Chapter 3

The journey had been a relentless onslaught of jostling carriages, weary horses, and ever-pressing deadlines. Symonnet could feel the weight of impending destiny bearing down upon him with each passing mile, his anxiety mounting like a tempest on the horizon. At long last, the imposing silhouette of the Imperial Palace of Inor loomed into view, its grandeur and majesty casting a shadow over their hasty arrival.

Symonnets heart raced as the carriage trundled through the palace gates, the echoes of their arrival reverberating through the cobblestone courtyard. Beside him, his companions exchanged nervous glances, their apprehension mirroring his own. Despite their best efforts to prepare for this moment, their wardrobes remained woefully inadequate for the formal introduction that awaited them.

A sense of urgency gripped them as they stepped down from the carriage, the hurried clatter of their footsteps echoing against the cobblestones of the tall-walled courtyard set with a full compliment of uniformed knights in full parade dress. They stared through their visors, breaths fogging in the cold air, bright halberds fluttering with decorative tassels in the steady, wintry wind.

A bevy of liveried servants hasted to them; he hardly saw parcels and luggage being pulled from the carriage, or Amaury storming to snarl softly at one dark-haired youth, but two men began to flank him, and with subtle touches to his arm and back began to steer him to rise up the grand pale stairs which led through doors so wide and heavy that they must have taken three men each to open. In moments, his boots were clicking along the marble floors of the palace vestibule. Symonnets eyes darted nervously around the spare but opulent surroundings, acutely aware of the disheveled state of their attire, his hair. They had been forced to make a hasty stop in a seaside town along the way, scrambling to procure garments befitting their imminent audience with the Emperor of Inor. Yet, even their hastily acquired finery paled in comparison to the rich garments worn even by these servants of the house. His pale tunic had a frayed sleeve under the dull navy of his doublet, and he cleared his throat..

I… do forgive me. I didnt understand, the wind… could you say that again? Their coarse accents were so thick, and in all his imaginings, the last difficulty hed imagined for himself was that he couldnt even speak with the people of this land.

The servants brow furrowed in confusion, a hint of concern tainting his otherwise composed expression. Forgive me, Your Highness, but where is the promised bride? he repeated, his voice tinged with apprehension.

Symonnets heart skipped a beat at the servants inquiry, his mind racing to comprehend the implications of the question. It was a moment before the realization dawned upon him, a chilling realization that sent a shiver down his spine.

The promised bride... Symonnet murmured, his voice trailing off as he exchanged a bewildered glance with his companions. It was a puzzle piece fitting into place, revealing a truth that had remained veiled until now. I... I am the promised bride, he admitted, the words heavy with disbelief.

A hushed silence fell over the vestibule as the gravity of the revelation settled upon them. The servants eyes widened in shock, his mouth falling agape in disbelief. Symonnet could feel the weight of the truth pressing down upon him, the enormity of the situation threatening to overwhelm him.

I was promised to wed the Emperor, Symonnet confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. The realization hung in the air like a heavy fog, enveloping them in a cloak of uncertainty.

As the implications of Symonnets revelation began to sink in, the servants expression shifted from disbelief to dawning comprehension. It was a moment of profound realization, a revelation that would forever alter the course of their lives. And in that moment, as the truth emerged from the shadows, Symonnet knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

As the weight of Symonnets revelation settled upon them, the servants eyes darted anxiously around the vestibule, his gaze alighting on a figure approaching in the distance. Your Highness, please, we must pull up short, he urged in a hushed tone, his voice tautened by new anxiousness.

Symonnets heart quickened its pace, his pulse reverberating in his ears as he turned to face the direction indicated by the servant: forward in the white-stone hall, which was devoid of the sumptuous hangings and rugs he would have expected. Moonstones set into silverwork sconces and holders provided an almost eerily blue-cast light, and the stone itself reverberated, catching and magnifying every little sound. Guards posted beside each door, moving courtiers, servants, messengers…

Emerging from the bottom of a grand, sweeping stairs which led up into other halls was the Emperor of Inor himself, a commanding presence that seemed to fill the space with an aura of authority. He stood head and shoulders even over the guard who accompanied him in brightly-burnished armor, and the black velvet of his doublet was studded with silverwork embroidery and pearls which plucked out the likeness of shining stars. His heavy, furred half-cape was gathered dashingly to one side, emphasizing the power and strength in his long-legged frame.

