"We should go out," said James for the umpteenth time, waving his quill around like a magic wand.

"Put that thing down; you'll stain the upholstery." Marrok crossed his legs. The light in his chambers had been turned low, by his request. After a whole day of suit fittings and final wedding preparations, Marrok had no desire to go and sit by while James got smashed with a lady of a lower house that just so happened to be at the same bar. Besides, it was never wise to go and get drunk on the eve of a royal wedding.

It was all the servants had talked about as they milled about the palace. The queen was particularly excited for this event, if her devotion and careful planning were any indication. She had even been present at Marrok's final fitting, dressed in her own attire for the reception that would follow the wedding itself. The style, of course, was all her own; her red hair had been teased up in an elaborate updo reminiscent of the French royalty back in ancient times. With the roses, she reminded Marrok of the queen who had been guillotined during the revolution. Aisha had a particular fondness for the exuberant lifestyle of Marie-Antoinette.

"I do not wish to leave the palace tonight," said Marrok.

"Why not? If I were you, I'd take the time to relish in my last night of single life."

"You're acting as if this changes anything. Just because I'm married doesn't mean that my loyalty lies with my wife." The prince shrugged. "And with a bride like Jannali, I'll have a mistress within the next week, just you watch."

Marrok didn't really mean this. He had much more pressing matters on his mind than who was going to warm his bed at night, with his father discussing the idea of having Marrok rule in the king's council in preparation for when he himself would become Luna's sovereign. A mistress would have wait at least a month or so.

"So. You coming or not?"

Marrok smiled. "Go home, James."


Cynthia had roused Jannali at the crack of dawn, and she was run through the most vigorous bath that she had endured in a while. Her skin was tingly and red all over as the maids pulled at her hair and twisted it into tight curls. Jannali tried to complain; what was the point of going through this nonsense when she could very easily glamour her hair into a silver masterpiece? She was quickly silenced as her corset was tightened around her, and she instead managed a wheeze. Her anger was apparent to all who attended to her, especially Lady Hortense, her new mistress of the household. Jannali had disliked her immediately, and came to call her 'Madame Etiquette'.

"My Lady, you mustn't slouch. We can't fit you properly into your gown the way you stand," said Madame Etiquette.

Jannali pursed her lips. She was being difficult on purpose! From the beginning, she had made no secret of her distaste for her wedding gown, a hideous poufy thing that blended with the white skin of her glamour. From the neckline to her waist there was an ocean of lace, and ribbons had been stitched on every available surface. She felt like a cake topper, and rather wished that she could attend the ceremony naked.

She was told to smile. This is your wedding day. Shouldn't you be elated, Milady?

But smiling was the last thing Jannali wanted to do. The night before had been devoted to a good prospect, a bachelorette party of sorts, she had mused. Because of this, she had not returned home until the small hours of the night, and she was certain that there was evidence of her sleep deprivation beneath her glamour. Crabby was the word one would use to describe her—every movement was rough and screamed of annoyance. She had no appreciation for weddings, and her own was no exception. No, but she looked forward to after, when she and the prince were wed.

The ride to the palace was endured in silence. Cynthia remained silent for once, much to her daughter's relief. Jannali observed the crowds lined up along the streets with a hawk's eye. They pelted the hover with flowers and regolith dust, as was custom for the bride's procession. The bride herself buried her head in her hands. It was beyond embarrassing. Don't these people have anything better to do?

When the hover came to a stop outside the palace's main entrance, Jannali was escorted down the halls to the chapel, in the parlour where she'd finish primping up for the ceremony. Two guards flanked her sides, and annoyance raged in her, although she knew that this was only the beginning. As soon as she walked out of the wedding hall on the prince's arm, she would be escorted by an army of palace staff everywhere she went until the day she died. Well, not if she could help it, of course. They wouldn't be coming prospecting, that much was for certain.

"Please, right this way," said the guard, opening the door for her. Jannali brushed past him. "Should you need anything at all, simply call for your handmaidens. They are waiting right in the next room." The guard smiled. "You look beautiful, My Lady. And, know for certain, I do look forward to calling you my princess."

