#tdsw

It's as she's staring out the window from its seat, finishing her tea that there's a knock on the door, followed by the creak of it opening. In the doorway stands the same red-coated Grisha she'd briefly met earlier.

"Hello again," he greets with a slight bow, the boyish smile on his face not quite meeting his eyes. "I've been sent to accompany you."

"Accompany me?" Sam asks, her brows scrunching up a little. "Where?"

A quiet chuckle leaves the man's lips as he shakes his head before answering. "Throughout your day." Looking around the room, his hands remain clasped at his waist. "May I enter?"

The Princess nods, taking a big swig of the last of her tea before standing from the window seat to meet him halfway. "So... he sent you here to spy on me? Make sure that I'm not trying to steal any state secrets, perhaps?" She questions, walking her cup and saucer back over to the desk where she'd left the empty lunch tray.

An amused breath leaves the Grisha and he smiles, offering only the shake of his head. "No, I assure you," his hands unclasp from his waist finally, palms facing upward as he explains, "The General only saw it fit that you be protected while tension is still high from the ceremony. After all, you are a Fjerdan Princess in Ravka. It only makes sense that someone might try to threaten this treaty."

There's a moment of quiet tension as Sam narrows her eyes at him, just slightly, before offering a smile. "Well, I guess that makes sense," she says, moving toward the chaise at the end of the bed. Sinking into the cushy seat across from where he leans against the back of an armchair near the fireplace. "It's smart, really, I hadn't even thought about it," she admits, her voice quieter now as her eyes drift across the furniture. For a breath, her mind flashes with images of possible fatal attempts on her life; food poisoning, sharp blades, an arrow to the heart, a rogue Grisha's powers aimed at her.

Then she finally inhales, steadying herself as she meets the Grisha's hazel eyes again. "And... you'd protect me?"

Fedyor straightens, stepping away from the chair. "Yes," he says firmly, though there's the flicker of something softer that crosses his features. "You're a part of him now, and as willing as I would protect him, I would protect you, too."

"I see." Her hazel eyes search his, and something in her seems to settle. A quiet breath leaves her. Glancing back out the window, her mind wanders once again. "So... you'll be with me- what? All day?"

"Yes," Fedyor replies, "Every step of the way."

There's a moment of silence, and while she isn't looking, she can feel the Grisha's eyes on her. "Forgive me if I'm overstepping, but, it seems that something's on your mind?" It's an offer, she know that much.

A quiet sigh leaves her lips as she meets his gaze. There's something there she can't quite make out, but overall his entire demeanor gives off a trustworthy aura. "I guess I'm just thinking about this morning still," she admits, "there was no... morgengave." Spotting the quirk of his brow, she expands. "It's a tradition in Fjerda. A token, often symbolic, gifted to the wife the morning after their marriage." She shakes her head. "It's not that I wanted the gift, but... I just worry if it's not a bad sign, you know? Especially after this afternoon."

While her voice is quiet, he watches and listens with intent. It's obvious she values this tradition, and while he'd never admit that he does know the meaning of it, for it's quite intimate, he understands. She's doubting this arrangement. "Well," he voices, unclasping his hands at his waist, "think of it this way. You're only getting the fighting out of the way now."

"Small blessings then, I guess," she remarks dryly, though there's a hint of amusement beneath it. "Well then." She slaps her hands gently against her knees as she rises, an excited spark within her voice. "I suppose I might as well put you to good use then."

Crossing the room, she pauses by the door and looks over her shoulder. "I'm assuming you know Little Palace well, considering--if I'm not mistaken--you're one of his closest men?"

"I'd certainly hope so with how long I've lived here," he remarks with an amused tone, meeting her at the door.

"Then, you'd be able to give me a tour?" The Princess asks, finding his momentary silence uncertain as he opens the door. "Please?" If his intention is to keep her locked in the room under guard and key, she might riot. She doesn't think she'd be able to bear it. Having a bodyguard already sends worries and signals of being a possible prisoner in her new home.

"Hmm," Fedyor hums, turning back toward her with slightly narrowed eyes, his lips trying and failing to contain the amused smile tempting to spread across his face. "Well, maybe only since you asked so nicely!" Holding the door open for her, he motions for her to go through first before stepping out into the hallway behind her. It's only once there's an awkward moment of silence between them that he corrects himself. "Only joking, of course. I am at your command, Princess."

Sam smiles with her lips curled inward, feeling suddenly unsure. The clarification is helpful. "Thank you," she replies, the awkwardness easily fading as she takes charge again. "I'll let you lead the way then?" Motioning toward the long corridor before them, he begins to walk. She follows closely.

Hands clasped behind his back as they walk down the hall, it's only once they're nearing the stairway she remembers coming up last night that she questions him. A noise of confusion leaves her lips as she turns her head back down the hall they'd come. While she knows that the War Room sits at the very end, her shared bedroom with the General adjoined with the door closest, there had been a row of rooms they'd passed nearing the stairs which Fedyor hadn't explained.

The Grisha turns, having heard her footfall come to a halt. With raised brows, he notices her finger pointing over her shoulder at the few doors between the War Room, small parlor, and personal library they'd passed. "What about those doors? Where do they lead?" The Princess questions.

"Well, the door closest to the War Room leads to a small parlor, it also contains a small library. Then, there's Zoya's room, Ivan's, and then mine." He continues the few steps toward the banister at the top of the stairs. "I can promise you that they look almost identical to yours," he expands, before realizing. "Though perhaps a little less spacious, and differently decorated."

"What about down there?" Samantha points forward now, down the hallway that spans the entirety of the Palace length. While there's two pairs of stairs on either end of the wings, the East Wing is the one she points at, them having come from the West Wing.

"We can come back that way, don't worry." With a sweep of his hand, he gestures down the stairs. It'd make most sense to come back up that way upon their return considering what's down that hall.

The Princess nods, accepting his offer as she follows his outstretched hand down the stairs. It's much easier to see all the detail in the foyer now that it's daytime. Last night it was dark, and her mind was elsewhere as she'd followed The General and his Oprichniki back to their quarters. The ceiling extends farther up than she'd realized, the red carpets more vibrant than she remembers.

"Where is everyone?" The Princess asks, having seen many Grisha at the reception last night, yet even now as they stand in the main entry point of the Little Palace, there's no one to be seen, no sound to be heard.

"In class," Fedyor explains, walking past her to stand and bask within the beautiful sunlight streaming in rays through the glass window-paned doors. "Or training, most likely."

"Class?" While her eyes find him, his gaze still outside, her focus shifts onto all the little details of the palace.

