The formal gardens of House Taervis had been transformed into something worthy of the oldest songs of the Winter Court.
Ancient frost oaks stretched their silver-white branches across the sweeping lawns, each one adorned with floating faelights that drifted lazily amongst the leaves like captive stars. Beneath their enchanted glow, ivory silk marquees billowed gently in the summer breeze, their open sides revealing tables dressed in crystal, polished silver and lace as delicate as spider silk.
Towering arrangements of white winter roses spilled from cut-glass vases between glittering candelabras, while lengths of shimmering fabric swept gracefully around the pavilion poles, catching the light whenever the wind stirred them.
At the heart of the largest marquee stood an elaborate six-tier wedding cake adorned with spun sugar snowflakes and edible blossoms so perfectly crafted they appeared freshly gathered from the gardens themselves. Beyond it, a polished dance floor awaited the evening's festivities, where an orchestra quietly tuned their instruments beneath another canopy, the gentle melodies of harp and violin already drifting across the estate.
The marriage between House Taervis and House Baethera had become one of the most anticipated social occasions of the Summer Season. Nobles from every influential House of the Winter Court wandered the gardens with crystal goblets of sparkling elderflower wine in hand, their conversations weaving together beneath the music as liveried servants glided effortlessly amongst them.
Beneath an archway woven from white roses, silver ivy and flowering moonvine stood the groom, Jodryn Taervis. Tall, broad-shouldered and effortlessly handsome, he laughed easily with the gentlemen standing beside him, his confidence untouched by the hundreds of noble eyes gathered to witness his marriage.
Around the altar, members of House Taervis greeted the assembled guests of House Baethera while representatives of the oldest Winter Court Houses settled into their seats, the quiet murmur of conversation gradually giving way to an expectant hush as the ceremony prepared to begin.
Hidden behind an embroidered privacy screen beside the waiting carriage, Lady Minevis Baethera fussed endlessly over her daughter's gown.
"Just leave it," Niava whispered with a soft laugh as her mother attempted, yet again, to smooth the train of her gown. "Truly, Mother, it's perfect."
Lady Minevis shook her head, her brow furrowed with determined concentration as she adjusted a fold that refused to exist. "The lace isn't lying properly."
"It most certainly is."
"It isn't."
"It is."
Lysara smiled despite herself.
"You look breathtaking," she assured her friend, meeting Niava's eyes in the mirror held patiently by the maid of honour. The gown truly was magnificent. Layers of ivory silk flowed together like fresh snow drifting across a frozen lake, while delicate silver embroidery climbed the bodice in twisting patterns of frost and moonflowers. Every tiny crystal stitched amongst the thread caught the afternoon light, scattering it across the dressing area like droplets of water.
Lady Minevis, however, remained unconvinced.
Before another imaginary imperfection could be discovered, Lysara stepped gently between mother and daughter.
"My Lady," she said warmly, reaching towards the older woman's shoulder. "I think your corsage has turned."
"Oh?"
Lady Minevis immediately forgot the gown.
"It must have happened when I embraced Niava."
"I believe so."
Lysara carefully straightened the white winter rose pinned to Lady Minevis's bodice before brushing away an invisible fleck of lint from the rich sapphire silk of her sleeve. Stepping back, she gave an approving nod.
"There. Now the mother of the bride looks every bit as elegant as her daughter."
Lady Minevis coloured with pleased embarrassment, instinctively smoothing her skirts instead.
"You are a dreadful flatterer."
"I only paint what I see."
Niava laughed.
Lysara stooped to straighten the little flower girl's skirts before smoothing a ribbon that had slipped beneath her curls. Satisfied, she rose as the remaining bridesmaids gathered around them, each carrying bouquets of white roses, moon lilies and silver eucalyptus.
A neatly dressed wedding coordinator appeared around the edge of the embroidered screen.
"We're ready at the altar," she announced brightly, her gaze sweeping over the assembled bridal party before she smiled in satisfaction. "Perfect. I'll signal the musicians."
As she disappeared once more, the first delicate notes of the harp drifted through the gardens.
