Suddenly, a high-ranking northern ambassador stepped forward, raising his golden goblet toward the high table. "A toast!" the man boomed, his face flushed from drink. "To the upcoming mid-winter union! May the marriage of the Prince of the North and the Empress Regent bring a century of shared blood, shared strength, and absolute peace to both our lands!"
The entire hall erupted into a roaring cheer, hundreds of voices shouting their agreement, goblets clashing together in a deafening wave of sound.
'Shared blood. Shared strength.'
Julian felt a bitter, suffocating knot tighten in his throat. He forced his lips into a flawless, polite smile, lifting his glass to mirror the ambassador's gesture. But as he swallowed the wine, it tasted like pure ash. There was no shared strength here. There was no mutual union. There was only a cold, unbreakable legal contract—and a woman who would return to the arms of her loyal commanders the moment the palace doors closed for the night.