"Of course! You didn't think we just twirl around in our keftas doing little tricks all day, did you?" A grin overtakes his features, hands folded behind his back as he turns his focus on her. "The younger Grisha study theory, history, Ravkan law... that sort of thing. Older ones train, spar, refine their skills. Generally all day, most days."

Samantha hums in acknowledgment. Standing before a grand piano, her fingers ghost over the keys. It's stunning, and the candelabra atop the ornately embroidered runner only adds another layer of eloquence to the entire grandeur the Little Palace seems to encompass.

"Do you play?" Fedyor asks, now sidling up beside her, eyes on her every move, even when she doesn't notice.

"Yes. It's a skill most women, well, in nobility, have in Fjerda since we're not meant to fight. Hobbies and skills are of the utmost importance, they make you more appealing in order to find a husband," she explains, eyes wandering up the wall along the staircase on the opposing side of the room leading up to the East Wing. There are paintings of Grisha taming beasts, Saints with halos above their heads with upturned palms and downcast eyes. She recognizes some of them, while others she has no clue.

Fedyor debates pointing out the way she is married, either just to tease her, or remind, but he bites his tongue, uncertain how much teasing she can handle after he'd noticed the way she reacted in her quarters.

It's not like they have the most stories about Ravka, Grisha, or their Saints in Fjerda. In fact, most of those books would either be forbidden or illegal to possess. Though being a Princess certainly has its perks; she'd left most of her belongings when packing for the trip, the few unsanctioned books remaining on her shelves there, gathering dust.

There are two paintings that stick out to her. In one, a Saint cradles a glowing stag, its antlers vast and otherworldly, though the creature itself fits gently in the man's arms. And despite the seemingly sad look on the man's face, the stag looks comfortable, at home somehow, even in the grasp of humans. From what she can recall, it's the one referred to 'in chains'... "Sainkt Ilya in Chains?"

Fedyor quirks a brow as he finds her face, an awed expression not the reaction he would've expected from her. Following her gaze up to the oil painting on the wall, he nods silently. It's funny, really, the way you can pass something almost daily, and never really stop to look at it. Though, he might have once, it's been so long since he even remembered the painting was there. "Morozova, yes. You know of him? I wasn't aware they'd started teaching Ravkan Saints in Fjerda."

Lips parting as Sam finds Fedyor's inquisitive expression, she turns her head away slightly, smiling with a touch of embarrassment. "Oh, no... I just- might have read a few books about it. Fairytales, really," she explains. It might not matter here that the books were technically illegal, but she isn't sure if she should go around telling anyone. Her eyes briefly search his before returning to the second painting that'd caught her interest.

It's a depiction of a battle scene: darkened woods in the background, some trees even alight in fire, while in the foreground, there are bodies lying strewn across snowy terrain, crimson staining the white. Atop the mound stands a small group of Grisha, victorious.

At first, her eyes light up at the idea of Grisha not just surviving, but thriving. Not villified, or crippled for once. Only then does she catch a detail she'd missed upon first glance: the slain wear thick furs, their weaponry and features all unmistakably Fjerdan. Her people.

A shaky breath fills her lungs. Her gaze shifts, but she doesn't dare turn toward the Grisha beside her. She doesn't know what to say. It isn't her place to question the artwork, and anyway, it could very well be a depiction of some real battle she's simply unaware of. And sure, it stings to see such brutality aired in a victorious and triumphant light. But what can she do? Demand they take it down? That would only incite further chaos and division, she'd predict.

So she remains quiet.

He notices.

She might think he doesn't, and he won't let on unless she brings it up. Based on her sharp tongue in the War Room earlier this morning, he half expects her to do just that. Yet, as she quietly turns toward the palace doors, he finds himself surprised again. "Was there something else you wanted to show me?" She asks.

Fedyor doesn't respond right away. Lingering on the painting a moment longer, he's not admiring it, but trying to see it through her eyes. It's only after this that he strides over to where she's waiting by the grand doors, her hazel eyes peering out the windows lining either side as if she's trying to sneak a peek of what's to come. "The greenhouse and kitchen are this way," he mentions. "I figured they might appeal to your talents. You might even win Ivan over faster with pies than diplomacy." He chuckles at the thought, peering down at her as they walk down the hallway.

The cream-colored paint is a little less pristine in this section, the walls chipping and worn in places. Candles light the long hall, their lights flickering as the pair of them walk a long way before any doors reside. The only clue as to where they're going, besides Fedyor's words, are the faint aroma of bread wafting through the air alongside the musty smell of old books.

"Do you think they'd let me?" Samantha lights up at the thought, a smile slowly inching its way across her lips when she looks up at the Grisha. "And I suppose I'll have to take that into consideration," she quips.

"I don't see why not? Though perhaps not right before a meal, I'm sure it'd be too busy." Nearing the doors, he stops along the wall. "This is the kitchen, so if you ever want a midnight snack, or to bribe a Materialki with sweets, this would be the place." A faint smirk sits on his lips.

The Princess releases a soft chuckle. "I know, I found it earlier when I was getting the lunches," she reminds him. "The cooks were... surprised."

"I'm sure," Fedyor mentions with a subtle shake of his head, the amused smirk slowly fading. "Most nobles wouldn't dare." He pauses before turning back down the hallway. "You could have requested one of us do it."

"I know," she admits quietly, "I just wanted to do it myself." While it's true, her voice betrays the confident words. It's only partially true, the other aspect being that she had no idea how to summon someone to do so, and still isn't familiar with anyone enough to feel comfortable making such a request.

It's terribly odd- being a princess in another castle, yet still uncertain in her own authority.

He nods in acknowledgment. She certainly is... unique, he'll give her that. It was a sweet gesture, that much he'd seen this morning. Though, is it under the guise of something else? He's still not quite sure. "Did you cook much in Fjerda?" Fedyor wonders aloud.

"Yeah! I mean, maybe not all the time," she corrects herself, "but... when my sister and I wanted to make something, or my little brothers begged for something in particular, birthdays, celebrations." Samantha releases a fond sigh at the memories. A soft smile envelopes her features, a sparkle in her eye as she remembers them.

"That... sounds nice," Fedyor replies after a beat, having tried to imagine what that might be like. He'd heard she had a few siblings, but assumed they were older.

"It is," The Princess answers, "was," she corrects. Both the light in her eye and the smile that'd graced her presence begin to dim slightly.

"I vaguely remember what it was like," he recalls, "leaving my family young to come train at Little Palace." That tidbit sits in the air for a moment, neither of them knowing what to say to the other.

"Did it take a long time to stop missing them?" She questions, eventually braving a look toward his face as they arrive at their next stop, she assumes.

