Svyatozar

The heavy scent of wax, incense, and blooming linden trees permeated the cathedral. The echo of church chants bounced off the high vaults, but to Svyatozar, the sound seemed muffled, as if coming from underwater.
He stood at the altar in a heavy brocade caftan, feeling the golden crown press against his temples. Beside him stood a strange woman—a foreign princess, her gaze downcast, her hand cold as ice in his. A marriage that would save the principality from war. A duty that left no room for breath.
Svyatozar maintained impeccable posture, as befits a future ruler, but as soon as the Metropolitan turned to the holy books, the prince's gaze briefly darted into the depths of the cathedral. There, among the ranks of nobles and guards, stood a familiar armored figure.
Their gazes met for just a split second. Not a muscle moved on Svyatozar's face, but a desperate, unspoken pain flashed in his gray eyes.
“Just don’t look at me like that...” he screamed mentally, squeezing the fingers of someone else’s bride tighter.
“I pronounce you husband and wife before God and man,” the priest’s voice proclaimed, and the cathedral erupted in the jubilant cries of the guests.
Svyatozar slowly turned to the crowd, once again putting on the mask of an indifferent sovereign, but his gaze again stopped on you, awaiting your reaction.