Chapter Text
The lights were warm on his skin. Gold, soft white, low-hung and delicate—like stars captured in glass.
The crowd moved like a tide around him. Everyone dressed in jewel tones and silks and freshly polished shoes. Every other step someone stopped him, smiling wide, hand extended in greeting or clapping him on the back like they’d always known this was coming.
He smiled. Laughed, when it was called for. Dipped his head and pressed his palms together in the respectful greetings he’d been taught since before he could spell his own name.
“You’ve grown so much,” they said.
“What a radiant match.”
“The world is watching—how does it feel?”
He answered without thinking. His voice was bright, smooth, practiced. Friendly but warm. Grounded but not too heavy. He used words that meant everything and nothing at once—well-wishes, gratitude, a dozen small acknowledgments meant to keep the night moving.
It was easier this way.
His robe was tailored in the traditional way—long sleeves, high collar, stitched in gold and sapphire thread. A ceremonial scarf draped across one shoulder, his family crest worked in fine beadwork at the hem. The fabric had weight to it. He’d worn it before. Banquets. Conferences. Introductions to other dignitaries.
And every time, he wore the same smile.
That was what was expected. His father had said it more than once: “No one needs to see worry on your face, son. When you represent your people, you give them peace.”
So he gave them peace.
Even if his throat felt tight.
Even if he hadn’t really slept since the letter arrived.
Someone else asked a question. A camera flashed. A reporter jotted something down. He nodded, gave another soundbite about hope and connection and shared futures.
He didn’t think about the other end of the room. Didn’t look toward the raised platform. Didn’t search for anyone’s eyes in the crowd.
Better not to.
There were more hands to shake. More polite chuckles to share. Someone passed him a drink—non-alcoholic, though the flavor was sharp and sweet and tasted like celebration.
He barely noticed the hush falling over the room until the music slowed.
A woman stepped forward in layered silk, her voice carrying easily over the banquet floor. She spoke the ceremonial blessing with measured grace, alternating between ancient dialects and the common tongue. The words curled like incense smoke in the air: unity, legacy, balance.
He folded his hands in front of him.
Breathed in.
And smiled.
He didn’t realize the moment was approaching until it was already here.
He saw his father step up beside the king.
Crystal glasses were lifted.
The hush deepened into stillness.
“And so,” the king said, voice strong and smooth, “it brings me great honor to witness this promise between our two families.”
His father answered in kind, voice calm and unwavering.
“I echo that honor. To a future shaped by partnership and peace.”
They raised their glasses in unison.
And for the first time that night, the names were spoken.
“To Prince Leona Kingscholar,” the king announced, voice rich with pride.
“And to Kalim al-Asim,” his father said.
The crowd burst into applause. Glasses clinked. Somewhere, a camera shutter clicked.
And that name—his name—settled into Kalim’s chest like a final chord.
Leona Kingscholar.