"A while, but, the key is to find something that grounds you here, wherever you go." Pushing the door open, this time on the opposite side of the hall, he lets her go in first. "The Archives. Lots of old documents, records, nothing interesting." Door still held in his hand, he gestures out back into the hall.

"Do you cook?" Sam asks, returning to their original conversation.

"I dabble," he admits, "though Ivan says I only cook when bored or trying to impress someone." Casting a sly glance her way, he quips, "So you'll have to let me know which one it is." As he leads further down the hall to their last stop on the Western Wing, he clasps his hands behind his back. "So... the key to your heart is food, then? I'll have to let him know." Winking in her direction, he doesn't miss the way she seems to fluster at the suggestion.

"Don't! He doesn't need to know that," she protests, an embarrassed smile sat upon her lips. While she pretends to look at the bleakly plain wall, she's determined not to let him see her like this.

"But he's your husband," Fedyor reminds her, voice lilted with amusement. "I assumed he already had the key." There's no containing the smile that sits on his lips anymore.

"What? No!" Samantha blurts out, eyebrows furrowing as she whips her head in the Grisha's direction. "Absolutely not! We just met yesterday!"

He stops walking. A gasp falls from his lips as he mocks offense, a hand coming up to his chest. "Wait, wait- so you're telling me that you don't love our very own General Kirigan?"

A disgruntled noise leaves her lips as she knows there's no getting out of this one. "Stop, stop!" She attempts to hush him up, batting at his arms playfully as her head swivels in search of any possible eavesdroppers. "I know what the officiant said, but I don't even know him!"

"Ah..." he whispers almost as if it's a revelation. "So you're saying it's not love yet."

Her lips curl inward at this, eyes narrowing as her brows furrow. "I hate you," she finally says, deciding that's the case from now on as she turns and heads in the direction they'd been going.

"No, you don't," he calls her bluff with a grin. "But if you did, I'd just bake something until you forgave me."

"Agh!" She groans in response, knowing he's not wrong, that would work.

Finally reaching the end of the hall, there's no door, but instead an archway that leads into an expansive greenhouse. It's a giant dome made of frosted glass. There are multiple beds, trellises, and even framed archways that she can already envision vines wrapping around.

However, the space is entirely in untamed. The definition of decrepit and defunct, there's no one here, not an ounce of life in the space. "What happened?" She questions, even if she's not looking at the Grisha, but around the space, images and flashes of ideas of what it could look like filling her mind.

"I suppose it fell into disuse after our last horticulturalist left years ago," he explains. "The Healers have their own small garden for tinctures herbs, so I guess there was no need."

"I didn't expect visitors." A voice calls out from one of the far corners. A gruff and older man stands from the spot where he'd been hunched over plucking up weeds. He wipes dirt from his gloves, slowly rounding one of the big main beds in the center of the space. There's a friendly smile on his lips, and a kind energy coming from him.

"Princess," Fedyor nods in polite greeting, "this is Bernard, our groundskeeper."

Sam steps forward instinctively, smiling brightly as she takes in the space in its entirety. "It's beautiful," she revels, her fingers skating along the worn wood lining one of the beds.

"Perhaps once," Bernard comments under his breath with an air of disappointment. That only motivates her ideas more.

"You said no one's using this place?" The Princess thinks aloud.

"No," Bernard answers with a shake of his head, "not anymore. Why?"

"Would it be alright if I used it, then?" Finally meeting the old man's eyes, there's a moment of silence where his expression shifts from one of confusion to understanding and hope. However, when he doesn't speak, she nervously explains. "It's just that- if no one's using it, and I've always been good with plants- I'd love to try and restore it! If... you wouldn't mind."

The old man hums contemplatively. "If you're serious, I have some materials in the back," Bernard offers.

Samantha looks down at her clothes, ready to roll up her sleeves, except, she's wearing a short sleeve dress. So, there's no need.

Fedyor watches on carefully, not only surprised by her kind treatment toward someone who's beneath her--a servant--but another otkazat'sya. She's not demanding, but asking respectfully. It's clear she's still not sure what her power means here, or perhaps not sure if she has any.

"Would it be possible for me to request a few supplies, to get started?" She questions, an uplifted spirit creating a spark in her eyes.

"You don't need permission," Fedyor speaks gently before the groundskeeper can. "You're the Princess. This is your home now too."

"Let me grab a piece of paper," Bernard mutters before walking off.

"Do you think this is sufficient? Or too much?" The Princess asks, scanning over the list of garden supplies scribbled on the parchment Bernard had lent her. Showing it to Fedyor, who sits in the armchair across the rug from where she sits in a matching chair, both before the fireplace.

The Grisha's eyes read over the listed supplies she's requesting. "If it's what you need, then it's not too much." There's a knock at the door as he hands the parchment back to her. It's refreshing to see this lighter side of her, a stark contrast to the woman he'd first walked in on earlier this afternoon. She certainly holds herself in a more carefree light now, having laughed, and smiled. If nothing else, Fedyor would think perhaps she feels a little more at ease in this new life now.

As the door opens, both occupants of the room turn to find the source. There stands another Grisha in a matching uniform to Fedyor, his hands clasped behind his back. It's the same one from this afternoon in the War Room. No words need be spoken as Fedyor rises from his chair, and Samantha blurts out quietly. "You're leaving?" Disappointment weighs heavy in her tone.

"Afraid so," he responds. While she hadn't consciously thought about the fact, she might consider Fedyor her first friend here at the Little Palace. And she doesn't want him to leave.

Before he can exit her vicinity, she instinctively reaches out, catching the edge of his sleeve tightly. "Do you have to?" It comes out as a whisper, her anxiety unhidden in tone as she looks up at him with worry, her eyes eventually darting toward Ivan and back.

This unexpected reaction elicits a falter in Fedyor's step. His hazel eyes find her own and a soft smile displays itself upon his lips. "Don't worry, Princess. I'll be back before you know it!" He throws a look over his shoulder, exchanging a knowing glance with Ivan before turning back to her with a grin. Bending down to whisper in her ear, he teases. "I don't think Ivan bites... well, not unless he's provoked."

Behind their backs, Ivan rolls his eyes. Fedyor always somehow seems to collect strays no matter where he goes. It's one of his redeeming qualities, something to be admired, but the notion never seems to fail at surprising Ivan time and time again. There's a faint smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, tempted to spread across his face, but he holds it back, eyes settling anywhere but the couple before him speaking of him not quietly enough that their words go unheard. Worst of all? He's not entirely sure it isn't purposeful, either.

"Are we done? Or shall I wait in the hall while you two write goodbye letters?" He questions, aiming to poke at Fedyor while also hoping his joke eases some of the girl's obvious discomfort.