Lysara drew a slow, steadying breath, settling her bouquet against the pale blue silk of her gown exactly as she had been shown during rehearsal. Ahead of her, the flower girls stepped into the afternoon sunlight, scattering white petals across the stone path as they began their solemn procession towards the waiting guests. The bridesmaids followed a heartbeat later.
The moment Lysara emerged from behind the privacy screen, it felt as though the eyes of the entire Winter Court had settled upon her.
Her stomach tightened.
Don't be foolish, she scolded herself, fixing her attention on the music. They're looking at the procession. At the flowers. At Niava's wedding. Not at you.
She matched her footsteps to the measured rhythm of the harp, allowing the familiar melody to quiet the fluttering beneath her ribs. By the time she reached the altar, her breathing had steadied once more.
Her gaze drifted briefly across the assembled nobility until she found her parents seated a few rows from the front. Theron Ashwyn caught her eye and smiled with quiet pride, while Elowen Ashwyn lifted her fingers in the smallest of waves. Lysara returned the smile before turning her attention back to the bride.
Niava's composure was admirable, though Lysara knew her well enough to recognise the nervous excitement shining behind her radiant smile. Every graceful step carried her farther from the House that had raised her and closer to the family she would now call her own.
Among the guests seated closest to the altar, Lord and Lady Eastern occupied places of honour beside the royal family.
Lysara's gaze lingered on them for a moment, curiosity drawing her eyes as surely as admiration. She had heard the stories, of course. Every noble in the Winter Court had. Yet none of them had prepared her for the quiet reality before her.
Lord Eastern was every bit as imposing as rumour suggested. Dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, he sat with an effortless stillness that somehow made him seem more commanding than those who constantly sought attention. His silver eyes wandered occasionally across the assembled Houses with the measured caution of a man who had learned, through bitter experience, that appearances within the Winter Court were seldom what they seemed.
Princess Kaethriel, by contrast, appeared entirely absorbed by the ceremony. Her luminous eyes glistened with unshed tears as she watched Niava approach the altar. Beside her, Lord Eastern's expression softened almost imperceptibly as his hand found hers, his thumb brushing absently across her knuckles. She smiled up at him with such uncomplicated affection that Lysara felt almost embarrassed to have witnessed the private tenderness of the moment.
Perhaps the old stories were true after all.
Perhaps soul-bonds really did look like that.
The High Priestess began the ceremony, and Lysara returned her attention to the vows.
It lasted only a moment.
Her gaze wandered.
A gentleman seated a little farther along the front row had turned his head.
Green eyes met hers across the gathering.
He smiled.
It was no more than the smallest curve of his mouth, accompanied by the slightest inclination of his head, yet the simple courtesy caught her completely off guard. Her breath caught unexpectedly, and for one absurd moment she forgot the words of the vows entirely.
He was, she decided, quite the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
Golden hair framed features of effortless symmetry, the clean line of his jaw and high aristocratic cheekbones recalling the marble sculptures of old. Sunlight caught amongst the loose strands escaping the ribbon at the nape of his neck, warming them into burnished gold against the dark fabric of his suit. She found herself thinking, absurdly, of Apollo, though even the old god would surely have envied such effortless perfection.
The applause startled her.
Niava and Jodryn had exchanged their vows.
Heat flooded her cheeks.
Merciful heavens...
She had scarcely looked away from him throughout the entire ceremony.
Embarrassed, she lowered her eyes, acutely aware that had he looked her way again, he would almost certainly have caught her staring.
As the royal photographer gathered the bridal party for their formal portraits, Lysara's attention betrayed her once again, wandering across the assembled guests until it found him.
He accepted two crystal flutes of sparkling elderflower wine from a passing servant before offering one to a strikingly beautiful young woman standing beside him. She laughed, tossing her sleek dark hair from her shoulder, and he answered with an easy smile that transformed the quiet nobility of his features into something unexpectedly boyish. His laughter drifted lightly across the gardens, warm and unrestrained, and she found herself smiling in response before she even realised she was doing so.
