And Safi nods. I know, Iz. You always are.

Before she can say anything more, Henrick hooks his arm into hers. “Smile,” he commands, and Safi smiles. Her hand falls from her collarbone. Her spine straightens.

Henrick is shorter than she. Wider too, and despite wearing a color other than brown for once, he still looks like a toad at midsummer. Green, it would seem, is no more flattering on his frame.

Each of his steps waddles, and Safi does her best to match his stride. She has only ever attended one wedding, when she was much younger, and it had not been between nobility, but between farmers on the Hasstrel estate.

Strange. She had forgotten that memory until now. It was so long ago. Back when Uncle Eron had still smiled …

Strange. She had forgotten that Uncle Eron ever smiled.

It is Eron who had brought her here. And it is Eron she will find before this day ends, if everything goes as planned—and if the plot is as well mapped as she thinks it is.

Like the farmers of all those years ago, the crowd in the room parts to let Safi and Henrick pass. Instead of an inn’s common room, though, it is the Emperor’s throne room. And instead of lively music lilting out, there is only silence. A heavy silence weighted by breaths and winter fabric and eyes, eyes everywhere.

They reach a dais at the room’s end upon which two thrones stand. One is newly added today, its crimson fabric brighter, fresher. After ascending the short steps, Henrick turns to face the crowd, towing Safi with him.

And then, like the farmers, he says the words that will bind Safi to him. “I, Henrick the Third, Emperor of Cartorra, take you, Safiya fon Hasstrel, as my spouse. By law and by land, we are tied. What I possess, you receive. What you possess, I claim. Until our days are done and our bodies dust, we are bound.”

True. Safi’s magic trills in her ribs even as cold sweeps down her body. This dress is much, much too thin. Her hand curls against Henrick’s arm.

Then she realizes all eyes are on her. They are waiting for her to say the same, waiting for the ceremony to complete. But for some reason, when she tries to lift her voice and say the words she has practiced, nothing will come.

Eyes blink—so many eyes—and people shift. They shimmy. They share glances of confusion, and Safi can practically hear them thinking, Why does she not speak?

But she can’t. All she can do is smile, and even that is growing strained. Once she says these words she will be married. What is hers will be the Emperor’s. Her body, her being. Until our days are done and our bodies dust, we are bound.