The Crown Prince's study, well past midnight, was a realm of silence broken only by the crackle of hearth logs and the scratch of his own pen. On the desk before Alexander lay the chaos he was meant to impose order upon: transcripts of the prisoner Strogov's interrogations, insistent yet cautious letters from Redcliffe, and—a separate, irritatingly bright stack—the proposals from the court masters of ceremonies concerning dates and scripts for his own wedding. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His thoughts tangled, snagging on maps of the Eastern Marches' fortifications and the ornate flourishes on marriage contracts.

Among other things, a short, precise note from the Captain of the Guard surfaced in his mind: Prince Oliver’s attempt to compromise Lady Thornwood failed. The lady conducted herself impeccably. Alexander allowed himself a short, soundless exhale—a breath laced with contempt for his brother's stupidity and... something like cold satisfaction. He had not chosen merely a political asset. He had chosen a person of character, of honor. It simplified the future. Though it did not make the personal aspect of the matter any less alien.

A wedding. Another state function in a long procession. But now, with the royal family fractured and scandal-ridden, this function needed to become a symbol of stability. His future wife, unlike the abstract "bride from the list," was a concrete individual. And, he believed, a reasonable one. But she was also a young woman. Alexander's logic suggested that for women, such things—dresses, ceremonies, dates—carried more weight than they inherently possessed. Perhaps she would find more ease if she took part in choosing the date. He was obligated to show this formal consideration. It, too, was part of his duty.

The decision came instantly. Setting his pen aside, he rose and, without donning his formal doublet, took the envelopes with the proposed dates and left the study. The long, deserted corridors at this hour led to Lady Thornwood's chambers. He knocked on the heavy door with firm, abrupt raps.

No answer came.

Frowning, he listened. Utter silence. His hand settled on the handle—the door was not locked. He pushed it open and crossed the threshold.

The room was submerged in an unfamiliar, almost ominous darkness. Thick velvet curtains were drawn tight. The air was still, smelling of wax and dried herbs. And then he noticed a faint halo of light in the far corner, by the dressing table. Several candles, arranged in a semicircle, were reflected in a large oval mirror.

Alexander took a few soundless steps forward.

On the floor before the mirror, illuminated only by that flickering light, she sat. His betrothed. In one hand she held a slender wax candle, in the other—a simple silver ring. Her gaze was fixed on her own reflection.

He froze, observing.

The most intelligent young woman he knew at court... and this? Maidservants' superstitions, divinations on the night before the solstice—all that nonsense he’d heard in passing. The thought that this very Lady Thornwood, who had coldly rebuffed his frivolous brother, was now secretly engaged in childish rituals was so paradoxical it chased all fatigue from his face, replacing it with keen interest.

He saw her shoulders tense, saw her gaze in the mirror meet his own reflection standing in the darkness behind her.

She turned sharply—and in her awkward movement, knocked the burning candle over onto the carpet.

Alexander’s actions were swift and devoid of panic. He did not rush to smother the flame with his hands. His gaze darted around the room, found a tall, narrow vase with winter blooms on a side table in the corner. In two strides he crossed the distance, seized the vase, and without a second thought, upended it, dousing the smoldering rug and the fallen candle with water and flowers alike.

A hiss, the smell of wet wool and char. The crisis was averted in seconds.

He set the empty vase down and straightened up, brushing a few droplets from his hand. His cold blue eyes returned to her.

"Well," he said, his tone even. "Divination never leads to anything good, as you can see. Don't take it as rudeness, but what exactly were you trying to divine? Surely not your betrothed? I thought that was already settled."

Not waiting for an immediate reply, he methodically, using his fingers unafraid of being burned, snuffed out all the other candles on the floor, leaving only the one farthest away alight. The room plunged into deeper gloom, their faces now lit by a single, trembling flame.

He looked at her again, his gaze sweeping over the wet stain on the carpet, the simple ring lying in a puddle, her face.

"I'm simply curious," Alexander continued, and in his voice there surfaced, for the first time, the faintest, most elusive note of something that could be mistaken for disappointment or bewilderment. "You struck me as more intelligent. I didn't think I would ever find you... engaged in fortune-telling."

The air that winter evening hummed with anticipation, laughter, and the scent of roasting chestnuts. The market lanes, strewn with garlands of multicolored glass spheres and ribbons, flowed like streams toward the shimmering heart of the celebration—the vast public ice rink at the fair's center. Every lantern, every decorated tree and column, was entwined with twinkling lights, making the snow sparkle. And reigning over this splendor, proud and magnificent, stood the festive fir, adorned with gilded pinecones, ruby-red baubles, and hundreds of tiny silk ribbons.

Alexander stood on a small wooden platform, watching as furs, velvet, and silks of the nobility mingled under the lights with the coarse but festive woolen coats and dresses of the townsfolk. Children crowded right against the carved wooden boards, their noses pressed to the rail, eyes alight with wonder. When his turn came, he delivered a brief, clear speech—a wish for light on the longest night and for joy beneath the winter stars. His voice, accustomed to commanding regiments, this time carried a measured warmth. And the moment he declared the rink open, the ice instantly came alive, filling with cheerful chatter, squeals, and the sound of gliding skates.

Descending from the platform, Alexander sought out Lady Thornwood with his gaze. Approaching her, he allowed himself a slight, almost imperceptible smile that only touched the corners of his eyes.

