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The celestial capital of Aurethiel glowed beneath a twilight sky, its spires catching the final rays of sun and transforming them into rivers of liquid gold. From her chamber window, Lady Amelia Liora watched the city prepare for the ceremony that would define her life. Banners of white and silver, symbols of a peace bought with her hand, draped every building. In the streets below, she could already hear the distant, hopeful hymns of celebration beginning to rise with the evening air. It was a beautiful sound, full of a faith she wished she felt herself.
"My lady, your hair," her attendant prompted, her voice a soft intrusion on Amelia's thoughts.
Amelia turned from the window, allowing the woman to guide her back to the polished vanity. She studied her reflection as skilled hands wove intricate braids through her dark hair, each twist a reminder of the two worlds she inhabited. Half angel, half witch. The thought was a constant companion, a quiet hum beneath the surface of her composure. Her mother, Queen Seraphina, had given her the angelic grace that the court demanded, and wings that were said to catch starlight. Her father, Lord Alaric, had gifted her a secret connection to the wild magic that thrummed beneath the polished marble of angelic society, a truth she had been taught to conceal.
Tomorrow, she would become a living symbol, a bridge meant to unite two warring realms. Tomorrow, she would belong to everyone but herself.
The chamber door opened without announcement, and Amelia’s heart lifted despite the weight that seemed to have settled permanently in her chest.
"Harry."
Prince Harry Seymour entered with an easy grace that dismissed the room’s formality. He sent the attendants away with a single, gentle gesture, and they departed with practiced swiftness, leaving the couple in a rare moment of solitude. He wore simple evening clothes rather than his formal regalia, a choice that made him look more like the man she had come to know and less like the political instrument he was. Here, in this quiet space, they could pretend.
"You looked a thousand miles away," Harry said. His voice was warm, and when he crossed the room to take her hands, his touch was grounding. "Are you having second thoughts?"
"Constantly," she admitted, managing a smile that felt genuine. "But never about you."
He pulled her to her feet, his fingers lacing through hers as he led her back to the window. The city spread before them, a tapestry of light and promise. "I know this is not the life you would have chosen for yourself."
"Is it the one you would have chosen?" she countered softly.
"No," he confessed, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "But having met you, having known you these past months, I find I cannot imagine choosing differently now."
Amelia leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder and feeling the solid warmth of his body against hers. In the carefully negotiated space between duty and desire, they had built something real. Their conversations flowed with an effortless rhythm, punctuated by comfortable silences that spoke of a deeper understanding. His bright humor balanced her solemnity. Her quiet pragmatism grounded his soaring idealism. It was a partnership that felt less like a treaty and more like a discovery.
"Do you truly think it will work?" she asked, the question a whisper against the fabric of his tunic. "Can one marriage truly end centuries of hatred?"
"I think we have to believe that it can." Harry’s arms circled her waist, pulling her closer. "Otherwise, what are we doing here?"
"Playing at peace while the hatred only festers in the dark?"
"You are wonderfully grim tonight," he murmured, turning her to face him. His expression was tender, his eyes full of a light that seemed to chase away the shadows in the room. "Where is the woman who told me last week that hope was a discipline, not a feeling?"
"She is tired," Amelia confessed.
"Then let me carry the hope for both of us tonight." He kissed her forehead, a soft press of his lips against her skin. He followed it with a kiss on her cheek, then finally found her mouth with a gentleness that made her chest ache. When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers. "Tomorrow, we will stand before two realms and vow to build something new. But tonight, we are just Harry and Amelia, two people who found something worth protecting in all this."
"Something worth protecting," she repeated, letting the words settle the anxiety in her chest. "Yes. I can hold onto that."
They stood together as darkness deepened over Aurethiel, watching as lanterns bloomed like captured stars across the city. Amelia felt the future pressing close, heavy and fraught with expectation. But she also felt Harry’s hand in hers, a steady and real anchor in the encroaching night.
For a moment, so brief she almost missed it, a shadow seemed to pass through him. His grip on her hand tightened with surprising force, and his breath caught for a silent second. Then it was gone, and he was smiling at her again, his expression unchanged.
"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" she asked, her voice light.
"Something like that," he replied, pulling her into a closer embrace. "But I have you. That is enough."
Outside, the city sang its hymns of hope. Inside, two people held each other against the weight of a world, finding strength in the simple, profound reality of their presence. Tomorrow would bring ceremony and spectacle, politics and performance. Tonight belonged only to them. Amelia closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him, committing the quiet perfection of this moment to memory. Whatever came next, they would face it together. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.
"I do love you," she whispered against his chest. "Not because I must, but because I do."
"I know." His voice rumbled, a comforting vibration through her. "And I love you in precisely the same way. Inconveniently. Completely."
They remained that way as the last light faded from the sky, two figures silhouetted against the glowing city, balanced on the precipice of a destiny neither had chosen but both had finally accepted. The weight was still there, but it was bearable now, a burden shared between them. Tomorrow, they would change the world. Tonight, they were simply themselves.