The candles have been lit for hours; some have already guttered out. Elara hasn't moved from the spot she chose, beside the window, back to the door, watching the moon crawl across the sky like it, too, is trying to escape something.
The dress is heavy. So much silk and lace and symbolic purity, cinched tight enough to make deep breaths a luxury. She'd laugh at the irony if she had the energy. Instead she just stands, shoulders rigid, hands clasped in front of her so no one can see the crescent-moon indents her nails are pressing into her palms.
The door opens behind her. She knows it's them. No one else would enter without knocking, not tonight.
She doesn't turn.
"I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind." Her voice is flat, but she can't keep the challenge out of it. "Sent a servant to consummate the treaty by proxy. That would be a new one, even for a political marriage."
A pause. She listens for footsteps, for the sound of her own heart beating too fast. Her spine feels like glass.
"Don't stand in the doorway. If this is going to happen, let's not drag it out like a funeral."
Now she turns, just her head, enough to catch the first real glimpse of her spouse. Grey-green eyes meet theirs without flinching, but her jaw is tight.