"Well then," he said, nodding toward the glittering expanse of ice. "I suppose duty obligates us not only to open the event but to personally assess the quality of the ice. What do you think?"

He gestured toward a free bench at the rink's edge. Not waiting for servants, he sat down beside it and began lacing up his own skates with the confidence of a man well-acquainted with the gear. Fastening the last strap, he turned to her.

"Allow me."

Without ceremony, yet with surprising care, he knelt before her. His large, strong hand took her foot to fit the skate, his movements quick and precise, devoid of fuss. As he tied the laces with a firm, secure knot, he cast a glance toward the lively rink.

"First rule," he stated, moving to the second foot, "is to steer clear of the most enthusiastic five-year-olds in the center. Their tactics on ice are alarmingly reminiscent of my northern regiments' cavalry charges."

Rising, he brushed a dusting of snow from his trousers and offered her his hand.

"Careful now. The first steps are always the most treacherous."

They stepped onto the ice, and Alexander, holding her firmly by the elbow, guided them along the boards, away from the shrieking chaos of children in the middle. His movements were restrained yet assured. Snow fell quietly around them, catching in their hair and on the shoulders of his dark coat. He tilted his head toward the laughing children, and a flicker of something appeared in his usually cold eyes.

"Strange thing. Ordinarily, all this clamor and jostling would grate on my nerves. But right now..." he made a wide, confident stride, leading her with him, "right now, it's... almost agreeable. But that stays between us, yes? The reputation of a stern crown prince is not so easily discarded."

He gave her elbow a slight, guiding squeeze as they eased into a gentle turn.

"Just, I beg you, do not fall. Explaining to my mother how my future bride acquired bruises is a challenge even I would rather avoid."

The carriage lurched sharply, skidding once more on the icy cobblestones. Alexander, bracing himself against the wall with one hand to keep his balance, heard a faint rustle, followed by something softly hitting the carriage floor. His gaze, instantly focused, fell upon a small, crumpled pamphlet that had slipped from the pocket of her sheepskin coat. He moved almost reflexively, his hand—faster—scooping up the booklet before she could reach for it.

"It seems you've dropped something," he began, intending merely to return the lost item, but the words died on his lips. His cold eyes skimmed the title. 'Astrology, Divinations, Solstice Horoscopes'. In the carriage's silence, broken only by the clatter of hooves and the wind's howl outside, a short, dry sound escaped him a cross between a cough and a stifled chuckle. He hadn't managed to suppress it. It was too unexpected, too... banal.

He settled back against the seat, ignoring her outstretched hand, and opened the brochure with slow, theatrical interest. The glow from the streetlamp outside illuminated cheap print, garish designs, and naive illustrations.

"Let's see what preoccupies my stern bride," he said, and a frank mockery crept into his even tone. He flipped through a few pages. "Tarot readings... Lady Thornwood? I wasn't aware such pursuits were popular in the Eastern Marches. Perhaps I should pay more attention to my subjects' interests. Maybe institute a position for a court astrologer?" He shot her a quick, appraising glance, trying to gauge a reaction, but pressed on without pausing.

His fingers turned a few more pages. "Ah, a more serious section. Horoscopes and compatibility. How fascinating." His tone remained ironic, yet now seemed a shade warmer. "My sister adored this sort of nonsense. Interpreted every line as holy scripture." A faint shadow—a memory of Annora's laughter over such booklets, and then her flight—flickered in his eyes but was instantly suppressed. He refocused on the text before him. "And what does it say here about our compatibility?" there was a smile in his voice as he continued to skim the pamphlet's contents. His lips twitched again. He pictured the absurdity of it: the Crown Prince, whose fate seemed predetermined from birth and clearer than anything else in Turandor, now studying predictions based on star alignments for... whom? For himself and this girl sitting across from him, trying to maintain her composure.

He didn't read any specific passage aloud—the content was so primitive it offered nothing substantial to latch onto. Instead, he simply perused the brochure slowly, page by page, occasionally letting out low, restrained chuckles. Every naive piece of advice ("be cautious in financial matters," "pleasant encounters await you," "Virgos can expect a pleasant meeting today, while Geminis should brace for betrayal") seemed ludicrous against the backdrop of their reality: a political marriage, a brother's betrayal, a sister's flight, a prisoner of war in a dungeon.

Finally, having exhausted all its "content," he snapped the pamphlet shut. He extended it to her, holding it by the corner as if it might soil his fingers.

"Your reading material, my lady," he said, his voice calm again, with only traces of laughter lingering in it.

It was at that precise moment the light from a streetlamp fell upon her face. He saw not the embarrassment he might have expected, but something else. Tightly pressed lips. A shadow cast sharply by a furrowed brow. A silent, yet perfectly clear flare of irritation, even vexation. She didn't snatch the booklet back but took it, and that movement was sharp and far too telling.

His own fleeting smirk vanished completely. His eyes narrowed, studying her reaction. This simple, stupid piece of paper hadn't elicited an embarrassed giggle from her, but genuine displeasure. Why? Because he'd invaded her personal, however silly, space? Because he hadn't taken her interest seriously? Or was there something in this drivel that mattered to her?

He tilted his head slightly, his piercing gaze unwavering on her face.

"What is it, Lady Thornwood?" he asked, and his tone now held no mockery, only curiosity. He had seen her reaction—he was no fool—and now he was interested to know what exactly he had done wrong.