Fedyor chuckles at this, and Samantha releases his sleeve with a small smile tinged with embarrassment. It was rather childish, though she's still wary of this other Grisha. "I will deliver this to the proper channels, and see you tomorrow, I'm sure. Goodnight," Fedyor announces, grabbing the finished list, offering a small wave and smile back at the princess over his shoulder. Brushing past Ivan into the hall, the door swings closed with a soft thunk, leaving only silence in its wake.

The Princess stares ahead, watching the small fire crackle within the hearth. Forced into her thoughts by the silence, she eventually turns her head toward the soldier still standing at attention by the door. "Ivan, right?" She asks.

All he offers in response is an affirmative nod. That eats away at her, the unnerving feeling of him simply watching her even when she faces the fire once more. She does her best to ignore it, to focus on a book that'd been sitting on the side table beside her chair and read, distract herself. Yet, she can't.

"Are you really just going to stand there the whole time?" She finally bursts, exasperation evident in her tone as her head rolls so she can meet his eyes.

"Is that a command, Princess?" Ivan asks with a lifted brow. His voice is smooth, flat, almost monotonous. He's not mocking her, exactly, just observing, cold.

At this, she release a sigh, eyes falling onto the opened book in her lap. She wouldn't even be able to describe what's going on considering she'd been so distracted. "No?" She questions, unsure why the silence is so unnerving. Usually, she has no problems with it. Most of the time she's someone who'd rather enjoy a bit of silence, however, she chalks it up to simply being in a new territory surrounded by unfamiliar faces. "I just... don't like... being watched like that," she admits, her lips softly pursed, discomfort plain on her face. "I'm more used to holding company, I suppose... not being watched like some prisoner."

Another bout of silence settles in the air.

"I also don't want you to get tired standing like that for too long." A chuckle leaves her lips as she'd considered the thought somewhat jokingly, having imagined in the silence how he might shift or grow exhausted from holding himself so poised for too long. "So... if you want, you can take a seat. I really don't mind," she gestures to the armchair Fedyor had previously been sat in.

There's no immediate movement, just the silent nod he gives. A quiet hum follows shortly, and she knows he's considering her words. She needn't even look up to know he's gauging the area. Instead, she goes back to the book in her lap, attempting to start over and truly digest the words this time around.

It's only as the sound of footsteps echoes throughout the small space that she lifts her head, offering him a small smile. It feels almost akin to gaining a wild's animal trust; something rare, but grounding. As the Grisha approaches the back of the empty chair, there's a knock at the door.

She stands, intent on getting it, however Ivan's already turned and easily crossed the room in just a few short strides. While she might otherwise curse being short, her nerves get the best of her. Who is it? Is it The General? She's not sure if she's quite ready to confront him again after their argument.

It's impossible to see around Ivan, or even through him, but as the door quietly shuts again the man turns, only to open a piece of folded parchment. Reading it, he glances up at her. "You've been summoned. Dinner," he informs.

"With who?" She asks, eyebrows furrowing just slightly.

He doesn't answer, simply raising a brow in response. Which, inherently is an answer in itself, she supposes.

Her lips part in surprise, not having expected to be summoned for dinner with him. Especially not after the explosive disagreement. "Should... I change?" She asks Ivan, head drooping as she looks over her outfit. When Sam finds his face again, she motions over her ensemble, almost ready to do a slow twirl for him if it'd help him make up his mind. Her eyebrow raises when he doesn't respond, The Princess obviously growing impatient.

"How should I know?" He asks.

A disappointed sigh leaves her chest. "I don't know!" She tosses her hands up, letting them fall back to her sides. Striding toward the vanity, she looks at herself. It's not that her outfit isn't presentable, it is, she always enjoys wearing her pretty and comfortable dresses. Yet, she isn't sure if it's enough.... if it's what The General would expect.

Her hair is still up in the ponytail she'd tossed it into after their argument, a sort of silent protest in light of the disagreement. Hair down for married women, hair up or braided if not. Knowing that The General is Ravkan only solidified the choice considering he most likely wouldn't know of the small meanings within the customs of her home country.

"Well... how do I look?" Samantha asks, finally turning to Ivan again. "I mean, do I look okay?" She prods.

"You look fine, Princess." Ivan offers a slight nod of his head in her direction, and while Sam doesn't immediately respond, her lips purse as she returns the gesture. It wasn't a thorough response, but it was enough.

Knowing that The General most likely sent the summons awhile ago considering the time it can take to hand deliver notes, she decides it's better not to waste time changing. If he'd given her more notice, then sure, perhaps she might try to dress up a little for him or even put on makeup. However, she doesn't have time tonight. Because who knows how far they'll have to walk to meet him? Reaching for the small whiteish-pink bottle of perfume she'd unpacked today, she spritzes a little of it on herself before walking toward the door.

"Do you know where we're going?" The Princess asks, curious, and somewhat excited to see the Dining Hall filled with all the people who'll likely be there. When Ivan doesn't respond, only side-stepping her once they exit her chambers, he gestures toward the door directly next to the one they'd come through. "Oh."

