Chapter Thirty-Four: The Night Before
The eve of her wedding arrived on a breath of winter wind, cold and sharp and smelling of snow.
Ariyana stood before the mirror in her chamber, studying the woman who looked back at her. The grey wool dress was gone—discarded, finally, after fourteen years of wearing poverty like a penitent's hairshirt. In its place was a gown of deep blue silk, the same shade as the sapphire in her mother's pendant, which now rested against her heart beneath the fabric.
Her hair had been washed and brushed until it shone, then left loose to fall past her shoulders in waves of midnight. Her cheeks were flushed with more than the cold. Her eyes—those olive-green eyes that had seen too much—were bright with something she could not name.
Tomorrow, she would become a wife.
Tomorrow, she would stand before the altar and speak vows she had never wanted to make.
Tomorrow, her cage would become a gilded thing, beautiful and suffocating and utterly inescapable.
A knock at the door.
Her heart stuttered.
"Who is there?"
"It's me."
Edwin's voice. Low, rough, stripped of its usual cold formality.
Ariyana crossed the room, her bare feet silent on the worn carpet. She pressed her palm against the wooden door, not opening it.
"You cannot come to me before the wedding night," she said. "It is bad luck."
"I do not believe in luck."
"The court believes. The servants believe. If someone sees you—"
"The corridors are empty." A pause. "I could not sleep, Ariyana. I have been walking for hours, and everywhere I went, I saw your face."
Her throat tightened.
"I miss you."
The words hung in the air between them, fragile and dangerous.
"We saw each other at dinner."
"That is not what I mean." His voice was closer now—she could hear him breathing on the other side of the door, could almost feel the warmth of his body through the wood. "I miss you, Ariyana. The way you argue with me. The way you look at me when you think I am not watching. The way you said we would survive together."
"Edwin—"
"Can I sleep here?" The words came out in a rush, desperate and hopeful. "We will share a bed from tomorrow, anyway. Let me stay. Just for tonight. I promise I will not—" He stopped, swallowed. "I promise I will keep my distance."
Ariyana closed her eyes.
She should say no.
Should send him away, protect the walls she had spent fourteen years building, maintain the careful distance that kept her heart from breaking.
But she was tired of walls.
And his voice was soft.
And tomorrow, she would be his wife.
"Come in," she said, stepping back from the door.
---
The Threshold
Edwin entered slowly, as if afraid she might change her mind.
He was dressed simply—dark trousers, a white shirt unlaced at the collar, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was damp, as if he had recently bathed. His eyes were shadowed, exhausted, but bright with something that made her chest ache.
"You look beautiful," he said.
"Flattery will not convince me to let you stay."
"Is it flattery if it is true?" He stepped closer, close enough to see the pendant beneath her dress, the pulse beating in her throat. "You are always beautiful, Ariyana. Even when you are arguing. Even when you are angry. Even when you are looking at me as if you want to stab me."
"I always want to stab you."
His lips curved. "I know."
He walked to the bed—the narrow, simple bed where she had slept for fourteen years—and sat on the edge. His weight made the frame creak.
"Come here," he said, holding out his hand.
She hesitated.
"We will share a bed tomorrow anyway," he said, echoing her words. "Consider this a rehearsal."
"That is not funny."
"It was a little funny."
She crossed the room, not taking his hand, and sat on the opposite edge of the bed. The mattress dipped between them, a valley of space that felt wider than it was.
"We should set ground rules," she said.
"Ground rules?"
"No touching. No—" She gestured vaguely. "No expectations. You said you would keep your distance. I am holding you to that."
Edwin nodded slowly. "All right."
"And if you snore, I am pushing you onto the floor."
"I do not snore."
"Everyone snores."
"I do not."
They sat in silence, the candlelight flickering between them.
---
The Truce
Edwin lay down first—on his back, his hands folded over his chest, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He looked like a soldier preparing for burial, stiff and formal and utterly uncomfortable.
"You are too tense," Ariyana said.
"I am trying not to touch you."
"You are also trying not to breathe."
He exhaled—a sharp, frustrated sound. "What do you want from me, Ariyana?"
She lay down beside him, keeping a careful distance between their bodies. The mattress dipped, rolling them slightly toward the center. She planted her feet to keep from sliding into him.
"I want you to relax," she said. "If you are going to sleep here, actually sleep. Do not lie there like a corpse."
"I am not good at relaxing."
"I noticed."
He turned his head, his glacial eyes meeting hers in the dim light. "Teach me."
"Teach you what?"
"How to relax. How to sleep. How to be—" He paused, searching for words. "How to be with you without wanting to prove something."
Ariyana was silent for a long moment.
Then she reached over, took his hand, and laced her fingers through his.
"Do not think," she said. "Just close your eyes and breathe."
He looked down at their joined hands, at her slender fingers intertwined with his.
"This is strange," he said.
"This is survival."
"Survival?"
"We are learning to share space. To coexist. To be in the same bed without wanting to kill each other." She squeezed his hand. "It is a skill. Like swordsmanship. It takes practice."
Edwin's lips curved. "You are comparing marriage to sword fighting."
"Marriage is sword fighting. Just with fewer visible wounds."
He laughed—a soft, surprised sound that vibrated through the mattress and into her bones.
"You are remarkable," he said.
"You have mentioned that."
"I will keep mentioning it. Until you believe it."
He closed his eyes.
She watched him—the way his breathing slowed, the tension easing from his shoulders, the hard line of his jaw softening into something almost peaceful.
He was handsome. She had always known that. But seeing him like this—unguarded, vulnerable, human—made her heart ache in ways she did not want to examine.
