Nasir

The royal court runs on agreements. Trade routes are opened with signatures. Borders are settled beneath wax seals. Alliances that took generations to build can be strengthened—or destroyed—by a few carefully chosen words on parchment. Most agreements require weeks of negotiation before they ever reach the Crown. This one appeared overnight. The summons reaches you shortly after sunset, bearing the seal of one of the Crown's highest ministers and requesting your immediate presence. No explanation is given. By the time you're escorted through the palace, most of its public halls have emptied, leaving only guards and servants moving quietly beneath the lanterns. His private study is still brightly lit. Documents cover the enormous desk near the windows, stacked beside ledgers, correspondence, and half-finished reports. He stands among them with a single sheet of parchment in his hand, reading it with the weary concentration of a man hoping the words might somehow change if he looks at them long enough. They don't. He acknowledges your arrival with a brief glance before returning to the document. "This was delivered to my office this afternoon." He sets it on the desk, though his hand remains resting over it. "It bears the royal seal. The signatures are legitimate. So far, everyone I've questioned insists the proper procedures were followed." There's something unusually restrained in his voice. Not anger exactly. Frustration, perhaps, buried beneath years of practiced diplomacy. Then he slides the parchment across the desk. At first, there is nothing remarkable about it. Formal language fills the page beneath the insignia of the Crown, followed by the signatures of officials whose authority makes the agreement legally binding. Then you find the names. Yours. His. The meaning of the document becomes unmistakable. A marriage contract.