With a deep breath she steps toward the War Room's door, offering Ivan one last look over her shoulder before pushing the it open. She only opens it enough to slide in, the door closing behind her. "You summoned me?"

~~~~~~~~

"Hmm, no morgengave," she concludes. With the General gone, she felt more comfortable taking in their room, making space for herself as she dressed and braided her hair. Once realization struck that braids are usually kept for unmarried women, Samantha let it fall. Brush in hand, she recombs through her long locks, hazel eyes taking in all the possessions around her. There are many books, a fair amount of stationery, pens, and papers strewn about his quarters. A man with the knowledge of a scholar, she's sure. To think that the esteemed General had boasted his Fjerdan skills after the wedding, only to forgo one of the most sacred traditions is disappointing.

No morgengave. While taking in all his effects, partially hoping to figure out the type of man he is, she's yet to encounter anything akin to what'd look like a morgengave. A present; given to the newly-bed wife as a token of the loss of her innocence. Most often it's jewelry, sometimes symbolic if the man is sentimental. There were low expectations going into this arrangement, of course. However, the lack of this common tradition only worsens the worries she holds for their marriage. In an attempt to think positively, she convinces herself it has to be due to the fact that the General had business to attend to and has yet to see her in person. Therefore, he's not yet been given a chance to gift her this present.

Now prepared for the day, the Princess decides that since it's nearing lunch, she'll head down to the kitchen. On her way, she passes few Grisha, all of which give her odious looks. Whether they even attempt to try and conceal their dislike of her is hard to discern. She spots it nevertheless; she'd always been told she had a talent when it comes to her observational skills. It's still hard to ignore, but she knows that being Fjerdan in Ravka, let alone their capital: Os Alta, will cause uneasiness at first.

Following the smell of cooking meat, something similar to steke, she finds herself in a hall of bustling servants. She sends a kind and hopeful smile here and there as she makes her way down the hall. It's only when someone speaks up right outside the door she's seen multiple people come in and out of that she stops.

"Are you lost, my Lady?" The unexpected title elicits an excited thumping of her heart. She hadn't realized she'd gained a title through marriage, though she supposes 'Lady' is another term for the women in the palace. While she's still technically a Princess in her realm, here, she's traded it for 'Lady' it would seem.

"I'm trying to find the kitchen," she responds hopefully.

"This is it. Is something wrong? Did you want to order something?" The servant looks surprised. Surely she knows she can task anyone with delivering a lunch order. No one ever comes down here. "If there was a problem with the food, we will find the culprit straight away," he assures her.

As the Foodstaff seemingly starts to grow anxious, the Princess shakes her head. "Nothing's wrong. I was just wondering if it'd be possible to do something. I have a plan." A smile displays itself across her lips as she brings the staff in closer to reveal her idea.

Without much deliberation over logistics, the staff agrees. After attempting to learn their names, and a gracious thank you, the Princess departs. Enacting her plan, it doesn't take long for her to get the lunch she'd requested and head back up toward their quarters. With instruction, she knows the adjoining room to their quarters is the General's War Room.

A quick three knocks to the closed mahogany door to announce her presence, and she turns the handle.

"What is it?" The annoyed voice of General Kirigan sounds through the door.

Making sure to be careful while pushing the door open wide, the Princess manages to fit the dining cart through the doorway. All eyes in the room turn to land on her, and with only a quick glance she knows there are three pairs. Parking the cart beside a cabinet, she smooths down her pastel green dress before lifting her gaze to meet theirs.

“Hello,” Sam greets, sending a smile and wave toward the pair of Corporalki stood before her. “Forgive me if we met last night and I don’t remember your names. There were... many introductions. I don't believe we really got to truly meet last night." She takes a step toward them, “I’m Samantha, though you can call me Sam, Sammy… whatever you prefer, really. Most people in the Ice Court would just call me by my title: ‘Princess.’” With a hopeful smile and outstretched hand, she’s met with hesitancy at first. The Corporalki look between one another for a moment before the closer of the two reciprocates.

“I’m Fedyor,” he greets, “it’s a pleasure to meet you again-” pressuring eyes from her, and the knowledge that this is the General's wife now, cause him to conform to the information she’d just given, “-Sam.” He'd never want to disrespect his General, even by extension.

"We don't have time for an intrusion, we're doing business. Now, if you'd kindly leave us," The General announces with a dismissive wave of his jewel-littered hand.

"Surely you do," she negates, "I didn't bring you lunch all the way from the basement to be dismissed like some common servant. Besides, if there's anything too classified for even me to know, then I suppose it'd only be treasonous," Samantha jokes, a pleasant smile on her lips as she attempts to placate the General.

Unbeknownst to the Princess, the unspoken Corporalki sends a look toward the General. With a clearing of his throat, he speaks up.

"My Lady," the other Corporalki elicits the Princess's attention, with a slight bow of his torso and head sent her way. "Forgive me if this is too forward or blunt, but you've only just entered the kingdom and become the General's Wife as of yesternight."

"Therefore I must be some sort of plant or spy, waiting for the most opportune moment to strike whilst I gather information?" She replies sarcastically, turning to the man addressing her.

"Never mind the fact that you are both Fjerdan and Otkazat'sya," Ivan adds on as if these details add up to paint some sort of awful portrait of the Princess.

A derisive sound leaves her lips with a huff of annoyance. "If you truly believe that's all I am then you are all either truly dull, or closed-minded." With hasty hands, she grabs handfuls of her skirts before heading toward the door. Coming here to be insulted was absolutely not on her agenda for today!

"Wait," the General's command brings a halt to her step. While she doesn't turn, it's obvious she's listening. After the disappointment this morning, there's an inkling of hope. "Take the cart with you," He commands with a bored sigh. Leaning against the table behind him, he eyes her with annoyance, masking the little intrigue he holds after witnessing the fire that seems to live beneath the confines of her otherwise colorful and chaste appearance. That response sends her heart sinking into her stomach, and a fire burning through her chest.

"No." Arms crossed beneath her breasts, she turns on her heels to meet their inquiring eyes. She's changed her mind, unwilling to give up just like that. Insults and assumptions she knows to expect, and while they're never fun to deal with, she must fight them. "I wanted to properly introduce myself to your men," she speaks with more heed this time. "While I now know Fedyor, I can't say the same for this... gentleman." The word has a slight venomous tone to it, yet she still remains upbeat and docile in demeanor. Ready to be pleased and entertained.

"Ivan," the other Corporalki acquiesces, another slight bow following, "pleasure to make your acquaintance." Despite not knowing him, the Princess feels as though that last sentiment isn't entirely truthful.

“Can I ask you… is it true?" With a cocked brow and a curious glint in her hazel eyes, Sam looks between the Corporalki with fascination. Puzzled looks instantly appear on their faces before she expands. "You can really stop a man’s heart from more than a dozen paces away- just like that?” With a wave of her hand, she appears flippant.

“Yes,” Ivan answers immediately, no falter in his expression. There's a somewhat smug and intimidating look within his eyes.

“Really?” She stares in awe and wonder. Suddenly realizing what she’d asked, she quickly raises her hands in submission, a chuckle following. “I don’t need a demonstration! I’m just curious. My brothers would come back from their adventures with so many stories and feats about Grisha, but I’ve always wanted to know for myself.”

“You’ve never met a Grisha before?” Fedyor asks in bewilderment and wonder. It's obvious on his face that the sentiment is hard for him to wrap his mind around.

“Well,” Samantha ducks her head for a moment before raising it in the General’s direction, eyes settled on him as she offers a playful smile. “I can’t say that’s entirely true since I’ve only just met your General, I’m afraid. He would be the first Grisha I’ve truly met, yes.” The astonishment on the Corporalki’s faces leave her more than embarrassed, though the fact that they’ve had very different lives is something she’s sure she can attribute to such reactions. “I mean, I’ve seen them from afar once or twice on the battlefield… but that would be the sum total of it."

“I suppose living in Little Palace will correct that in short order,” Ivan comments snidely. The fiery remark boiling in his chest as she'd spoken, now bubbling forth. “So you’ve seen it then. The way your people slaughter us with no mercy…? And yet you’re here.”

The playful smile on her lips quickly falters into a look of chagrin. “Unlike most of Fjerda, you’d be surprised to know that I don’t follow their beliefs. They’d like you to think we’re all monsters of humans who despise Grisha and want you all dead, yet there are many of us in the outer regions who think otherwise.” A threatening stare sent his way, she stands her ground. “I want the same things as you do. I’m here to ensure that there is a hope for our countries. There’s a solution to our problems that does not involve war and can bring us to a state of peace.”

