The first lesson of pretending to be in love is this:
Everyone believes it faster than you do.
"Relax your shoulders," Axel murmurs, voice low enough that only I can hear.
We're standing at the top of the grand staircase, the ballroom spread below us like a jeweled sea. Music swells from the orchestra, light pours from a hundred chandeliers, and every important person from both kingdoms has gathered beneath our feet.
Iris nobles in shimmering silks.
Darkstorm lords in severe coats and sharp eyes.
All waiting.
All watching.
I swallow and force my shoulders to drop half an inch.
Axel's hand rests lightly at the small of my back. It's a polite touch—proper, appropriate.
It feels anything but.
"This is ridiculous," I whisper through my smile.
"Completely," he agrees. "But if you stop smiling now, my mother will have a heart attack and that will cause an international crisis."
I bite back a laugh.
"Ready, Princess?" he asks.
No.
"Yes," I say.
He tilts his head, studying me for a brief second, as if weighing whether I mean it. Then he offers his arm.
"Lesson one," he murmurs. "Descend as if there's nowhere else you'd rather be than next to me."
"That sounds like torture," I mutter, looping my hand through his arm anyway.
He huffs out a breath that might almost be a laugh.
"Welcome to royal life," he says. "Smile."
We step forward together.
The herald's staff strikes the marble three times.
"Presenting His Highness Prince Axel of Darkstorm," the announcer booms, "and Her Highness Princess Rome of Iris, future sovereigns of the Unified Realms."
The titles echo through the vast ballroom, rolling over polished floors and velvet-draped balconies.
Future sovereigns.
The words sit heavy in my chest.
"I hate that phrasing," I murmur.
"Same," Axel says under his breath, then lifts our joined hands slightly, as if to show us off. "Wave, Your Highness. Pretend you adore them."
I lift my free hand in a graceful little wave, the way I've been trained to since I could walk. My lips curve into the practiced, serene smile that's been drilled into me over a lifetime of ceremonies.
But tonight, there's something different.
Because tonight, it's not just my people watching.
It's his.
Darkstorm banners hang side by side with Iris flags along the walls. The effect is bizarre—blood-red and storm-dark fabric framed by Iris's pale gold and blue.
It looks like a painting of a war trying to convince itself it's a wedding.
We start down the steps.
Axel leans in, his mouth close to my ear.
"Lesson two," he murmurs. "Every time you feel like running, squeeze my arm instead."
"That's going to be a lot of squeezing," I reply.
"Good," he says. "Maybe then I'll know what's happening in that terrifying head of yours."
I snort softly, but obediently tighten my grip as we take another step.
Several sets of eyes track our every movement.
I recognize Iris nobles I've seen at court all my life—all soft smiles and glittering jewels. But interspersed among them are the Darkstorm lords Lucia warned me about.
Lord Kerren, with his narrow mouth and permanent frown.
Lady Mirelle, whose loyalty blows colder than their winters.
And General Vargan, the one with the scar along his cheek, who watches like every chandelier could be a threat.
None of them smile.
Axel feels my hand tighten.
"Don't look at them," he says quietly. "Look at me."
I glance up, startled.
His eyes are already on me, dark and steady.
"That's counterproductive," I whisper. "You're the reason they're sharpening knives."
He shrugs one shoulder, the slightest movement. "If they want to see a performance, give them one. Make them believe you'd burn them all before you'd let them touch me."
Something hot and sharp flickers in my chest.
"I might," I say.
"There you go," he murmurs. "Channel that."
We reach the bottom of the staircase.
A hush falls over the room.
For a heartbeat, all I can hear is the echo of our steps and the pounding of my own heart.
Then the orchestra swells again.
The first notes of a waltz drift through the air, delicate as spun sugar.
"Time for lesson three," Axel says.
"If it's 'don't step on my feet,' I make no promises," I reply.
He turns to face me, his expression softening in a way I'm not sure is rehearsed.
"Lesson three," he says. "When we dance, there is no one else in this room."
"That's not how sight works," I say, but my voice comes out breathless.
His lips twitch.
"Just try," he says, extending his hand.
I place my fingers in his.
His other hand finds the small of my back again, firmer this time, guiding me onto the floor as the crowd parts around us.
A circle opens.
Future sovereigns, on display.
The first dance is ours.
The world narrows to the feel of his palm against my spine, the warm press of his fingers curling around mine, the faint scent of smoke and clean linen clinging to his jacket.
"One, two, three," he murmurs, leading me into the waltz.
My skirts swirl around us like liquid light. The crystals overhead sparkle with every turn, catching in my unpinned curls from this afternoon's garden debacle. I never did let them fully re-tame my hair.
Iris, unruly.
Darkstorm, watching.
"See?" he says quietly, eyes not leaving mine. "Not so bad."
"So far," I say. "No one's thrown a dagger yet."
