Waiting has never felt this loud.
The palace hums, but not with the usual wedding chatter or court gossip. There's a different tone now. Tighter. Sharper. Like everyone can feel the ground shifting under their polished shoes and is pretending it's just a change in the weather.
Servants move faster.
Guards stand straighter.
And everywhere I walk, conversations die half a second too late.
Word of "the plan" has clearly leaked.
"The captains want another day," Axel says, falling into step beside me as I leave the training yard the next afternoon.
Of course they do.
"Another day to argue," I say. "Another day to draw new circles on the same map."
"Another day to find holes before someone falls through them," he counters.
We pass a pair of maids carrying linens. They drop into quick curtsies, eyes wide. One of them sneaks a look at my face as we go by, as if checking whether the rumors are true.
Do they really mean to go out there?
Are they that reckless?
Are they that stupid?
"Do you ever get tired of being stared at?" I ask under my breath.
"Constantly," Axel replies. "Though I'll admit, it's worse when you start liking the person they're staring at you with."
I almost trip.
He pretends not to notice.
"Where are they keeping you this afternoon?" I ask, choosing to ignore that last part.
"War room," he sighs. "Again. Mother wants to 'tighten the net.'"
I snort. "Of course she does. She probably wants to catch the sea itself."
He huffs a laugh.
"And you?" he asks. "More fittings? More flower discussions? More lessons on how to breathe without upsetting the nobles?"
"Worse," I say. "Tea."
He looks horrified. "With whom?"
"Lady Mirelle and three of her friends," I say grimly. "Apparently it's time I 'better understood Darkstorm feminine expectations.'"
He winces. "Do you want me to order an emergency rebel attack to get you out of it?"
"Tempting," I say. "But no. If I can handle your mother, I can handle a few ice sculptures in corsets."
He grins.
"If they say anything unforgivable," he murmurs, "you're allowed to mention that in Darkstorm, we consider assassination by pastry fork a valid diplomatic response."
"I'll keep that in mind," I reply.
He peels off toward the council wing; I head toward the smaller salon off the east corridor, where the tea has been laid out like a trap.
Lady Mirelle's version of hospitality involves knives hidden in sugar.
"Princess Rome," she purrs as I enter. "We are honored you could join us."
"Your letters left me little choice," I say sweetly.
She laughs, a brittle little sound.
The salon is all lace and light. Sun spills through tall windows onto a low table crowded with porcelain cups and too many cakes. Three other Darkstorm ladies arrange themselves gracefully on settees, all sharp cheekbones and softer smiles.
They rise and curtsy. I nod, letting the performance play out.
"We wanted to welcome you properly into our circle," Mirelle says as we sit. "You will be one of us soon enough."
"I thought I was marrying your prince," I reply lightly. "Not auditioning for your club."
Her eyes flash, just once, before her smile returns.
"Of course," she says smoothly. "But a queen is only as secure as the ladies who support her. It helps to…establish expectations."
There it is.
"Expectations," I repeat. "My favorite word."
One of the younger women, Lady Syra, leans forward eagerly.
"We heard the most interesting rumor," she says. "That you intend to parade yourself at the west market. In person."
"Hardly a parade," I say. "More of…a walk."
"A walk," Mirelle repeats, as if I've suggested dancing naked on the palace roof. "Among fishmongers and gutter children. While rebels paint broken crowns on your walls."
"Those 'gutter children' will be your soldiers in ten years," I say calmly. "Or your rebels in five, if no one ever bothers to look them in the eye."
A beat of surprised silence.
Then one of the other ladies, older, eyes lined with experience, snorts very softly into her tea.
Mirelle hears it.
Her smile tightens.
"Darkstorm queens do not need to beg in the streets for loyalty," she says. "We inspire it from a distance."
"And how's that working out?" I ask before I can stop myself.
A strangled sound escapes Syra. Mirelle goes very still.
For a moment, I think I've pushed too far.
Then Mirelle laughs.
It's not pleasant.
"You are very bold, Princess," she says. "Perhaps that will entertain them before it gets you killed."
"Perhaps it will remind them we are not afraid of them," I counter. "Or of hearing them."
She tilts her head, studying me.
"You truly mean to do this," she says, more statement than question.
"Yes," I say simply.
"Then allow me to offer you some…unsolicited advice," she says. "As a woman who has watched this court sharpen its teeth on softer flesh than yours."
I raise a brow. "I'm listening."
"When you stand on that fountain," Mirelle says, "you must make sure they know you are not just his wife." She nods vaguely in the direction of the council wing. "If they think you are only a Darkstorm puppet, Iris will never forgive you. If they think you are only Iris' darling spark, Darkstorm will blame you for every soft thing that ever happens."
