gold, worn soft by years of being touched when she was nervous or thinking. A small stone at the center, clear as water but somehow more precious than any ruby.
"It's the only thing of hers I brought when I left my village," she told me once. "When I married into this life."
She lifts it now, fingers steady.
"Turn," she says.
I do, baring my back.
The cool chain brushes my skin as she fastens it at my nape.
Her fingers linger there a heartbeat longer, as if she wants to hold on.
"Whatever happens after today," she murmurs, low enough that only I hear, "this is yours. Your name. Your heart. Your will. No crown can take that."
I nod, my throat too tight to speak.
When I face the mirror, for the first time I truly see her.
Not just the princess they've raised.
Not just the girl who nearly died on her own stairs.
But the woman who will walk into a garden and let the world vow things over her head.
She looks…strong.
She also looks like she might be sick.
"It's a lot," I whisper to my reflection.
She nods back.
A soft rap sounds at the door.
"Rome?" My father's voice this time.
My mother wipes quickly at her eyes.
"Come," she calls.
He enters in full regalia—dark blue coat trimmed in gold, the crown of Iris shining on his brow. He has never looked more like a king.
For a heartbeat, he doesn't move.
Then he smiles, wide and bright, and I see not the king, but the man who used to swing me around the gardens until we both collapsed in the grass.
"Mi pequeña," he says, voice rough. "You look…like your mother on our wedding day."
Mother snorts. "Flatterer."
He crosses the room and takes my hands in his.
They are bigger than I remember, calloused from years of sword and pen.
"Are you afraid?" he asks.
There's no point pretending.
"Yes," I say.
He nods, as if that's the answer he expected.
"Good," he says.
I blink. "Good?"
"Only fools aren't afraid on days like this," he replies. "Courage isn't about not being afraid, Rome. It's about walking anyway."
"You stole that from a story," I accuse softly.
He grins. "Of course. I paid good coin for your tutors; I might as well steal their best lines."
My laugh comes easier this time.
He leans in and kisses my forehead.
"When you walk out there," he murmurs, "remember this: you are not being given away. You are walking to stand beside someone. Not behind him. Not beneath him. Beside him. If anyone forgets that—" his eyes gleam—"remind them whose daughter you are."
Heat flickers in my chest.
I nod.
A bell tolls in the distance.
Once.
Twice.
The signal.
"It's time," my mother says.
The room explodes into motion.
Maids gather my skirts, smoothing the silk. Someone presses my bouquet into my hand—white roses, tiny red blossoms tucked between, ivy trailing like a promise.
Goosebumps race up my arms again.
This is happening.
This is really happening.
"Walk with me?" I ask my father.
"Always," he says.
We move through the palace halls at a measured pace, my skirts whispering over stone I have run across in bare feet. Servants stop and bow; guards dip their heads.
At every turn, the world smells like polished wood, beeswax, and roses.
When we reach the doors that lead to the east garden, my heart climbs into my throat.
I can hear them.
The murmurs of the crowd. The distant clink of armor as guards shift. The soft tuning of strings.
And beneath it all, the low hum of hundreds of breaths drawn as one.
"Ready?" my father asks.
"No," I say.
He laughs quietly.
"Perfect," he says. "Neither are they."
The doors swing open.
Light floods in.
The garden has been transformed.
Flowers spill over every surface—roses and irises and dark lilies, climbing arches and winding through the railings. Banners in Darkstorm red and Iris gold hang side by side, stirring in the breeze.
Benches divide the lawn into perfect rows. On one side, my people in pale colors and soft fabrics; on the other, his, in darker clothes, sharp silhouettes and storm-colored cloaks.
They all rise when they see me.
The murmur swells, then hushes.
At the far end of the aisle, beneath the arch we chose, Axel waits.
For a moment, everything else blurs.
He is dressed in formal Darkstorm black, the coat cut to perfection, silver embroidery catching the light in subtle lines. His dark hair is tamed for once, though a few rebellious strands fall over his forehead.
He doesn't look like the arrogant boy who walked into my bath or the infuriating prince who stole my first kiss under a battle-scarred sky.
He looks…steady.
He looks like a future I might not completely hate.
Our eyes meet.
The birds keep singing.
The world holds its breath.
For one heartbeat, I forget everyone else.
It's just us.
He smiles.
It's small and real and just for me.
Something loosens in my chest.
I take a step.
My father's arm is solid under my fingers as we walk down the aisle together.
Whispers brush against my skin like a breeze.
"There she is—"
"Look at her gown—"
"Is she nervous?"
"Darkstorm won't know what hit them—"
Banners flutter. Flowers sway.
With every step, my goosebumps fade just a little.
By the time we reach the arch, my heart is still pounding—but it no longer feels like it's trying to escape.
