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Mara smoothed the wrinkles on her dress, the soft purple of it complimenting her slightly tanning skin. She had been sitting in the sun these days, reveling in the beginning of summer, glad to soak up the warmth after the long winter had overtaken the south, her skin becoming as pale as milk. Light cast through the sheer gossamer around the shoulders, tightening at the wrist, breaks in the fabric exposing the freckles along her arms.

She pushed back the curtain and looked at herself in the ornate mirror, her lips forming a tight line as she scanned her body. The dress fitted perfectly to her every curve, molding to her, the skirt flowing outward at the end of her bodice, a long slit displaying white lace. The bottom was mostly muslin, outlining the shape of her legs beneath in an opaque shadow. Purple flowers were splattered on the tulle of the dress and climbed up the seams. Her chestnut-blonde hair was pulled back out of her face and sat in loose curls along her exposed back apart from two long tendrils that swirled on either side of her head, reminding her of an unfurled flower. Long curling strands of matching fabric bled from the crown of her head and disguised itself within the braid of her hair. She donned royal purple sugilite earrings, and a tight golden torque with a sugilite gem plastered in the middle.

She felt like a doll.

She felt silly, like she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

“You look beautiful,” Jessamine encouraged.

Mara huffed. “Of course he would want me to wear this .” The dress accentuated her curves, the corset exposing much more of her décolletage than she typically liked, her breasts appearing far fuller with the fitted material, her legs visible beneath the sheer fabric. She was the embodiment of an elderberry tart, warm and waiting for the noblemen to devour at the feast. Her mistress of the robes had made it clear to the tailors that she wanted Mara to look as sultry as possible while still looking elegant and regal. She knew the king needed this night to end in an engagement.

“Nonsense,” Jessamine said as she fixed the hem of Mara’s dress.

“He’s practically whoring me out,” Mara mumbled.

Jessamine shot her a warning glance in the mirror, urging her to move.

Mara had to make herself present at the ball—it was her natal day after all—and she was already running late, but her feet wouldn’t budge. They were nailed to the floorboards, keeping her in place like a marbled statue. In stiff movements, she left her chambers, escorted by a guard clad in the violet colors of Venmore Castle, to the Great Hall.

Mara wanted to reach out and claw at the stone walls, heaving herself away from the guard that would surely grip her waist in rebuttal and drag her to her father’s feet.

She reluctantly found herself entering the grandiose affair, spotting her father as he sat on his throne, a long stretched-out table before him, intricately carved chairs adorning his side. Her father had on a sinuous cloak lined in white fur, the velvet of it a deep cerulean blue. His glass crown reflected the light, tiny opals dotting the tip of every point. His chestnut-blonde hair was pulled back, threads of white peppered above his ears, his beard cut short, highlighting the sharpness of his chin. Her father had more angular features than both his children who favored the softness of their mother.

Mara went up the steps and curtsied to her father who smiled at her. “Daughter,” he hummed. Mara went to step around and sit beside her father. “No, don’t sit. Go.” He gestured his hand in a wave. “You have many suitors who are waiting to dance with you.” Mara went to open her mouth, but her father was already standing up, his glass of wine shaking on the table as his thighs hit the wood in a sense of apathy.

“My daughter, Princess Maralena Faintree,” he boomed. The swarm of nobles went quiet, turning to face the king. Her father looked sidelong at her. Mara stepped forward and gave a tight smile to the crowd of courtiers before striding down the steps of the dais. The cacophony of noise returned and a heckle of eager men approached Mara as she made her way to the parquet floor engraved with swirls of the wind.

The king had a sly grin on his face as he watched his daughter. Mara couldn’t help but wonder if the king had ulterior motives for tonight, beyond that of finding his daughter a suitor. He never seemed to keep her in the loop, and she feared he saw too much of her mother in her to truly face his children.

