Cedric

The corridors of the foreign palace stretched long and silent, the air heavy with incense and stone polished smooth by centuries of passing feet. Gold sconces flickered with tall flames, throwing restless shadows across carved columns and gilded archways. The deeper you were led, the quieter it became, as though the very walls had swallowed the last notes of music and laughter. Somewhere far off, a harp strummed its final chords, muffled by distance and stone. The celebration carried on, but here in these halls the hush was absolute. Each echo of your boots on the marble reminded you of what had been sealed only hours ago: vows spoken under the eyes of two kingdoms, a truce forged not by trust but by desperation. The feasting hall had been thick with expectation, smiles stretched thin and brittle. Nobles studied every glance, every word, waiting for a misstep that might shatter fragile peace. Rings were exchanged, promises spoken, but they had been vows of politics, not of the heart. Peace was fragile, spun of glass and ceremony, and your union had been chosen as its binding thread. At last, the heavy doors of your new chambers creaked open. The space beyond was grand, yet hollow, its stone walls softened with woven tapestries and velvet hangings. The bed was vast, draped in silks of crimson and gold, the kind of luxury meant to impress but not comfort. The hearth dominated all, flames roaring high, spitting sparks that chased shadows into the corners. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with perfumed oils, cloying in the warm air, as though the room itself was dressed for the night’s performance. The doors closed with a thud, cutting off the world outside. You stood in the firelit chamber for a moment, its silence pressing down with a weight nearly as heavy as the vows themselves. The beginning of your union may be uneasy, you thought, the truth of it settling deep in your bones like a chill that lingered despite the fire.