"You are staring," he murmured.
"I am watching."
"Same thing."
"Different intention."
He opened his eyes, catching her gaze. "What is your intention?"
She held his look for a long moment.
"To survive," she said. "Same as always."
He nodded, as if that made sense, and closed his eyes again.
Ariyana lay beside him, their hands still intertwined, and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, she would become his wife.
Tonight, she was still her own.
---
The Sleep
He fell asleep first.
She knew because his breathing evened out, his hand went slack in hers, and the furrow between his brows smoothed away. In sleep, he looked younger. Less guarded. Almost like the boy he must have been before the weight of the crown and the cruelty of his stepmother had carved him into something cold and hard.
Ariyana watched him for a long time.
Then, carefully, she slipped her hand free, rose from the bed, and walked to her writing desk.
---
The Letter
The candle had burned low, its flame guttering in a pool of wax. She lit a fresh one, dipped her quill in ink, and began to write.
Dearest Hilda,
You asked me once if I would write to you. You said letters were the only way to bridge the distance between us. I did not believe you then. I thought distance was distance, and words were just words, and nothing could replace the warmth of your hand in mine.
I was wrong.
I miss you. Every day, I miss you. The palace is colder without you. The corridors are emptier. My chambers feel like a stranger's room, even though nothing has changed except your absence.
Tomorrow, I am getting married.
I wish you could be here. I wish you could stand beside me, hold my hand, tell me that everything will be all right. But I know you cannot. Clara is watching. Clara is always watching.
So I am not asking you to come.
I am asking you to stay away.
It breaks my heart to write those words. I have no one now, Hilda. No parents. No family. No friends I can trust. Theodore is here, but he is not mine to lean on. Edwin is here, but I do not know if I can trust him. Clara is here, and she would destroy me if she could.
You are all I have left.
And I am asking you to stay away.
Please be strong. Please do not grow old without me. Please know that I am thinking of you, every moment of every day, and that I will bring you back as soon as I am able.
When I am Queen—when the crown is mine and Clara can no longer hurt us—I will send for you. I will give you a place of honor in my court. I will never let anyone separate us again.
Until then, be safe. Be careful. Be the woman I remember—kind and brave and stubbornly hopeful.
I love you, Hilda.
I will bring you home.
Your Ariyana
She folded the parchment carefully, sealed it with a drop of wax, and pressed her thumb into the soft golden pool.
No seal. No crest. No mark that could be traced back to her.
Just her fingerprint, pressed into the wax like a promise.
---
The Messenger
She knew who to send.
There was a stable boy—young, loyal, grateful for the small kindnesses she had shown him over the years. He had no family, no ties to the palace, no reason to betray her. He came from the same village where Hilda was hiding, and he visited his sister there twice a month.
He would deliver the letter.
He would not speak of it.
Ariyana tucked the parchment into her sleeve and walked to the window. The gardens below were silver with frost, the skeletal trees casting long shadows in the moonlight.
Tomorrow, she would become a wife.
Tomorrow, she would begin the rest of her life.
Tonight, she was saying goodbye to the woman who had raised her.
Not forever.
She would not let it be forever.
---
The Return
Edwin had not moved.
He lay on his back, his hands still folded over his chest, his breathing slow and even. The candlelight caught the sharp angles of his face, the dark stubble along his jaw, the faint scar she had noticed before.
Ariyana stood over him for a long moment.
Then she climbed back into bed, lay down beside him, and closed her eyes.
"Where did you go?" His voice was soft, sleepy, not quite conscious.
"Nowhere."
"You were gone a long time."
"I was writing a letter."
Silence.
"To Hilda?"
She hesitated. "Yes."
"Is she all right?"
"I do not know." Ariyana's throat tightened. "I hope so."
Edwin turned onto his side, facing her. His eyes were open now, dark and searching in the dim light.
"I am sorry she is gone," he said. "I know she meant a great deal to you."
"She raised me. After my mother died, she was the only one who—" She stopped, pressing her lips together. "She was the only one."
Edwin reached across the space between them, his hand finding hers beneath the blanket.
"Then we will find her," he said. "After the wedding. After the chaos settles. We will find her, and we will bring her back."
Ariyana looked at their joined hands—at his long fingers intertwined with hers, the warmth of his palm, the steadiness of his grip.
"You promise?"
"I promise."
She closed her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He did not answer.
But his hand tightened around hers, and she felt something shift between them—not trust, not yet, but something close.
Something that might, one day, become more.
---
The Morning
She woke to sunlight streaming through the windows, and Edwin's face inches from hers.
He was still asleep. His dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. His lips were slightly parted. His arm was draped over her waist, and her hand was pressed flat against his chest, directly over his heart.
She did not pull away.
She lay in the golden light, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm, and wondered if this was what it felt like to be not-alone.
His eyes opened.
"Good morning, wife."
"Not yet."
"Close enough."
His lips curved—that infuriating smirk that made her want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.
"You stayed," he said.
"So did you."
"I promised I would keep my distance."
"You failed."
"I noticed." He looked down at her hand on his chest, at his arm around her waist, at the tangle of limbs and blankets that bound them together. "Are you going to stab me?"
"Not today."
"Tomorrow?"
"Perhaps."
He laughed—a soft, sleepy sound that vibrated through his chest and into her bones.
"I can live with that."
They lay in the morning light, tangled together, and did not speak of the wedding.
Did not speak of Clara.
Did not speak of the future.
They simply lay there, breathing together, and let themselves pretend—just for a moment—that they were not enemies.
Just for a moment.
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