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Chapter 17
This marriage is for propaganda.
It’s meant to look as if the victorious nation, Levanteia, is embracing the defeated nation, Dvorka.
They say this wedding costs as much as my grandfather’s coronation 40 years ago…
And it’s being held in the Dvorka royal palace—now reduced to a colonial governor’s office—where Levanteia’s red flag is planted.
We were given barely a month and a half to prepare. Everything was rushed and slapdash, so it doesn’t feel real.
I even wondered if it made sense that I was truly getting married so soon.
Yesterday evening, we arrived at the Yorca Palace, where the ceremony is to be held. The moment my back hit the guestroom bed, I had to rise at dawn to begin the bridal makeup. So much powder filled the air that I sneezed over and over. Ugh, my nose is still stinging.
I worried how they’d cover the shadows of exhaustion under my eyes, but layers of makeup hid them easily.
As I stared into the mirror, watching my reflection grow more and more decorated, I drifted into thought.
To think the result of holding out unmarried until twenty-nine would end like this.
A forced marriage with the sixth prince of Dvorka, David—a man I’ve never met, whose face I don’t even know.
I thought about what actually existed between us.
The marriage propaganda posters that had been scattered and trampled everywhere like fallen leaves. The faded portrait said to have been painted of him at sixteen. The treaty document stamped by the King of Levanteia and the Queen of Dvorka.
“…Just scraps of paper. That’s all this marriage is.”
We’ve never even exchanged a single letter. Could there be another marriage as vague as this? With such awkward unfamiliarity between us, how are we supposed to share a bed, much less a life?
Haaah. A long sigh rose up from the bottom of my chest.
“Lady Alisa, do you have some worry?”
“No. Just that the weather’s nice.”
I smiled at Katarina and looked out the open window.
The sunlight was warm, almost indifferent. The sky was cloudless, filled with a bright, cheerful energy. The scent of fresh early-summer grass tickled my nose.
The weather felt almost out of place.
Still, I would have to endure it.
What’s done is done, and all of this is simply the price of being outwitted by my own schemes.
Shaking my head to scatter my thoughts, I realized my makeup was already finished.
“…Shall we go put on the dress now?”
“Yes.”
At least the wedding dress design was something I had requested myself.
Because it had to be completed quickly, I reduced the decorations as much as possible. I asked for a clean V-neckline, sharp sleeves without puffiness, and only a modestly cinched waist. The skirt was to fall in a natural flow.
The fabric was plain white satin with no lace, only a satin ribbon at the waistline, accented with a subtle bead ornament.
With the help of the maids, I put it on. Its simple, timeless style suited me.
In truth, it closely resembled the traditional wedding garments of Dvorka’s women.
This was, after all, a propaganda wedding meant above all to be shown to the people of Dvorka. I judged this to be the best choice.
Here, on this land at least… I must live not as the Countess of Lasantia, but as the Grand Duchess of Dvorka.
The moment I stepped out of the dressing room, a dolphin-like squeal pierced my ears.
“Kyaaaah, Lady Alisa! No, Your Grace, the Grand Duchess! I’m so moved…!”
The unexpected shriek made my eardrums sting. Seeing me in the dress, Katarina even dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Katarina, you’ve worked hard, serving an old maid countess all this time. You must have worried often about when I’d ever marry. Now you can rest easy.”
“Uuuhh. And here I thought Your Grace would dismiss me once you became Grand Duchess…”
“I was going to decide based on your work, but seeing you this happy for me today, I suppose I’ll keep you on.”
The dress, gloves, and shoes were all on; only the veil remained.
Katarina placed a pure white veil over my head. Woven with fine thread, the translucent fabric was large enough to cover my whole body.
The tiara gifted by my grandfather would be placed upon me today by the man destined to be my husband. Today’s wedding doubled as the coronation of both Grand Duke and Grand Duchess.
At the very heart of Dvorka’s royal palace stood Barbika Hall.
I might be meeting my husband for the first time today, but at least this space wasn’t new to me.
Ten years ago, I came here with Father as part of a diplomatic delegation. King Madilov, his face already marked by illness, had personally shown us around, proudly recounting the hall’s long history.
And with good reason. Even Levanteia’s palace had no hall on this grand scale. The crowning feature was its stained glass—so intricate and colorful, as though the artisans had poured their very lifespans into it.
Back then, I never imagined. That the place I had admired with the innocence of a young girl would one day be the stage for my wedding.