His mouth curves.
"Give it time," he says. "It's early."
"Reassuring," I mutter.
We turn, the room spinning in a blur of color and candlelight.
For a heartbeat, it almost feels like the only people here are the two of us.
"Lesson four," Axel says as we glide past a cluster of stiff Darkstorm lords. "When someone you despise is watching, smile your sweetest and pretend I just whispered something scandalous in your ear."
"Have you?" I ask.
"Not yet," he says. "I'm saving those for private rehearsals."
Heat creeps up my neck.
I do as he says anyway.
We pass Lord Kerren. I catch his eye over Axel's shoulder and let my lips curve into my most demure smile, tilting my head as if Axel has just promised to kiss me senseless behind some pillar.
Kerren's mouth tightens.
He doesn't like this.
Good.
We turn again.
Lucia watches from a raised dais, her expression unreadable.
My father stands beside my mother, their hands almost-but-not-quite touching. She dabs at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief; he murmurs something I can't hear.
They look like a painting of a love story that survived.
For a moment, I can't breathe.
"This is harder than battle," I whisper.
"You're doing well," Axel replies.
He spins me under his arm, bringing me back against his chest in one smooth motion.
The world blurs again.
This time, I let it.
By the time the first dance ends, my cheeks ache from smiling.
The crowd claps politely as we step back, bowing and curtsying.
"Breathe," Axel murmurs.
"I am breathing," I hiss.
"Liar," he says.
He's right.
A procession of nobles begins to approach, all eager to offer congratulations, blessings, and thinly veiled opinions.
Lady Mirelle curtsies low, her dark eyes cool.
"Your Highness," she says to Axel. "You dance even better when your future depends on it."
"Perhaps I should have been dancing more often," he replies. "Might have saved us a smaller war bill."
Her lips tighten.
She turns to me.
"And you, Princess Rome," she says, her tone almost sweet. "Darkstorm has never seen such a…radiant bride."
I smile.
"Careful," I say pleasantly. "If you flatter me too much, your lords will start rumors that you prefer Iris customs."
Her eyes flash, just for a second.
Then she inclines her head and moves on.
"Nicely done," Axel murmurs.
"Lesson five," I say. "Smile while you stab."
He chuckles under his breath.
We're halfway through the receiving line when it happens.
The near-miss.
The first dangerous moment.
"Your Highness."
The voice is smooth, masculine, unfamiliar.
We both turn.
A young man stands before us, perhaps a few years older than me. He's dressed in Darkstorm black, but the cut of his coat is a little too fine, the embroidery on his cuffs a little too elaborate for a simple lord.
His hair is dark blond, his eyes a curious pale grey that seem to miss nothing.
He bows—first to Axel, then to me.
"Lord Cassian of House Rydel," he introduces himself. "It is an honor to finally meet the woman brave enough to marry into my king's house."
There's a faint edge of mockery under the word brave.
"You assume it's bravery," I say lightly. "Perhaps I simply enjoy a challenge."
"Ah," he says, lips curling. "Then you will never be bored."
Something about him puts me on edge, though I can't say why.
Axel's posture changes almost imperceptibly beside me—shoulders a fraction tenser, jaw a shade tighter.
"Cassian," he says. "I didn't think your family would attend."
"Even we can recognize history when we see it," Cassian replies. He turns his attention fully to me. "You must know, Princess, that not everyone in Darkstorm is thrilled about this union."
My spine straightens.
"I assumed," I say coolly.
"But," he adds, smiling now—a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "some of us are…curious."
"About me?" I ask.
"About whether this alliance will temper Darkstorm," he says, "or simply break Iris."
The words are mild.
The threat under them is not.
"Careful, Cassian," Axel says quietly. "You're dangerously close to insulting both crowns."
Cassian lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender.
"My apologies, Your Highness," he says. "I merely speak what others whisper."
His gaze flicks to me again.
"Your people sing of you, Princess," he says. "The brave girl who faced rebels with a single sword. The garden queen who bleeds for her kingdom. Darkstorm sings differently."
I force my voice to stay even.
"And what does Darkstorm sing?"
His smile widens fractionally.
"That you are a spark thrown into our storm," he says. "And storms are not kind to sparks."
Before I can respond, he bows again and melts back into the crowd.
Silence stretches between Axel and me for a second.
"That was a compliment, right?" I manage.
"From Cassian?" Axel says. "That was a warning. Wrapped in silk."
"Is he one of the ones with knives?" I ask.
"He was born with a dagger in his hand," Axel mutters. "And a smile on his face."
I file that away.
Cassian of House Rydel.
Storm disguised as silk.
Noted.
Hours pass.
We dance with nobles, with each other, with carefully selected partners our advisors assure us are politically useful.
Iris lords with soft hands and sharp eyes.