"Thank you," Jannali whispered. And when the guard left her side, she snorted. It wasn't anything new—since the declaration of her engagement anyone and everyone had been brown-nosing the young queen-to-be. But that guard in particular seemed to hint at something more than simple ass-kissing; Jannali made a mental note of him.

The room that she entered was very cold. Each tile on the floor was different, displaying one rich colour after another. Wide pillars supported the ceiling, quartz giving way to marble, marble giving way to onyx, regolith and granite. She caught sight of her reflection in the large mirror on the wall. She cocked her head, immediately intrigued by its strange design. It stood ominous, taller than even Serenity, her gargantuan lady-in-waiting. It was framed in silver that was tarnished with age. The metal had been crafted into elaborate scrolls with a prominent crown centered at the top. On the sides, silver flowers and thorny branches entwined around the frame, looking as though they were growing out from behind the mirror, like they would someday engulf it entirely.

As she noted with revulsion how hideous her wedding gown was, Jannali found that she grew fond of the mirror. Once she was the princess she would ask the king for it as a wedding gift.

From outside, could hear the echo of an organ. The orchestra and chorus must've been doing a sound check. In a small act of rebellion, she tore off the layer of bows that lined the edge of her gown, already feeling a little less ridiculous. If her entourage noticed, they didn't comment during the walk down into the antechamber. Once there, she was fussed over a little more by Madame Etiquette and a sumptuous bouquet of white lilies was put in her hand.

The music grew louder in the hall, indicating their cue. Jannali had been given the option to have a bridal party—she politely declined, in part because she didn't want to bother with any details of the ceremony, but mostly because she didn't really have any friends to be part of her bridal party. On top of being a bore, she also had the reputation of being a cold recluse.

The grand doors opened, and the bright light nearly disarmed the bride. If it weren't for her steady posture, she would've fallen to the ground in a blinded mess. Jannali forced herself not to shoo away the young boys that held her train for her as she made her way down the chapel. The march was slow and the aisle was long, nearly endless, and then, at last, at last, she was met with Marrok's open hand. In a symbol as old as the world, Jannali placed her own hand within the prince's. His indifference was exhilarating; undoing him is going to be so much fun, she tittered to herself.

She willed herself to be cold and unfeeling as they both turned to the officiant. The man's words were a blur in Jannali's ears as her stomach did somersaults. Marrok was a statue, as cold and as smooth as marble. Jannali remembered him as he truly was; tall with a mess of red curls, warm brown eyes, freckles covering every scrap of skin she could see. His glamour was that of a golden-haired Adonis, to which she felt no attraction. But the scrawny prince that she had encountered on the street with fear in his eyes made her burn with lust and anticipation.

The officiant spoke of the importance of their union, of the magnitude of the occasion, of the joining of two hearts. The customary golden ribbon was wrapped around both their forearms. Their vows were traditional words that had been spoken a million times before. "I, Marrok Blackburn," the prince slipped a wedding band on her finger, and she shivered with pleasure. "Take you, Jannali Delacourt, to be my wife and queen. You will be my stars at night and my sun at dawn, and I promise to love and cherish you for the rest of our days."

Barely able to control her shaking hand, Jannali took the second band from the ring-bearer and put it on Marrok's own finger. "I, Jannali Delacourt, take you, Marrok Blackburn, to be my husband and king. You will be my stars at night and my sun at dawn, and I promise to love and cherish..." She smiled slightly, her fantasies becoming even more violent. "I promise to love and cherish you for the rest of our days."

A hush fell upon the nobles in the pews as the officiant declared them man and wife. There was a grand pause that felt like it belonged in a Mozart concerto, tense with anticipation. In Marrok's eyes, indecisiveness and protocol battled for dominance. In the end, it was clear who won out; he gently tipped Jannali's head back and pressed his lips to hers.

Jannali took him by surprise as she threw her arms over his shoulder, deepening the kiss with ferocity. Had they seen this, everyone would have acted shocked at her display of affection, but there was no reaction of any kind from the congregation. Jannali made sure of it.

Then, she bit his lip.

With a yelp, Marrok wrenched her away. Jannali turned and smiled; as the room rang with applause and cheer, she thought of how pretty he would look with a 'J' carved into his ankle.