The incense burns too thick, choking me with its false sanctity. My fingers clutch the bouquet of black roses—Dravik’s symbol, not mine. Across the hall, through the arched windows, I see them: Elias and Lyselle, laughing beneath the cherry blossoms, sharing a kiss meant for me. My father won’t even look in my direction. The priest drones on, but I hear only the wind howling beyond the mountains—where he waits, they say, the prince who takes brides like winter takes breath.

My palms sweat against the hilt of the ceremonial dagger hidden in my sleeve. One move—run now, flee into the catacombs beneath the chapel, vanish before the vows are spoken. Or stay. Endure. Become what they need me to be. The doors creak shut behind me. No turning back. Only forward.

Do I speak the oath—or draw the blade?