Axel steps forward.
My father places my hand in his.
For a moment, all three of us stand there, the old world and the new, balanced between.
"Take care of her," my father says quietly.
Axel meets his gaze.
"With my life," he replies.
It's an old line. A traditional one.
But something in his voice makes me believe it.
My father nods and steps back.
Now it is just us beneath the arch.
Axel's hand is warm around mine, his thumb brushing the back of my knuckles once, a tiny, steadying circle.
"Lesson eleven," he murmurs, so low only I can hear. "If you're going to tremble, try to make it look romantic."
Despite everything, I snort.
"I hate you," I whisper back.
He smiles, eyes soft.
"No, you don't," he says. "Not today."
The officiant begins to speak.
Words about unity and peace. About sacrifice and duty. About storms and sunlight and how, together, we will "bind two worlds into one."
I half-listen.
Mostly, I feel.
The weight of the tiara on my head.
The press of my mother's necklace against my collarbone.
The rough warmth of Axel's palm.
The eyes of two kingdoms on our joined hands.
"Princess Rome of Iris," the officiant says. "Do you stand here by your own will, to take Prince Axel of Darkstorm as your husband and future king, to share his burdens and his crown?"
A hush falls, so deep I can hear my own heartbeat.
My mouth is dry.
I think of knives sharpened in secret.
I think of rebels painting broken crowns.
I think of Olivia's laughter.
Of my mother's hands fastening this necklace at my throat.
Of my father telling me I was not being given away.
I think of Axel on the balcony last night, his lips on mine, saying, Let's choose this. Every day.
I think of the girl who woke up alone and bleeding and still picked up a sword.
I breathe in.
"I do," I say.
My voice doesn't shake.
If anything, it rings.
The officiant turns.
"Prince Axel of Darkstorm. Do you stand here by your own will, to take Princess Rome of Iris as your wife and future queen, to share her burdens and her crown?"
Axel doesn't even hesitate.
"I do," he says.
My goosebumps return.
Not from fear this time.
From something else entirely.
"Then, by the will of both crowns and the blessing of our people…"
Silk is brought forward—a length of white and a length of black.
The officiant winds them gently around our joined hands.
Light and shadow.
Storm and sunrise.
"May your bond hold where others break," he intones. "May your crowns never crush you. May you stand as shield and sword for each other and for these lands."
The silk tightens.
The knot is tied.
"Axel and Rome," he says, voice carrying across the garden, "by oath and by will, you are now bound. King and queen in making. Husband and wife in heart. You may seal your vow."
All at once, the world tilts.
I am aware of everything.
Of every eye.
Of every whisper.
Of Lucia's sharp gaze.
Of my mother's tears.
Of Lord Cassian somewhere in the crowd, watching like a cat at the edge of a fire.
Axel's hand tightens around mine.
"Ready?" he breathes.
"No," I say.
He smiles.
"Good," he whispers. "Then we match."
He lifts his free hand and cups my cheek.
The garden goes utterly silent.
He kisses me.
It is not the wild, half-panicked press of lips we stole under the arch days ago, or the desperate kiss on the balcony when the world felt like it might crack.
It is…steady.
Sure.
A promise, not an apology.
The silk at our wrists holds.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone starts to clap.
Then another.
And another.
Until the garden erupts.
Cheers.
Laughter.
A few delighted sobs.
My heart is still racing when Axel pulls back, his forehead resting lightly against mine.
"Lesson twelve," he murmurs, voice shaking just enough that I know I'm not alone in this. "Sometimes, being terrified and doing it anyway is what makes you a ruler."
"Did you steal that from a story?" I ask, breathless.
His eyes crinkle.
"Of course," he says. "We're royals. We never come up with our own wisdom."
I laugh.
The sound feels different this time.
Braver.
The officiant raises our bound hands to the sky.
"Long live Prince Axel and Princess Rome," he calls. "Soon to be king and queen of the Unified Realms!"
"Long live!" the garden thunders back.
The sound washes over us, wave after wave, until I almost feel like I'm standing at the edge of the sea again.
Only this time, when the tide reaches for me, I am not standing alone.
I glance at Axel.
He looks back.
For the first time since this all began, the goosebumps on my skin aren't just from fear.
They're from hope.
Scary, reckless, impossible hope.
If I must be their queen, then I will be.
On their terms, if I must.
But in this one thing—in this boy, this choice, this vow under roses and sky—I know I have taken back a piece of my story.
And as the bells ring out over Iris and Darkstorm together, I squeeze Axel's hand, feeling the silk bite lightly into my wrist.
I am nervous.
I am shaking.
I am entirely, undeniably alive.
Let the rest of the world catch up.