The silence in the chapel stretched thin as wire.
Ivy stood alone at the altar—a lone bride. No trembling hands. No tears. Her grip on the bouquet of white roses was light, as if she could drop it and walk away at any moment.
But she wouldn't.
Not yet.
Anya, just a step below, stared up at her with uncertain eyes.
The priest cleared his throat nervously. "My lady, shall we… wait a little longer?"
"No need," Ivy said, her voice sweet but firm. "The groom has made his choice clear."
A hush swept through the crowd, sharp as a blade.
Ivy turned her head slightly toward the King—just enough to make her intent obvious.
"Of course, I would never presume to cancel a royal wedding. That would be disrespectful. Especially since it was His Majesty himself who arranged it."
The King's jaw clenched.
"However," she continued, "I would also never presume to stand here like a fool, abandoned at the altar."
A few gasps. One very audible snort she was sure came from Lucas.
"I propose a compromise," Ivy said, her voice rising just enough to carry through the chapel. "The Crown wanted a marriage. So let there still be one."
The priest blinked. "You mean… with someone else?"
"That's preposterous!" the King thundered, rising from his throne.
Everyone tensed—everyone except Ivy, who remained calm, speaking as though she hadn't just challenged the very monarchy.
"When a noble is publicly forsaken, she may claim her own future—choose her own fate—on the day of her betrothal, should she still stand unbound. That's what the law says, does it not?" She smiled sweetly. Too sweetly.
She knew exactly what she was doing. All that reading had finally paid off.
The King looked like he'd been slapped. That law had long been forgotten—practically dust in the archives. But it was still written. Still binding.
"I mean," Ivy said, turning toward the pews, "I will choose someone worthy to stand at my side—today. Right here. Now. After all, I am a Ravenshield."
Nobles began to squirm.
Ivy let her gaze sweep slowly, deliberately, across the room.
One man fidgeted with his cufflinks, avoiding her eyes like they were fire.
Another looked like he might faint on the spot.
And then… her eyes landed on him.
He sat alone, dressed in black and silver, still as a statue. No insignia. No golden embroidery. No outward flare of magic. Just cool, dangerous grace.
He didn't flinch beneath her gaze.
In fact… it felt like he'd been waiting for it.
Her breath hitched—just a little.
Something about him...
That one.
She raised her hand and pointed, smiling sweetly.
"Him," she said. "I choose him."
Every head turned.
And then—chaos.
The Queen gasped.
The King shot to his feet like he'd been stabbed.
A murmur exploded across the pews.
"Tristan?!"
"She picked him—?!"
"Is she insane?"
"She chose the Ice Warden?!"
Ivy blinked. "Wait. What did they just say? Is he someone important?"
The man in question stood slowly—like the rise of a winter moon.
Pale hair. Eyes like glacier shards. Power rolled off him in a cold wave, mist trailing in his wake. Nobles instinctively pulled back as he passed.
Dramatic much.
He stopped beside Ivy.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked quietly.
She squinted up at him, confused. "A noble. Obviously."
A pause.
His voice was a low murmur. Deadly calm. "Prince Tristan. Ninth of Embercrown. Iceborne."
There was a beat.
Ivy blinked, arching a brow. "You're a prince?"
Before he could respond, Anya leaned in, hissing urgently in Ivy's ear.
"My lady! That's Prince Tristan—the ninth prince! The one they call the Ice Warden!"
Ivy's interest visibly piqued. "Go on…"
Anya clutched her arm like she was bracing for divine punishment.
"He froze a nobleman alive once for scuffing his boots. They say his magic turns blood to frost. He has a wing in the palace, but he lives alone in a villa in the northern mountains. No staff, no guests, no sunlight. He's terrifying."
Ivy's lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. "Fascinating."
Anya looked like she might faint. "Fascinating?!"
Ivy tilted her head, her gaze slipping back to the man in question.
"So, I accidentally chose the most dangerous man in the room." Her grin widened. "How fun."
Tristan met her eyes. A flicker of something—curiosity? amusement?—passed through his otherwise unreadable expression.
The King snarled, "Lady Ivy—!"
She turned and curtsied. Graceful. Regal. Untouchable.
"With all due respect, Your Majesty, the Crown sought a political match. You now have one. Prince Tristan is royal. And unlike your heir…" She smiled. "He showed up."
The King looked like he might combust.
Ivy turned back to Tristan.
"Do you object to marrying me?"
The pause was long. Frozen.
Then, his mouth curved—just slightly. A smirk carved from ice and war.
"I suppose not."
With a brighter smile, she turned to the priest.
"Well then, shall we proceed?"
The priest, visibly trembling, stumbled through the final words.
"By the power vested in me by the Holy Flame and the Embercrown Dynasty… I now pronounce you husband and wife… You may kiss the bride."
Silence. Heavy. Tense.
The nobles didn't breathe. Even the King didn't blink.
Ivy turned to Tristan.
He stood tall, regal in a way that defied warmth—like a statue carved from winter itself. That icy composure, the unreadable expression, the glint of something sharp beneath the surface… it made her pulse quicken. She was excited. The same kind of thrill she felt when blood was in the air.
Everyone waited for him to act.
He didn't.
So Ivy smiled. A slow, deliberate smile.
Fine then. I'll set the tone.
Her gaze dipped to his mouth, then back up. Without a word, she stepped forward. Her fingers brushed the edge of his collar—steady, despite the thunder of her heart. She tilted her chin up—defiant, daring—and kissed him.
It wasn't soft.
It was deliberate. Claiming. A spark struck in the center of a powder keg.
Her hand curled into the fabric of his tunic as her lips met his with startling conviction—like she could rewrite fate itself if she kissed him hard enough.
Tristan stiffened at first—like the kiss hadn't quite caught up to him yet.
But then his hands rose. One slid to the small of her back. The other cradled her jaw. And he kissed her back.
The heat of it shocked her.
It wasn't cold at all.
When she finally pulled back, she looked into his eyes and whispered just loud enough for him to hear:
"Guess we're married now."
Tristan didn't smile.
But Ivy had the distinct feeling… he was very amused.
She turned toward the pews, head held high.
"You may all now rise," she said. "The wedding continues."
And just like that, the nobles stood—some in shock, others in horror.
But none dared object.
After all…
The bride had chosen her groom.
And no one said no to the Ice Warden.