Everyone in the grand hall raised their glasses in a toast.
The nobles smiled with grace.
The servants scattered flower petals.
And a little girl stood at the altar, wearing a gown far too heavy for her delicate shoulders.
They called it sweet—that early marriage was a symbol of loyalty.
They praised her for safeguarding noble blood.
But Leonhart did not praise her.
He did not look at them.
He did not even touch the girl's hand—until the priest formally asked him to.
"With this, you are now the Lady De Vare," said the old voice, echoing through the grand chamber.
And Leonhart felt as though he had been cursed.
He did not believe in noble love.
Nor in promises written on family contracts.
But he believed in his friend—and now, that belief had turned into a duty he could not refuse.
A young wife.
A great name.
And a man who had no idea how to start a relationship…
without hurting one of them.