“Eat. It would be strange if the bride refused her own feast.”
The command stung, sharper than the knife in her hand. She obeyed without looking at him, each bite tasteless. Pretence—nothing more. He was wearing his mask, and she was expected to do the same.
“Is the fare not to your liking, Sister?” Yrenna asked from her left. The poor girl had to spend the whole night facing the marked side of her face. “Shall I fetch something else?”
JingYi turned to her and managed a polite smile. “No. The food is delicious. The kitchen has outdone themselves.”
Yrenna returned her smile and, bless her, kept a stream of light chatter—comments on the dancers, the flowers on the tables, the wine. Alexander sat rigidly at her other side, eyes fixed on Lord Reave sitting beside him. The two spoke in low tones of harvest yields, court whispers, and the king’s fickle mood. Not once did he glance her way. Not once did his hand reach for hers.
Then, Lord Reave rose. A hush rolled through the hall. Goblets stilled, the minstrels faltered. Even the dancers froze mid-turn.
JingYi’s stomach tightened. What would be said of this marriage—sealed by a vow not even an hour ago, yet already faltering? She risked a glance at Alexander. His profile was carved in stone, unreadable. She saw the weight pressing as heavily on him as it did on her.
Then Lord Reave smiled, warm and broad and sincere.
“My boy, Alexander,” he began, his voice carrying easily across the room, “I still remember the first day I met you—a scrawny lad of three summers, gripping a wooden sword that nearly outweighed you.” Laughter rippled through the room. “And now, look at you. A man grown. Married. And seated at the head of this hall.”
The older man turned slightly, brown eyes crinkling. “And now you have a wife to stand beside you. To love and cherish. It is a rare thing in this world to find such a companion. But when you do, treat her well, and she will be your greatest treasure.”
He lifted his goblet toward JingYi, and for the first time that night, she felt seen not as a blemish to be hidden, but as a bride worthy of celebration.
“To Princess JingYi,” Lord Reave said. “May your marriage be blessed with joy, with peace, and with a love that endures.”
He drank, and the hall followed. Applause filled the space. For a moment, the air lifted. Even Alexander’s expression thawed as he rose to clasp his old mentor’s arm.
Jing Yi lowered her gaze, blinking hard against the sudden pressure behind her eyes. She lifted her fork again. Lord Reave’s words had been kind—far kinder than she expected. Doubt still lingered, but there was comfort in knowing someone believed in them, even if she could not.
More toasts followed, warm and generous. Some jested about heirs, sending laughter bubbling across the room. Jing Yi blushed and smiled through it, cheeks aching by the end. Still, she didn’t dare look at Alexander.
The banquet continued—a weave of music, wine, and laughter. At one of the lower tables, Conrad Reave sat with his brothers, his wound discreetly bandaged beneath his coat. His gaze met hers, offering a reassuring smile. One twin nodded, the other raised his goblet.
Jing Yi looked down at her plate once more, but the lump in her throat eased. She had friends in the hall.
The next toast did not come from a friend.
A collective intake of breath, the minstrels trailing off, told her who had risen before Lord Bertrand Fortier’s smooth voice confirmed it.
“If I may express my congratulations to our newlyweds.”
Silence reigned, and her stomach clenched around the few bites she’d managed to swallow.
“Few know what it means to carry the burden you’ve carried, my lord,” Lord Fortier said. “Fewer still could shoulder it with such discipline. To rebuild a legacy from ruin is no small thing.”
The pause was a gulf. In it, she heard everything: the rustle of fabric as guests shifted, that word ‘ruin,’ the memory of a thousand sidelong glances in a different palace. Her birthmark burned as if freshly branded.
Then, with a glance toward JingYi, his tone shifted.
“We should be thankful that strength lies not only in the body,” Bertrand continued, his tone impossibly gentle, “but in character. We hope that will be enough when the image doesn’t quite match the portrait one was given.”
He raised his goblet, voice rich as silk. “To House Wulfbane—a house that endures storm after storm. May it weather this one as well.”
The following applause was a series of blows to her sternum. She sat perfectly still—spine a rod of iron, hands frozen in her lap—locked in the prison of her own composure. She could not look at Lord Fortier. She dared not look at her plate, lest her stillness be read as distress. Her gaze fixed on a scratch in the table’s wood grain, a tiny flaw she could anchor to.
Alexander’s goblet scraped against the wood as he set it down. The sound was shockingly loud. His voice, when it came, was cool and flat, a blade of ice cutting through the thick air.
“I thank you for your concern, Lord Fortier, but my House requires no such weighing.”
Bertrand inclined his head, a perfect picture of genteel manners.