Darkstorm ladies whose smiles could slice glass.
All the while, Axel and I orbit each other like two moons trapped in the same uneven pull.
We "practice" without ever saying the word.
A touch here.
A shared glance there.
A laugh that sounds too real when he murmurs something biting under his breath about a particularly stuffy lord.
"They're watching," he reminds me when my face starts to slip.
"I know," I say.
"Lesson six," he says. "When you're exhausted, lean in closer. They'll think you're whispering something sweet instead of plotting their demise."
"So you do admit we're plotting," I murmur, resting my hand on his arm as we slow near the refreshment table.
His mouth curves. "Always."
We drift toward the tall glass doors that open onto the balcony.
The night beyond is thick and velvet-dark; the air inside has turned heavy from bodies and candle smoke.
"Fresh air?" he asks.
"Please," I say.
We slip through the doors onto the wide marble balcony.
Lanterns glow along the balustrade, their light soft and golden. Below us, the city stretches out—rooftops and spires and the distant shimmer of the river.
For a moment, the noise of the ballroom fades to a muffled hum.
I exhale, tension bleeding from my shoulders.
"Better," Axel says.
"Almost like I can breathe," I reply.
"Lesson seven," he says. "Whenever possible, escape to balconies."
"This is my favorite lesson so far," I admit.
We stand side by side, hands resting on the cool stone. The night breeze plays with the loose strands of my hair; it tugs at his jacket, bringing with it the scents of the city—baked bread, distant smoke, faint river-salt.
Tiny lights flicker in the distance where lanterns hang in the poorer quarter.
"They're celebrating too," I realize.
"Of course," he says. "Any excuse to drink in the streets."
"Do they hate me?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can catch it.
"Some do," he says honestly. "Some hate me more. Some hate both of us equally."
"Comforting," I mutter.
"But some are just…tired," he adds. "Of war. Of lean winters. Of sons not coming home. They don't care what your name is or where you wear your tiara. They just want to know if this will make anything better."
"Will it?" I ask.
He doesn't answer right away.
"I'm going to try," he says at last. "With or without them."
"Or with me," I say.
He glances at me sharply.
"Or with you," he agrees quietly.
The doors behind us open.
Footsteps click on the marble.
I turn just as someone clears their throat.
"Your Highnesses."
A palace guard stands at the threshold—one of mine, judging by the crest at his shoulder. Sweat beads at his temple, unusual for a man who's mostly been standing watch.
"Is something wrong?" I ask.
He hesitates.
"There was a disturbance at the west gates," he says carefully. "A minor one. It's been contained."
My stomach drops.
"What kind of disturbance?" Axel asks, his voice losing all softness.
The guard shifts his weight.
"Some…symbols were painted on the outer wall," he says. "And a small device was found. More noise than damage, Your Highness. A crude explosive. No casualties."
My blood runs cold.
"Explosive," I repeat.
"It did not breach the gate," the guard says quickly. "But the symbol painted beside it…"
He trails off.
Axel's eyes narrow. "What symbol?"
The guard swallows.
"A broken crown," he says. "Half dark, half light. With blood dripping between."
We are silent for a long beat.
The broken crown.
Unified, then split.
Storm and iris, both shattered.
A clear message.
"This was tonight?" Axel asks.
"Yes, Your Highness," the guard answers. "During the ball. The rebels—or whoever they were—wanted you to know they could reach the walls while we celebrated."
Rage flares in my chest.
"Anyone catch them?" I demand.
"Not yet," he says. "We are increasing patrols. King Darius did not want to disrupt the festivities until he had spoken to you."
Of course.
Can't have a rebellion ruining the atmosphere.
"Thank you," Axel says, his voice clipped. "Return to your post. We'll speak to the king shortly."
The guard bows and retreats inside.
The doors close.
Silence falls again.
Only now it's heavy.
"You're shaking," Axel says quietly.
I look down.
My hands are gripping the stone so tightly my knuckles have gone white.
"It's happening again," I say. "Here. Under our noses. While we twirl in silk and pretend everything is fine."
"It's not the same," he says.
"Isn't it?" I snap. "They want to send a message, and we're giving them the perfect stage."
He steps closer.
"Look at me," he says.
I don't.
"Rome," he insists.
I drag my gaze up to his.
His eyes are steady. Calm in a way that makes me want to scream.
"How can you be so composed?" I demand.
"I'm not," he says. "I'm furious. But I've spent my whole life being taught that if you let them see that, they win twice."
The anger drains from me, leaving something brittle behind.
"I don't want you to die because of me," I blurt.
The words hang there, raw and naked.
He blinks, caught off guard.
"Is that what you think this is?" he asks. "That I'm some casualty your life dragged into its orbit?"
"That's what everyone keeps saying," I choke out. "That if you fall, they'll blame me. That I'm the spark. The fracture. The weakness."
