The carriage ride was too quiet to be called peaceful.
Sarisa sat with her back straight against the velvet seat, one gloved hand resting on the window frame, and watched the city move past in pieces of color and stone.
The afternoon sun caught on the upper towers of the palace, on market awnings, on the polished roofs of merchant houses and the pale marble faces of shrines. Ordinarily, she liked looking at the capital from a carriage.
From this distance it became something almost manageable, a painted thing made of lines and light instead of duty and history and hands always reaching for her.
Today it only looked like another place she was trapped inside.
Her mother sat opposite her, composed as ever, a figure of silver and quiet authority who managed to make even a moving carriage feel like a throne room. Vaelen sat at the queen's right, immaculate, careful, his injured face finally beginning to lose its more dramatic colors.
The bruise along his jaw had gone from vivid to ugly, which somehow made him look even more sincere. He held himself with that same patient gentleness that had begun to make Sarisa's skin itch.
No one had spoken for the first ten minutes.
Sarisa had been grateful for that.
Then the queen, because silence could never simply be silence in her presence, said, "The jeweler has prepared several suitable sets. You will choose something that reflects the dignity of the crown."
Sarisa did not turn from the window. "How fortunate."
The queen's mouth thinned. "Sarisa."
"What?" Sarisa asked, finally looking back. "You wanted me to come. I am here."
Vaelen, poor fool, mistook that for an opening. "It need not be such an unpleasant task," he said gently. "Rings are meant to symbolize something joyful."
Sarisa looked at him for one moment too long, and the weight of that sentence nearly made her laugh. Joyful. As if she were on her way to pick flowers.
As if there were not a woman she loved barred from the realm while she sat here in a carriage with the man she was expected to marry.
She smiled, because she knew how to do that on command. "Then let us hope I develop a taste for symbolism in the next quarter hour."
Vaelen's smile faltered, just enough to be satisfying.
Her mother ignored the exchange. "This is not an errand to be mocked. Rings endure. People will study them, sketch them, speak of their meaning. You do not simply choose the first pretty thing handed to you."
Sarisa folded her hands in her lap. Internally, she thought: fuck it, maybe I do.
If she saw the first ring and it was made of actual glass and attached to a curse that would make her hand fall off, she might still say yes just to end this miserable procession of wedding tasks.
In the last month she had been measured for three gowns she did not want, listened to endless conversations about seating and music and embroidery, and watched her own life reduced to choices between white silk and ivory silk, roses or lilies, gold thread or silver.
The idea that the ring should now matter deeply felt less like romance and more like punishment with gemstones.
The carriage rolled to a slower pace, turning off the main avenue into one of the wealthier districts.
Here the streets were cleaner, the buildings lower and more ostentatious, their windows full of curated beauty. Jewelers, perfumers, tailors, antique dealers. All the places royals visited when they wanted their misery lined in velvet.
Sarisa looked out just in time to see their destination come into view.
The jeweler's shop had no sign because it did not need one. Its reputation was older than most family names.
The façade was pale stone, carved with delicate sunbursts and crescent vines. Two discreet guards in Celestian silver stood outside, pretending not to watch for gossip. The moment the carriage stopped, attendants moved at once to open the doors.
Vaelen stepped down first and turned to offer Sarisa his hand.
She took it because not taking it would create a scene, and she was tired enough already. His grip was warm and careful. The kind of touch that made no demands and yet still felt like expectation.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and polished metal. Lamps hung behind frosted crystal shades, filling the room with a soft golden glow designed to flatter jewels and the people wearing them. Everything gleamed. Glass cabinets.
Velvet-lined trays. Mirrors cut so perfectly they seemed to vanish until one caught her reflection and reminded her she was here.
The master jeweler was already waiting, bent nearly in half with his bow. He was old and elegant in the brittle way of men who had spent decades serving wealth without ever truly belonging to it. His hands were gloved in pale kid leather.
"Your Majesty. Your Highness. Prince Vaelen." He straightened with a practiced smile. "It is an honor."
Sarisa wanted to tell him it was not his fault and she still hated being here.
Instead she inclined her head and let herself be guided to a private chamber at the back of the shop, where rings waited in rows on dark velvet like tiny, glittering traps.
There were too many.
That was Sarisa's first real thought when the first tray was set before them. Too many circles of gold and platinum and moonstone and diamond and pearl. Some delicate, some elaborate, some so solemn they looked like coronation relics.
All of them designed to say forever in a language made of money.
Her mother leaned forward immediately, examining them with the calm scrutiny she brought to military reports.
Vaelen stood slightly behind Sarisa's chair, as if trying to give her room while still making it clear he was part of this selection.
The jeweler began to speak, voice rich with pride. "This set was forged with braided silver and white gold to symbolize unity between houses. These here are inset with matched moonstones for constancy. This pair, a more traditional design, bears a sunburst motif with—"
Sarisa stopped listening halfway through "constancy."
Her eyes drifted over the tray, unfocused. The first ring in the first row was plain compared to the rest.
White gold, narrow but elegant, with a single pale stone set low and without fuss. It looked almost modest. Tired. The sort of ring a woman might choose if she wanted to spend as little time as possible thinking about what it meant.
Perfect.
"That one," Sarisa said.
The jeweler stopped. "Your Highness?"
She pointed. "That one."
There was a beat of silence.
The queen looked up sharply. "You have not even heard the full presentation."
"I do not need the full presentation."
"You have seen only one tray."
"Yes."
Vaelen, who at least had the good sense to look uncertain rather than offended, said gently, "Sarisa, there is no need to rush. We can take the time."
That nearly did make her laugh.
Take the time. As if time were not exactly what had been stolen from her one neat piece at a time.
Sarisa looked at the ring again. Clean lines. No sentimental carving. No ornate promise. Just something bright enough to satisfy the court and quiet enough not to insult her intelligence.
"It is suitable," she said. "Elegant. Practical. It will do."
Her mother's expression cooled by a degree. "A wedding ring is not chosen on the basis of 'it will do.'"
Sarisa turned in her chair then, slowly, and met her gaze. "Most of the wedding itself was chosen without me at all. Forgive me if I lack the energy to pretend this particular decision is sacred."
The jeweler instantly found the far wall fascinating.
Vaelen shifted, clearly caught between wanting to soothe and knowing any attempt would likely make it worse. "If you truly like it," he said, "then I do as well."
There was kindness in that. There always was. It only made Sarisa more tired.
She looked at the ring one last time and thought of Lara's hands. Scarred knuckles. Yellow fire. The way she had once kissed Sarisa's palm like it was a vow.
Then she looked back at the plain white band and thought, with a numb kind of fury: fuck it.
"Yes," she said. "I choose the first one."