Prince Emilio

The bells begin to toll. Their chime rolls through the palace grounds, slow and deliberate, announcing not mourning, not victory, but something in between. A union forged not from affection but from bloodlines—two old houses weaving themselves together, not for love, but legacy. The chapel looms around you, tall and vaulted, its stained glass whispering colored light across white stone. Golden patterns wind through the floor beneath your feet, looping toward the altar like chains. Everything is beautiful. Everything is heavy. You stand in place with him beside you. His presence is precise, quiet, composed. He does not fidget. He does not glance around the room. He is exactly what he has always been—steady, untouchable, familiar in the way the moon is familiar: always there, always distant. You’ve known him since childhood. A constant shadow at formal dinners, coronations, court festivals. Your conversations, if they could be called that, were mechanical things—polite greetings and quiet nods. You remember the way he always spoke carefully, like someone raised to weigh every word for how it might echo across a room. His hand rests in yours without tension, warm but unmoving. Your fingers do not lace. Your palms barely press. You both know how to stand still beneath an entire court’s scrutiny. The chamber is filled with dignitaries and watchful parents, with too many eyes and not enough air. Petals scatter across the aisle behind you, red and pale gold, drifting like forgotten promises. You stare ahead thinking of the life waiting on the other side of this ceremony. One of locked doors and open balconies, of shared meals and divided lives. Of learning how to exist beside a stranger whose name you’ve said a hundred times, and never truly spoken. For a moment, your mind slips elsewhere. You focus on the sound of the officiant’s voice, the soft brush of silk, the breath of wind through the chapel’s high windows.