He exhales sharply.
"Lesson eight," he says, stepping even closer. "Stop letting them decide what we are to each other."
I make a frustrated sound. "That's not a lesson, that's a prayer."
"Then I'll say it every day until it becomes true," he replies.
We stand so close now that I can see the faint dusting of stubble along his jaw, the scar near his temple I've never noticed before, half-hidden by his hair.
The ballroom noise hums behind us like a distant storm.
"If they wanted to scare us," he says, "they succeeded. Congratulations to them. But they also made a mistake."
"Which is?" I ask.
"Letting us know they were close," he says. "Now we know where to look."
"Always the strategist," I murmur.
"Always," he agrees. "And as your strategist—" his lips quirk, just a little "—I suggest we give them a different show than the one they're expecting."
"What, more dancing?" I scoff.
"More than that," he says. "They paint broken crowns on our walls. They want cracks. Doubt. Distance. Let them see the opposite."
"Which is?" I ask, though my heart already knows.
He doesn't answer with words.
He simply lifts a hand—slowly, carefully—and cups my cheek.
His thumb brushes along my cheekbone, unbearably gentle.
"Rome," he says quietly. "In about thirty seconds, someone is going to come looking for us. My mother. Your father. A guard. A servant. Someone. When they step out here, what they see will spread through this palace like wildfire."
My breath catches.
"And what do you want them to see?" I ask.
He holds my gaze.
"Two people who are not broken," he says. "Not divided. Not afraid to stand together even when the walls shake."
The city lights flicker below us, tiny and far away.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
"This is still practice," I whisper.
His mouth curves, but there's something almost pained in it.
"If you say so," he murmurs.
He leans in.
His lips brush mine once—soft, tentative, like a question.
Everything inside me answers.
The second kiss isn't tentative at all.
My hands lift of their own accord, curling into the front of his jacket as I rise onto my toes. His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me closer, anchoring me against him as the rest of the world falls away.
There's no orchestra now.
No crowns.
No rebels.
Just this.
Just him.
Just us.
When we finally part, we're both breathing harder than a simple balcony kiss should demand.
His forehead rests against mine for a heartbeat.
"Lesson nine," he murmurs, his breath warm on my lips. "Sometimes, the truth makes the best lie."
Before I can ask what he means, the doors open behind us with a soft creak.
We don't move.
Gasps whisper like silk.
I turn my head slightly, just enough to see out of the corner of my eye.
A small knot of people stands in the doorway—my mother, Lucia, King Darius, one of Axel's generals, and a few servants hovering behind them like startled birds.
My mother's hand flies to her mouth.
Lucia's eyes widen for half a second before narrowing in calculation.
King Darius blinks once, then lets out a slow breath that sounds suspiciously like relief.
Axel doesn't release me.
He simply lifts his head and looks at them over my shoulder, his expression calm.
"Forgive us," he says, his voice steady. "We needed a moment."
My mother's eyes shine.
"Of course," she says softly.
Lucia's gaze darts from his face to mine, searching for cracks, for rehearsal lines, for anything that will tell her what's real and what isn't.
She finds nothing I'm willing to give away.
"Your Majesties," Axel continues, "we heard there was a disturbance at the west gate."
Darius glances at Lucia, then nods slowly.
"A minor one," he says. "It has been handled."
"Then perhaps we can discuss it in private later," Axel says. "For now, I believe our guests are waiting."
He looks down at me, the slightest question in his eyes.
I understand.
We could step back.
Put distance between us. Compose ourselves. Pretend the kiss never happened.
Instead, I tighten my arm around his waist.
"If we keep them waiting too long," I say lightly, "they'll start rumors."
My mother lets out a watery laugh.
"Too late," she says.
Lucia's lips thin, but there's a glint there I can't quite read.
"Come," she says. "We should return. It seems the future of our kingdoms is…getting along."
The implication is clear.
Good.
Let them think that.
Let them think we're already halfway in love.
Let the rebels paint all the broken crowns they want.
Because under the chandeliers, with the taste of Axel's kiss still on my lips and his arm still firm around my waist, I realize something that terrifies me more than explosions and painted threats.
The pretending is getting easier.
And the line between practice and truth is starting to blur.
We step back into the ballroom together.
Heads turn.
Whispers rise.
This time, when I smile, it doesn't feel entirely like a performance.
"Ready for lesson ten?" Axel murmurs.
"Dare I ask?" I say.
He leans down, his breath warm against my ear as the music swells again.
"Lesson ten," he says. "If the world insists on watching, give them a story they can't control."
I lift my chin.
"My favorite one yet," I reply.
And then we dance.
Not just for them.
For us.
For the sparks and storms and crowns that may yet break.
For the dangerous, impossible hope that maybe, just maybe, this doesn't have to destroy us.
It might be the thing that saves us instead.