She takes a slow sip of tea.
"You must be your own storm," she finishes quietly. "Or be drowned in his."
The other women shift, clearly unused to this softer, more honest side of Lady Mirelle.
I'm not sure I like her.
I'm also not sure she's wrong.
"Noted," I say. "Is this where you tell me what to wear?"
Her mouth twitches.
"Wear Iris," she says. "They expect Darkstorm to swallow you. Let them see you refuse."
"And you?" I ask. "Will you be in the crowd, cheering for my success or waiting for me to trip?"
Her eyes gleam with something almost like respect.
"Both," she says.
Fair enough.
By evening, the plan has a date.
"Two days," Axel says as he slips into our chambers, closing the door quietly behind him.
The word lands in my chest like a dropped stone.
"Two," I repeat.
He nods.
"Patrols are already shifting," he says, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over a chair. "They'll say it's because of the earlier gate incident. Extra caution. Nothing to worry about." He rolls his eyes. "You know. Lies."
I sit on the edge of the bed, half out of my gown, fingers worrying at the laces of my corset.
"Olivia?" I ask.
"She knows," he says. "She's already trying to sneak charms into every pocket of my coat."
"Adam?"
"Threatened to knock me out and wear my face if I tried to go without him," Axel replies. "Which is concerning on several levels."
I snort.
He crosses the room and kneels in front of me without ceremony.
"Turn," he says.
I blink. "What?"
He gestures at the half-undone corset.
"You look like you're about to strangle yourself with that thing," he says. "Turn around. Before you pass out and they blame me."
"I can manage," I protest.
"You can," he agrees. "But you don't have to."
Annoyingly reasonable man.
I turn.
His fingers are careful as they work at the laces, loosening them just enough for me to breathe properly.
"What did your mother say?" I ask.
"She said that if I get myself killed standing on a fountain, she will drag my soul back from whatever afterlife exists and murder me again," he says dryly.
"That sounds like her," I murmur.
The last knot comes free.
I inhale deeply for what feels like the first time all day.
"Thank you," I say.
He doesn't move away immediately.
His hands rest lightly at the small of my back, the heat of his palms bleeding through the thin fabric of my chemise.
"Rome?" he says quietly.
"Yes?"
"If they turn on us," he says, "out there. If it goes wrong. If they throw stones instead of questions—"
"Then we dodge," I say. "Or we get hit. That's always been true. This just gives us a better view."
He huffs a breath that might be a laugh.
"Do you ever think before you leap?" he asks softly.
"Do you ever stop thinking long enough to leap?" I counter.
He rests his forehead briefly against my shoulder.
"Touché," he murmurs.
For a moment, we just stay there.
His breath warm against my skin.
My heart doing that ridiculous stuttering thing it has picked up like a bad habit.
"Two days," I say again.
"Two days," he echoes.
"To become the sort of rulers who deserve to stand on that stone," I add.
His hands tighten, just slightly.
"Or," he says, "to become the sort of rulers who are honest about the fact that we're still figuring it out."
I turn to face him.
We're close.
Too close.
Not close enough.
"Which one do you think they want?" I ask.
He thinks for a moment.
"Neither," he says. "They want miracles. We can't give them that."
"Then what can we give them?" I whisper.
He reaches up and tucks a curl behind my ear, fingers lingering for half a heartbeat.
"Us," he says simply. "Alive. Together. Trying."
It sounds so small.
It feels enormous.
That night, I dream of water.
Not the neat, marble-edged fountains of the palace, but the wild ocean that battered Iris' cliffs when I was a child. Waves crash against stone, spray cold on my face. The sky is grey and heavy.
On the horizon, two crowns float.
One dark.
One light.
Both cracked.
"Choose," a voice says.
I turn, but there's no one there.
"Choose," the wind insists. "Which one to save."
I reach out.
My fingers close not on metal, but on a hand.
Axel's.
When I look back, the crowns are gone.
Only the ocean remains.
I wake with my heart pounding, nightshirt damp with sweat.
The room is dim, the first grey hint of dawn staining the edges of the curtains.
Axel sleeps on his side, back to me, breaths slow and even.
For a moment, the urge to shake him awake and tell him everything—the dream, the fear, the way my chest aches with the weight of tomorrow—rises sharp and desperate.
I don't.
Instead, I reach out and let my fingers brush his.
He stirs.
Half-asleep, he curls his hand around mine as naturally as breathing.
The tightness in my chest eases.
"Two days," I whisper into the pre-dawn quiet.
Outside, the bells of Iris have not yet begun to ring.
But in the stillness, I can feel something gathering.
A breath.
A pause.
The world waiting to see what we will do.
We have chosen the fountain.
We have chosen each other.
Now we will see whether our people choose us back.