An Affair

The bells of the Grand Cathedral of Ravecourt tolled, their deep chimes echoing through the city like the tolling of fate itself. The streets outside were filled with onlookers—nobles, merchants, commoners—all straining to catch a glimpse of the union that would reshape the future of two kingdoms.

Inside the cathedral, however, the air was thick with silence.

Prince William of Ravecourt stood at the altar, his hands clenched at his sides beneath the heavy folds of his royal cloak. His chest felt tight, though whether it was due to the suffocating layers of silk and embroidery or the weight of expectation pressing down on him, he wasn’t sure.

This was a mistake.

It had been a mistake from the moment the terms were agreed upon, from the moment his father, King Aldred, had signed away his son’s freedom in ink and blood. The treaty between Ravecourt and Velmoria demanded an unbreakable bond, and so a marriage had been arranged between the two kingdoms’ heirs.

Himself and Prince Nathaniel of Velmoria.

His jaw tensed as his gaze flickered toward the man standing beside him.

Nathaniel was composed, his violet eyes calm as still water. He held himself with quiet dignity, his slender frame wrapped in shimmering gold and silver, the colors of Velmoria. His silver hair had been braided at the sides, a tradition of his people, the delicate strands glinting in the candlelight.

He looked untouched by the moment, utterly indifferent to the reality of their wedding day.

William hated him for that.

Because while Nathaniel stood there, unreadable and poised, William felt as though he were drowning.

The priest’s voice rang through the cathedral, steady and solemn.

"Prince Nathaniel of Velmoria, do you take Prince William of Ravecourt to be your lawfully wedded husband? To stand by his side in times of war and peace, in health and in hardship, for as long as the gods permit?"

A long pause.

The silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

Then, Nathaniel spoke, his voice smooth and unwavering.

"I do."

William barely concealed the scowl twisting at his lips.

Liar.

Nathaniel didn’t want this marriage any more than he did. They both knew that.

Yet he had spoken the words so effortlessly, as if none of it mattered.

The priest turned to him next. "And you, Prince William of Ravecourt?"

Another pause.

William knew what was expected of him. He had known from the moment he was born that duty would always outweigh desire, that his own wishes were insignificant compared to the needs of the kingdom.

But this—this—was asking too much.

His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. Every part of him wanted to say no, to turn on his heel and walk away from this altar, from this marriage, from Nathaniel.

But he had never been given a choice.

And he never would be.

His voice was steady, but cold as winter frost.

"I do."

The priest inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "Then, by the authority of the gods and the crowns of Ravecourt and Velmoria, I pronounce you bound in marriage."

The finality of it settled over William like a lead weight.

A murmur rippled through the gathered nobles, a hushed exhale of relief. The contract was sealed. The alliance secured.

But it wasn’t over yet.

"You may seal your vows with a kiss."

William stiffened.

His heart pounded furiously against his ribs, though not out of anticipation. This wasn’t desire. It wasn’t nervousness.

It was defiance.

He didn’t want to kiss Nathaniel. He didn’t even want to look at him.

But Nathaniel was already turning toward him, stepping closer.

There was no hesitation in his movements, no trace of reluctance in his violet eyes. He simply tilted his chin up, waiting.

William clenched his jaw.

Damn him.

For a breath, he considered denying him. He could step back, refuse to let their lips meet, force the priest to move on without it.

But that would be a public disgrace, and Ravecourt had already given Velmoria too many reasons to doubt their honor.

So he did what was expected of him.

He leaned in, and barely brushed his lips against Nathaniel’s.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not truly. It was the mere ghost of one, fleeting and distant.

Yet even so, something about the warmth of Nathaniel’s lips sent an uncomfortable shiver down William’s spine.

Nathaniel pulled away first, his expression unchanged. If the touch had affected him at all, he didn’t show it.

The hall erupted into polite applause.

The sound felt hollow in William’s ears.

He barely registered anything as they turned to walk down the aisle together, side by side as husbands. The weight of duty pressed heavily upon him, and yet beneath it, something else stirred.

Something he refused to acknowledge.

As they stepped out of the cathedral doors into the open air, Nathaniel spoke, so softly that only William could hear.

"I don’t want this either."

William’s breath caught.

He turned sharply, searching Nathaniel’s face for some hint of emotion—bitterness, resentment, anything.

But Nathaniel’s gaze was already forward, his posture as regal as ever, his expression unreadable.

William swallowed hard and faced forward as well, ignoring the strange tightness in his chest.

For the first time since this farce began, his anger wavered.

And curiosity took its place.

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To be continued