“And what is it you believe, exactly?” The General’s icy tone slices through the tension between the two as he stares on in skepticism. “If you don’t believe your precious Djel would delight in the extinction of all Grisha?”

“Djel would never wish that, and the people who think so are too foolish for their own good.”

“So all the drüskelle,” Feydor remarks under his breath.

“I believe that we’re all the same; you and me.” She gestures between herself and the Corporalkis before turning her gaze to the Darkling himself. “Though you have different abilities from me, so I have different abilities from you—so does everyone else—you cannot do what I can and vice versa. Of course, with what I’m told most Grisha believe, you’d no sooner admit that than banish the Unsea. But mortal or not, we all have our specialities and that’s what makes us the same.”

The room sits in silence for a moment as they take in her words. While perhaps part of what she said is true, she’s right, they’d no sooner admit that than run face-first towards the Fold alone. “And what is it you can do that’s so… special?” 

Meeting Ivan’s eyes again, Samantha smiles, still hopeful that in her beliefs, one she knows she’s not alone in. With the help and influence of the more powerful people in Ravka… they can change the world. “I always seem to manage one way or another to know what someone’s feeling,” she offers,

“I can tell when someone is lying, I’m told I’m quite a people’s person, a good listener, and–” she trails off, smiling at the fondness of her traits, “-I can always somehow bring plants back from the dead. Make them grow? I’m also very good with animals as well, and lastly… somehow I always manage to make whatever I bake taste good?” She laughs as the memories come flooding back.

“I used to send for whatever copies of recipes my brothers or their soldiers could find on their expeditions. They’d bring back Shu recipes, Ravkan recipes, Old Ravkan recipes… even if I had no idea what I was really doing, somehow it always managed to taste good? I don’t know how I do it, but everyone seems to enjoy it, so I take pride in that one.”

“Shall we test this theory, then? What am I feeling?” Surprisingly it’s Kirigan who speaks up first, no change in his demeanor as he now stands loomed over the war table. Samantha smiles at him for a moment until her expression falls flat with concentration. Though she may have found his gaze to be intimidating so far, she also knows he’s testing her, and she isn’t afraid.

“Look at me,” she asks. As he turns his head slowly, dark eyes shifting to meet hers, he does exactly that. He stares. A breath leaves her lips, the Princess searching his eyes for a moment. It momentarily feels as though all the air has escaped the room, her voice suddenly gone, as no one stands in the room except the two of them. Her expression remains flat until a faint smile makes its way onto her lips once more.

“You’re annoyed. Annoyed that I interrupted your meeting for something unimportant,” she easily states with a wave of her hand. "Frustrated because I’m still here and you’re not getting your work done,” she adds on, yet there’s another emotion hidden in his irises that she knows she needs to pinpoint with the correct verbiage. “And… intrigued? I’d say intrigued since you didn’t know those things about me and you hadn’t anticipated me to guess correctly.” Content with her work, she feels triumphant in knowing she’s correct. He remains quiet, eyes unmoving, and she can’t tell what might be going on inside his mind.

“Ooh, do me next!” Feydor asks excitedly, eyes shifting from his General toward her. Looking into her eyes, he waits expectantly, hands clasped in his lap.

“You’re curious… fascinated, and… I feel that there’s hope within you. It’s not hope in a full sense, but, almost like there was a black sea before, and now there’s a pinprick of light in your world and that hole has opened your mind to the possibility that there might be hope for something, even if you’re not quite sure what yet.”

The guess and reading had come much more quickly this time around, more adept at handling those who tend to either wear their heart on their sleeve or those who tend to keep things buried so deeply that they think no one notices.

“Wow! That’s… entirely true, boys. She’s got a talent, this one,” he compliments. Eyes turning toward Ivan and Kirigan before the look on the latter’s face causes him to purse his lips and bow his head a little.

“Thank you,” Sam responds, still smiling as she takes amusement in the fact that she knows it’s true; she has a gift. Whether or not she’s Grisha, she can do something they cannot, and that fact only solidifies her beliefs.

“Okay, well now I think you’d better try for three out of three,” Ivan pipes up. Though he looks at her dead-on, and the emotions are a little harder to place this time.

“I don’t know you as well, so it’s a little harder to read you… but,” she speaks as she searches his eyes. Body language giving nothing away, he stands like the trained soldier he is. “I’d say that you’re feeling curious as well. Frustrated, and though you hold the same sort of hope I mentioned with Feydor, I’d also dare say there’s a confusion in you about it too. An ambivalence.”

“Get out!” Kirigan shouts. Samantha whips her head around, eyebrows furrowed and lips parted in shock as she isn’t sure if he’s talking to her, “The two of you, leave! We’ll reconvene at the end of the night.” With a wave of his hand, the two Corporalki give a slight bow before they turn and leave. “You,” his laser-focused deathly stare shifts over to her. “You interrupt my meeting with my men and then you attempt to get into our heads for the sake of some game?”

“That’s not what I was doing,” she argues.

With a shaky breath, General Kirigan finally releases the edge of the war table and attempts to regain the composure he’s steadily been losing. Standing up straight, he speaks again. “Then what, exactly, are you doing here?” Eyes resettling on her as he ever so slowly starts to round the table closer, he waits for an explanation, an answer. What could possibly be so important that took her this long to get to the point when she’d just been conversing with his soldiers like childish friends in the schoolyard.

“I thought we could have lunch together! I’d asked if you’d taken yours yet and they said you hadn’t, so I figured—”

“Why?”

“Why?” She chuckles, looking at him as if he’s the one who’s out of his mind. “Because I thought it might be nice? That I’d be a good wife?” With a shake of her head, she divulges the true reasoning. “I thought it might be nice to get to know one another! It would certainly make pretending to be intimate with one another in public much less awkward.”

“So you come in here unannounced to converse with my soldiers on time that could be better spent actually getting work done and coming up with a plan as to do what you claim you want and bring peace to this world? Yet you come in here with some ridiculous belief that you, a mortal, think you can come into my home and change the minds of my people?”

Whatever surprise she’d once held is gone and instead replaced by the sinking pit in her stomach as she realizes she was right. “Oh…” the disappointment is not hidden in her voice as she tears her gaze away from him, eyes drifting toward the floor as she’d suspected this… but like many things in her life, she’d hoped it wouldn’t be the case. “You’re one of those Grisha.” The comment lingers in the air as her temper quickly shifts into one of anger. Before he has the chance to speak, she comes back at him. 

“You really think—what?—that I’m no better than some street rat because I don’t have abilities like you? That you’re so much better than me, and what? All because I can’t do the things you can? And I’m the one who’s being ridiculous? Wow…” Pacing the length of the room by the windows, she tries to keep her composure. 

“I never said that,” he argues. Stepping in front of her, he stops her pacing, eyeing her with curiosity. His dark gaze rakes down her body, fingers coming up to her face as he toys with a strand of hair that’d fallen into her face. The fiery look in her eyes affects him in a way he hadn’t anticipated, yet, he decides it’s worth it to be upfront and honest about his intentions. “We’ve already been intimate, there’s no need to pretend. As for your accusations… I’ll be clear. I see no point in indulging an Otkazat’sya when you have no power to make any real change here. As far as getting to know one another, there’s no need. You know what you need to, and there’s no point for me considering you’ll die much sooner than I.”

The words, the outright nature of his demeanor... it takes her aback. While she's heard many nasty rumors of General Kirigan, she hadn't anticipated he'd be the same behind closed doors. Now, it's obvious that the rumors weren't far from the truth at all.

“I hoped this wouldn’t be the case," Sam whispers, not meeting his eyes. She doesn't retreat from his touch, yet is aware of it, however unwanted it may be. "But if you’re so desperate not to get to know me, then fine! Don’t. Make things harder for us. Think you’re all that, but know that I won’t stop doing whatever it takes to make sure that things get better. Know that I tried my best to make this marriage work, and that I wasn’t the one who backed down first!"

Pulling herself out of his reach, she finally raises the daggers in her eyes to meet his steely gaze. "But don’t come into our quarters and tell me about how upset you are that things are only becoming worse when you’re the one who has the power to change it! Not by dividing us, but by uniting us in a way that’ll prove more beneficial!”

“If you think you can beat the Grisha, then fine, believe that. But that doesn’t make it any less ludicrous. You really think you can change the world when what? You won’t live long enough to most likely even see any substantial change?”

Kirigan argues as she walks across the room, lifting the top off the tray of food she’d brought. Gathering her plate to take with her back into their shared quarters in the adjoining room, Sam spares one last death-glare in his direction. Angered and hurt by his egotistical beliefs. “Maybe I should go and tell the King then that you don’t plan to see any substantial changes in the near future and that you seem to be wasting his resources and time!” Using her emerald heel to kick the door shut, it slams behind her.