A hand reached out and gripped hers just as she descended the final step. She faced Sir Orion, much to her dismay. Mara matched his height as she hovered on the last step, debating if she would be able to trek back up them before Sir Orion could force her to dance. His eyes flicked upward, and he grinned at her, his lips puckering slightly before he spoke. “My Princess,” he said bowing, her hand still trapped in his.

Mara curtsied in correspondence.

“Shall we?” he implored, though his words didn’t sound like a request, but rather a demand. The group of men surrounding them groaned and dispersed, clearly irritated that Sir Orion had stolen her to dance first. She was sure they would think they stood no chance against him. He was incredibly wealthy. His kingdom housed an expansive army at least twice the size of Wrens Reach, and he was set to inherit Branwen, a large city in the Icewoods.

It was a match made in perdition.

Mara couldn’t find the strength to fake a smile as Sir Orion led her into the throng of dancing guests. His large hand engulfed her own, cold against her palm—she wondered if that was an attribute of all the Ice People. She looked up at him as he yanked her into his chest, a hand resting on her lower waist, the tips of his fingers brushing over her exposed skin where the back of her dress cut down her spine. Mara’s cheeks warmed and her heart twisted uncomfortably. She wasn’t keen on the way Sir Orion felt against her.

He gave her a wicked smile, all his white teeth sparkling through his parted lips. “You look beautiful tonight, Princess.”

Mara’s lips tightened as she attempted to not look as repulsed as she felt. “You flatter me.”

Sir Orion spun her around, making her gasp when he abruptly caught her waist again. “I was just telling the Glass King how I’m set to inherit Branwen sooner than expected. Uncle isn’t… right-minded lately.” He spoke like everyone in the room was listening, dying to know his next word. It made Mara stifle a yawn.

“I’m sorry about your uncle,” she responded, though she wasn’t sure he was even looking for a retort.

“Yes, thank you,” he said tersely. “Soon, I’ll take my place on the throne of Branwen. And I’ll need a wife.”

The throne of Branwen , she thought, wanting to chide him about his use of the word throne. Lords subject to the crown don’t really sit upon a throne, now do they?

His fingers tightened, sending a wave of repugnancy through her. His devious smile made it seem like he thought he succeeded in seducing her. “Someone to give me golden-haired babes. A son to precede me.”

Mara’s gut twisted, faking a jovial grin. His cornflower eyes gave him a frosted appearance and she broke his stare out of sheer perturbation.

As Sir Orion spun her to the woodwind instruments, he leaned in, only a mere kiss away from her ear. “Your father has all but granted me his blessing to marry you.” He pulled back to look at her, her eyes expanding.

“Sir Orion, I’m flattered, b?—”

“Yes. I thought you might be. Only a few matters to straighten out before it’s official,” he affirmed, but surely, he was just fooling her into subduing his proposal. “Shall we go ahead and practice, then?” Mara stared at him blankly. “For our wedding night, I mean,” he added in a sultry voice, making her shiver in dread, though Sir Orion likely took it as overflowing lust.

She pushed him away, straightening her dress as he raised a brow. “I apologize, Sir Orion. I seem to be feeling faint. I…I think I’m going to step out for a moment. Fresh air and all that,” she stammered.

He gripped her hand, bowing, and placed a wet kiss on the back, smirking at the thought of Mara being so overwhelmed with his proposal she had to take a minute to calm herself—to collect her decorum. Mara had to restrain from recoiling from his touch by wiping her damp hand on her dress—she’d wait until she was out of sight to do that.

When he finally let go, she turned and scoured off toward the courtyard. On her way to the grandiose glass doors that led out into the dark chilled night, the knight she spotted earlier in the lance yard looked across the room and caught her gaze. She almost halted in her step, feeling an intense weight as he surveyed her, something sickly swimming in his gaze.

She shyly broke her eyes away and tried to slip out the door without anyone noticing—well, apart from him. She hoped he wouldn’t alarm one of the king’s guards about her disappearance; Mara just wanted to be left alone to sulk. She was about to be fated for life to someone she didn’t know, the least she could be granted was the ability to spend her remaining moments alone.