Princess Solara Brightwyn's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Princess Solara Brightwyn crossed the border into winter to marry a man she had never met. Her carriage stopped at a frozen courtyard, and she stepped out in her golden crown and sun-colored gown. Snow stung her sun-browned cheeks. In her gloved hands she held her parents' marriage decree, a heavy scroll stamped with the red sun-seals of her kingdom. She had one task. Win the heart of the winter prince. The trouble was simple and awful. She knew nothing about him. Not his face, not his temper, not a single thing that might please or offend him. Servants in gray furs led her through the cold halls. They did not smile. One old woman glanced at Solara's bright dress and flinched, as if the color hurt her eyes. Solara's stomach tightened. Everything here was quiet, pale, and careful. She was loud and gold in a place that seemed to hate noise. One wrong word, and the prince might turn from her at first sight. They brought her to a garden walled in by snow. In its center grew a great weeping willow, its branches heavy with frost. Pale blue leaves hung like crystal and clinked softly in the wind. A young man stood beneath it with his back to her. His dark coat was buttoned to the throat. He did not turn when the servants announced her. Solara almost spoke first. She almost smiled wide and called a bright Sunshine greeting. Then she saw his hand. He held one frozen leaf against his palm, turning it gently, as though it mattered to him more than her arrival. She stopped. She lowered the scroll. She chose silence instead of her usual warmth. "The tree is beautiful," she said quietly. "I have never seen leaves like these." The prince went still. Then he turned. His eyes were gray and tired, braced for something he had clearly expected to dislike. He looked at her for a long moment and found she was not laughing, not loud, not mocking his cold home. "Most from the south call it dead," he said. "They want it cut down." "It isn't dead," Solara said. "It's only resting." Something in his face loosened, just a little. He did not smile. But he did not turn away either. He gestured at the scroll in her hands. "You carry the decree." "I do." She held it out. "But I would rather you knew me before you read it." He took the scroll and did not open it. He studied her, as if she were a new kind of weather he could not yet name. "Walk with me," he said, and stepped under the willow. Solara followed. She had not offended him. She had bought one chance, nothing more. But the man she must love was a stranger still, and now she must learn him fast, before the decree forced a wedding neither of them had chosen.