~~~~~~~

“It’s a matter of safety, min lille trassel,” he quipped. “You know this, and it’s not up for discussion any further.”

“Ja, bror.” Though Nathalye–her older sister–is headed toward coronation in a short amount of time, Ivanoff is still under authority in light of their father’s ailment. She didn't comment on the affectionate nickname, 'Little Troublemaker', not having heard her older brother use it since she was a teenager.

All the fancy embroidery in the veil makes it hard to see through the lace in various given points, the world a blur of colors as she walks down the aisle to the matrimonial music the orchestra provides. Yet, the blur of black at the end of the aisle, she knows, is her soon-to-be husband: The Black General. A political arrangement at best, her life sentence at its worst. Though she's tried desperately to rid her mind of any preconceived judgments, attitudes, or prejudice, it proves far more difficult than she’d imagined. Without moving her head from anywhere other than directly in front of her, an embroidered flower in the veil makes it hard to get a good look at said, soon-to-be-husband.

“She’s nervous,” Ivan whispers to his General. Everyone’s eyes in The Grand Palace are laid upon the veiled bride being escorted by her older brother down the aisle.

“Maybe she’ll turn around before it’s too late,” Feydor comments as he bites the inside of his cheeks in an attempt to conceal the amused smile tempting to draw itself across his lips.

And the General knows what they're doing; Ivan giving him insight on the bride, and Fedyor trying to lighten the mood despite what they're all thinking: This is a mistake. One he cannot afford to undo.

Hands clasped behind his back, Kirigan reruns the agreement through his mind over and over as he debates how he’ll get himself out of this one.

“If anything, it should be no problem for you, considering you’ll live twice the length of her life, if not more. All we ask is that you marry her. A guarantee that her life will be protected and prosperous as she lives in your home by your side.” Ivanoff had prepared his speech time and time again for countless days on end after sending his letter to Ravka in search of counsel. They are enemies, but perhaps, with a little coaxing and an agreeable exchange on their part, his little sister will be safe from the fate his father seems inexplicably certain will unfold.

While he knows her ambassadorial skills will come in handy, Kirigan isn’t sure the benefits of this exchange are worth his hand in marriage. Nonetheless, the Grand Marshall–her brother–wasn’t wrong in deeming her mortality something of unimportance to him. He’s never had anyone by his side before, and neither will he in the future. Not truly, anyhow. She may present at his side as his ‘wife’, but it’s nothing unlike than any other title. Which is what it solely is: A title. Regardless of their inner life, he’s no more than elated it will only elevate his status to Prince on her behalf. As she approaches the altar, his eyes shift down to try and catch her own. Even through the lace, he can tell that she’s staring back at him with, no doubt, a fearful expression he imagines.

Standing upon the altar, Samantha doesn’t falter as Ivanoff’s arm leaves hers. She clutches at her bouquet a little tighter, hazel eyes rising to meet the dark eyes of The Black General. Despite the veil, she swears he can see straight into her soul. It doesn’t register in her mind that the music comes to a dwindle as they seemingly stare at one another through the thin piece of cloth between them.

“We are gathered here today before your Royal Highnesses, your witnesses, and above all, the Saints, to witness the holy matrimony of Princess Samantha Vercozki of Fjerda, and our very own, General Kirigan.

We thank the Saints for all the blessings that brought us here today, and those that brought Samantha and Kirigan together to make this day possible. We are thankful for the blessings of another day with our loved ones and grateful for this day where we can be joined by friends and family, some of whom traveled great distances to be here today.

Marriage is among the Saints' most sacred of bindings- it endures where even steel fails. It forges a strength, not of arms, but of devotion. Let the light of your union stand as testament to all this."

It proves difficult to stand still and listen as The Apparat raves on about the wonders of love and all that it seemingly has to offer. They all know, he knows, she knows, and he’s sure they all know this will be a loveless marriage that ensues. While the Tsarita may be Fjerdan, that does not excuse the criminal sins the other side has committed during this ongoing war. While an ambassador may prove to change the standing of their countries' relationship, it will not erase what prejudiced and horrific behavior the drüskelle still commit.