Three thousand guests filled the towering hall, so high one had to crane the neck just to glimpse the ceiling.
Levanteia’s royalty and nobility, visiting foreign royals and dignitaries, and their countless attendants—all of Yorca Palace’s guest chambers and nearby lodgings were bursting at the seams.
Regrettably, Father could not attend, still bedridden with illness. Only my mother, Princess Emma, sat upright in the front row.
It seemed similar on the other side. King Madilov, mad with illness, could not attend; only Queen Elizabeta occupied the host’s seat.
The solemn notes of the organ rose toward the lofty ceiling.
I walked forward, holding the arm of my grandfather, King Salesio.
Through the veil, I glimpsed a figure standing erect before the priest’s platform—an imposing man in immaculate white ceremonial attire, with silver hair.
…Hmm.
Was that really Dvorka’s youngest prince?
The only image I knew was the faded portrait of a frail boy.
But before me stood a tall, broad-shouldered man. His build was far beyond anything I had imagined. Taller by a whole head, shoulders broader by a handspan.
Could it be the fifth prince instead?
No—the fifth prince I had seen ten years ago, and he was rather slight. Among the six princes, only the youngest was said to have silver hair.
As I stared at the back of his head, we reached the platform.
Grandfather released my arm and returned to his throne.
“…The Grand Duke shall now lift the Grand Duchess’s veil.”
After the long officiant’s speech, the high patriarch solemnly proclaimed.
We slowly turned toward each other. The hem of my wide dress brushed lightly against his trousers.
A gloved hand lifted my veil.
As the translucent curtain fell away, the hazy mist before my eyes cleared.
The organ swelled toward its climax as I raised my gaze.
Through the transparent clerestory window behind the altar, blazing sunlight poured in, scattering white light across his silver hair.
I squinted instinctively.
For a heartbeat, the organ seemed to fall silent.
Was I seeing things? A phenomenon I’d only ever read about appeared like a halo around him.
Diamond dust.
Moisture in the air, frozen into crystals, sparkling like a scattering of jewels.
It was an illusion wrought by the blazing sunlight and the pure sheen of his silver hair.
My pupils contracted.
Beneath that fine hair lay eyes of violet, shining with a mournful light.
Calm and steady, like violets heavy with morning dew.
“…Ah.”
A small gasp slipped from my lips before I knew it.
The hostage prince of defeated Dvorka, David Mihailo.
Even the word beautiful felt insufficient.
Following custom, I placed my hand on his arm. His forearm was firm and muscular.
And again, I faltered.
I had assumed, being so much younger, that he would still be closer to a boy. That illusion shattered instantly.
The man before me was fully grown.
At least in body.
…Twenty-one is indeed adulthood. As Sir Julio had mentioned, of course he would have grown since sixteen. And if he had served as a knight in Lord Pardon’s castle, it made sense his body would be so well-trained.
I steadied my racing thoughts and looked up at the man who would be my husband.
Even with my tall height, I had to lift my chin to meet his eyes.
The prince blinked slowly, deliberately, as he gazed down at me.
His long silver lashes cast swan-like shadows over his violet eyes.
Graceful. It wasn’t just his features—the very air around him seemed different. No painter could ever capture this.
I’d never felt such pure awe at another person’s appearance before. It was the same feeling I’d had when first entering Barbika Hall—an overwhelming wonder before something of perfect artistry.
Yet something felt odd. With looks like his, surely his beauty would have been renowned across the continent since childhood.
And yet, no matter how I recalled, I had heard nothing of Prince David’s reputation. Even though I had kept up with Dvorka’s affairs.
…Leaving aside his appearance, his attitude toward the wedding was also unusual.
Throughout the ceremony, not a trace of nervousness showed.
Now it was time for the vows. The patriarch cleared his throat and asked him first:
“Do you, the groom, swear to be the eternal partner of Levanteia’s royal, Lady Alisa Fernanda Karen de Lasantia?”
“Yes, I swear.”
The deep, clear voice held no hesitation, no pause.
Just calm and matter-of-fact. As if he felt nothing about being the centerpiece of this grand state marriage.
“And do you, the bride, swear to be the eternal partner of Dvorka’s Grand Duke, Prince David Mihailo?”
“…Yes, I swear.”
Why was my voice trembling?
Despite being eight years older, it was I—not he—who lacked composure.
