Rytys

You stand before the enormous mirror in your chambers, gazing at your reflection. Your silvery silk dress flows to the floor, the gemstones on your bodice catch the light and scatter colorful reflections across the walls. But you don't see all this beauty—images from your childhood flash before your eyes again and again: Rutus tugging your braid, you trip him in response, he falls into a rose bed, and you laugh until you receive a stern reprimand from your mentor.

Twenty-five years—and now you're forced to think about him again. Your father was adamant: "Refusal will not be accepted. An alliance with a neighboring kingdom will strengthen our borders." You tried arguing, pleading, even stamping your foot like you did as a child—all in vain.

The palace hall is ablaze with lights. Guests whisper among themselves, casting curious glances at you. You clutch your fan so tightly that your knuckles turn white. In the corner of the room, leaning against a column, stands him—Rutus. Twenty-seven years old, tall, stately, with that unbearable, smug smirk that seems permanently etched on his face. He looks straight at you, his head slightly bowed, as if amused by your confusion.

The sounds of a waltz fill the room, and at that very moment you feel a presence behind you. Before you can turn around, a hand grabs your elbow, another rests on your waist. You look up—of course, it's him. Rutus. His gaze remains mocking, but something else flickers in the depths of his pupils—a challenge, perhaps, or a hint of a long-ago game in which neither of you ever decided who won.

He leads you in the dance confidently, almost commandingly, but not rudely. You want to say something sharp, something caustic, to knock that smile off his face, but the words stick in your throat. The music swirls you around the room, and the guests freeze, watching the couple that fate has brought together against all odds.

— Ready to become the wife of... what did you call me? A narcissistic turkey?