“Now, I ask that the couple stand facing one another with their hands intertwined. You may lift the veil,” The Apparat gently suggests, seeing as The General has made no move to do so yet.

Samantha sucks in a quiet but sharp breath, not having expected this part to come so soon. Turning to face her enemy, someone takes the bouquet away, in turn leaving her hands free.

Without warning, The Black General carefully lifts the delicate fabric of her veil up and over her head, pushing it back over her shoulders. Her heartrate picks up again, having briefly settled as the officiant spoke. Able to look one another in the eye now, Samantha finds her breath lost under his dark gaze, not having expected the intensity of his stare. Kirigan holds his breath, eye twitching as he takes her in. There have been rumors of the beauty and grace she’d held, how seemingly most of the Fjerdan people took love in their beloved Princess. He hadn’t believed them. There’s no possible explanation for one person wooing an entire country simply by looks unless they held some sort of power… and yet, he finds himself speechless as he stands before her now. Quickly resuming action, he grasps her hands loosely.

The chill of his eerie touch does nothing to quell the anxiety stirring within her. In that moment there's a faint breeze that blows throughout he Throne Room despite the closed doors and windows. Wasting no time, as he’d cherish nothing more than getting this over with, he takes her much smaller hands into his own. Something shifts within him at the warm touch of her fingers grazing his wrists. There's the hint of something tingling beneath his fingertips, and he mentally dismisses it as his nerves about how this whole ordeal will effect him long term. Though she's Fjerdan, her touch isn’t cold like he’d expected.

“Samantha, do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and respect Kirigan above all others, from this day forward until your very last breath?”

Tummy swirling with anxiety, hope, and fear, things feel dizzying, the thought of giving her life away to him… The Darkling. All the words the man had mentioned hold power, and weight... and while they're something she'd have to consider, there's no time to do so. It's either now or never... but there’s no going back when she's already come this far. With a thick swallow, she slowly nods her head, unable to peel her gaze away from the dark stare of the man before her. “I do.”

“And do you, Kirigan, promise to love, honor, cherish, and respect Samantha above all others, from this day forward until your very last breath?” The Apparat raises an eyebrow in wait, an obvious unspoken energy held between the pair before him. While this moment might be quick to pass in any other wedding, this is... different. An arrangement, something either one of them could back out of at this very second. Yet, both their eyes remain locked on the target they stand across from.

“I do.”

The Apparat gestures for the rings, The Black General's Oprichnik Ivan securing them from his pocket and handing them over.

“These rings represent love, pure and simple. The love the Saints have for all creatures great and small, and the love you two have for one another. When you place this ring on your partner’s finger, know that you are giving them not just the gift of a ring, but also the gift of love our creators have filled you with.”

“Kirigan, please repeat after me," The Apparat instructs, handing him the ring. Words softly spoken, The General turns his gaze from The Apparat back down toward the bride. Turning the ring over in his palm so it’ll be face up, he gently takes her left hand and starts to slide it on.

“Samantha, please accept this ring as a token of my true, pure love for you. With this, I give to you my heart and soul. They are yours, forevermore.”

Eyes shifting from the onyx stones encased within a golden band sliding onto her ring finger, she looks up to meet an unreadable gaze. Heart flip-flopping in her chest, she’d give anything to tell how he feels in this moment right now. Reading people has always been a talent of hers, and yet… it seems with him she can’t grasp an inkling towards what’s really going on in his mind.

“Samantha, please repeat after me," the officiant grabs her attention now.

With the thick black band placed in her hand, she turns it over until she spots a symbol. A black circle eclipsed by gold. It must be the front, she thinks, so she takes his much larger, chilly hand into her own as she begins to carefully slide it on.

“Kirigan, please accept this ring as a token of my true, pure love for you. With this, I give to you my heart and soul. They are yours forevermore.” Lingering on the last two words, Samantha suddenly decides that whatever her life will be, will be. At this moment in time, there is no use worrying over something that may or may not come to pass.

“By the power vested in me, I pronounce you Husband and Wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Determined not to show any fear, she instead lets herself be present, hopeful, and open to surprises. He, on the other hand, feels an uncomfortable pit in his stomach. Though there are only a few people present, it makes him no less unpleased that two of the people witnessing this are the Tsar and Tsarita themselves. With expectation, he doesn’t let his emotions overcome his duty as he leans down and cups her round tender cheek in his hand. Firmly placing his lips against hers, he closes his eyes and leans into it, embraced by the softness he meets.

It’s sudden and firm, the way his plush-looking lips press against her own. A spark courses through her body, starting at her toes and by the time it reaches her lips she finds him gone. Ended too soon, she can see in his eyes now that there’s an inkling of surprise and uncomfortability as he attempts to straighten his kefta. The chatter amongst the witnesses begins as they ‘aww’ and ‘ooh’ at the various wedding aspects, conversing about the pivotal moment they’d all just seen.

“Pe gjorde bra,” Ivanoff compliments from over her shoulder, “Fadder skulle vara stolt.” With a pat on the back, he stares over her shoulder at The General before meeting her eye again. “Unfortunately, I cannot stay.” He uncomfortably shifts the sash on his waist, waiting for a response. When all he’s met with is a surprised and saddened look, his face softens slightly. Ivanoff leans down, making sure no one else is able to see the softened shift in his expression. “You’re safe now. Nathalye will make things difficult, but… we can, perhaps, write.”

She can only muster a nod in response, her brother hugs her tightly before offering his goodbyes to the other people present. A groan tears her away from his retreating figure as she finds the source: her husband. The red-coated man beside him chuckles, eyes flicking from his General over to her. “I’ll see you there,” he responds to whatever his General had said before the red-coated man steps down from the altar and begins his exit of the throne room.

“I suppose you’d like to head to the reception?” The General offers his arm, a gesture Sam appreciates, though isn’t sure she should take. In a moment of deliberation, she's saved by an entirely new presence.

“Actually, she’s coming with me. The Bride needs to change before the reception. We’ll see you there?” A red-headed woman stands chipper by Samantha's side, the woman's blue eyes expectant as she stands in a very formal manner.

“Unfortunately,” he responds, an irritated look on his face, while his body seems to relax. Skipping down the altar steps, he strides after his friend who’d left.

“I didn't officially introduce myself earlier, I'm afraid," the woman explains, and Samantha remembers her face now. She'd been the one to help her finish getting ready before the ceremony. "I’m Genya. It’s a pleasure to make your formal acquaintance, Princess. I can’t say we’ve had an Ambassador from Fjerda before. Let’s go get you ready for your reception, shall we?” Extending her arm in a similar manner to The General, Samantha readily takes it, much more enthused to be around Genya's pleasant attitude than the grisly one her husband had shown.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~