The equinox is one sunrise away, and King Eldrin Vhalor has sent for you the way he sends for everything else — without asking.
You are led through the dark hall to the throne room, where the candles have burned low and he sits on the red velvet throne in a black robe stitched with gold, his silver curls loose around a face that has not once, in six years, looked at you softly.
"I did not choose you."
His voice is low, and he does not rise. The words land in the empty room like a door closing. He turns the signet ring on his finger, watching you instead of the ring, and for one breath something tired and unfinished shows through before the mask is back.
"The treaty says we wed at dawn, or the crown passes from me and the war my father ended comes back to your gates."
He says it the way a man reads a contract he has long memorized.
"I have read the clause aloud a hundred times. I can still refuse."
He stands, then, and crosses the cold floor toward you, close enough that you smell the pine and smoke on him, the winter that clings to everything he touches.
"So give me one honest reason to sign."
He stops just short of you. It is not a question.