The woman beside him was breathtakingly elegant. Her crimson gown clung to her graceful figure, while lips of the same rich colour curved around another laugh. Dark wings of kohl swept from the corners of her eyes, giving her beauty a confidence that Lysara had often admired in other women but had never quite possessed herself.
"Miss Ashwyn."
The photographer's gentle reminder recalled her to the present.
Lysara smiled obediently as the portraits were taken, forcing herself to concentrate upon the careful arrangement of hands and flowers rather than allowing her gaze to stray once more. By the time the final photograph had been taken and the bridesmaids were released, she looked instinctively towards the place where he had been standing.
He had disappeared.
Only the elegant young woman remained, crossing towards the orchestra. A moment later she accepted a waiting microphone, and as the musicians began to play, her rich, smoky voice drifted through the gardens, threaded with just enough glamour to leave the assembled guests smiling dreamily as they listened.
The wedding planner relieved the bridesmaids of their bouquets before inviting them to join the celebrations.
"Lysara."
She turned at the familiar warmth of her mother's voice.
Her parents were making their way towards her through the gathering.
Walking beside them...
Him.
Her pulse stumbled.
He was even more striking at close quarters. His golden hair had been tied neatly at the nape of his neck with a simple black ribbon, though several rebellious strands had already escaped to soften the perfect lines of his face. For one thoroughly improper moment she found herself wondering what it might feel like to loosen that ribbon herself and watch the silken strands tumble free beneath her fingers.
The thought caught her so completely by surprise that another followed almost immediately, vivid enough to steal the breath from her lungs. She imagined him leaning over her, his hair falling untidily around his face as sunlight gilded every golden strand, those remarkable features softened by a smile meant only for her.
Heat blossomed across her cheeks.
Gods.
"Mama. Papa." She leaned forward to exchange kisses with her parents, praying neither of them noticed the furious pounding of her heart.
"Hello."
His smile was easy as he stepped forward, taking her hand with the effortless confidence of someone born to the oldest circles of the Winter Court.
His fingers closed gently around hers.
The sensation was unlike anything Lysara had expected. There was no dazzling rush of ancient magic, no blinding revelation worthy of the songs sung about soul-bonds beneath the Eternal Flame. Instead, something stirred quietly inside her, so subtle she might have mistaken it for imagination had it not spread steadily through her chest, settling there with the curious certainty of recognising a place she had somehow always belonged. The invisible thread she had almost imagined during the ceremony drew gently taut between them, and the simple touch stole the breath from her lungs.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Lysara."
"And you," she heard herself reply, though every carefully practised greeting her governess had ever insisted upon had deserted her. Instead, she found herself studying him with an attention that bordered upon impropriety. His eyes were extraordinary—not merely green, but layered with subtle variations of colour that reminded her of sunlight filtering through ancient cedar forests after rain. Flecks of warm gold caught the afternoon light whenever he moved, and she found herself wondering, absurdly, how she might ever recreate them upon canvas. Viridian alone would never suffice. The depth demanded warmer undertones, translucent washes layered patiently until the colour seemed almost alive.
She realised, with growing horror, that she had been examining him exactly as she would a portrait sitting.
"Lysara."
Her father's voice broke gently through her thoughts, amusement lingering beneath the single word. She blinked, finally dragging her attention away from the remarkable stranger to find both her parents watching her with expressions they were making no effort whatsoever to disguise. Her mother’s smile had become decidedly knowing, while her father looked dangerously close to laughing aloud.
"My apologies," he said, turning back towards the gentleman beside him. "I fear my daughter has become completely distracted."
The gentleman laughed softly, the sound carrying none of the arrogance Lysara might have expected from one of the Winter Court's most eligible bachelors.
"I shall choose to take that as a compliment."
"I suspect you should," her father replied, his own smile widening. "Lysara, allow me to introduce Lord Daevyn Vale, heir to House Vale."
The name settled quietly beside the strange certainty already taking root within her.
Daevyn Vale.
It suited him.
She suspected she would remember it for the rest of her life.