The Emperor cut a striking figure as he strode forward, and all the soft noises which had beset Symonnet before hushed: it was clear that in this court of wolves, he commanded great respect. His short dark curls framed a stern countenance, his black eyes holding a depth of knowledge and weariness that belied his age.There was a glimmer of silver in the dark stubble which spanned thickly across his jaw: and Symonnet realized at once that he was no less harried than the man who would (perhaps?) be his spouse. Hed not had time to shave.

With a subtle gesture from the servant, Symonnet came to a halt, his breath catching in his throat as he watched the Emperor draw nearer, carrying with him that choking quiet. They were to be introduced, it seemed, here and now, without either having the safety or dignity of weighty formalities...

Your Imperial Majesty, the guardsman began, his voice carrying a weighty solemnity; he was younger than his liege by a score of years, perhaps only a year or two older than Symonnet himself, with a strong, straight nose and softer-looking curls. A member of the Vénissieux delegation, surely.

His eyes flicked to the servant, who cowered at Symonnets side and bowed fully from his waist, and went down to one knee. He could not speak, and was almost shaking: Symonnet realized he was staring at his erstwhile guide, and a dark flush crept up his throat as he cleared it. It would be up to him, then, to break the news.

Symonnet bowed deeply, his movements graceful yet tinged with apprehension. Your Imperial Majesty, he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, it is an honor to be in your presence.I am Prince Symonnet Bittencourt, last scion of House Bittencourt, and the consort for which the contract of marriage was brokered.

Around the edges of the hall, figures of the court watched in hushed silence, their eyes darting nervously between Symonnet and the Emperor. The tension in the air was palpable, each moment pregnant with anticipation as they awaited the outcome of this unexpected turn of events.

Symonnet found himself standing face to face with the Emperor, their eyes locked in a silent exchange that seemed to span eternity; the other man did not flinch, nor scowl, nor make any gesture that he had even heard or understood. In that moment, pulse hammering with dismay and panic, a frantic nausea rising up from the pit of his stomach, Symonnet wondered if the Emperor even spoke his tongue, if they would both be forced to suffer the indignity of translation-

He wanted to clamp his eyes shut, to wring his hands like a child, but he forced himself to keep his back straight.

The emperor inclined his strong chin just a measure. There was a tautness around the corners of his mouth, as if he were suppressing some expression, and a canny cleverness winking knife-sharp in his dark eyes. Dark eyes. It struck my like a thunderbolt. Didnt the shifter-folk have golden eyes? Like the guard at his side?

Ah, he exhaled through lips which only just parted… and then bowed, only from the shoulders and very shallowly.

Behind them, guards moved to open the doors again, and Symonnet could hear his uncle berating servants for taking no care with the luggage brought down from the carriage.His voice faltered into silence a moment later, and the ghost of something which might have been warmth vanished from the emperors eyes.

Be welcome, he said instead, and spread an arm out. Almost at once, black-clad servants seemed to pad forward on quiet cloth shoes, flanking them as neatly as soldiers. The household shall see to your needs until the appointed hour. A priestess shall arrive a bell beforehand to take your mark. How many servants…

His eyes flicked toward Amaury, and Symonnet realized with a burst of panic-edged delight that the man before him thought his uncle a servant, and he couldnt permit himself to smile.

Only… only one, Majesty. Only one. There had been no servants to make the journey with him; and the token guard they had been afforded had been waved away by Inorran soldiers who had met them.

The emperor lifted his brows, but made no other expression of surprise. He said something in his own tongue, and nodded again to Symonnet, and began to walk past him. Heart still hammering, Symonnet followed where he was led, up the same gilded stairs the other man had come down.. And then up again, into the labrynthine halls of the court of wolves.