Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It began with silence, no voices were bouncing against the halls..it was a kind of silence that came before an avalanche—though still heavy, and cold like the snow that calls against the domes of the palace in Sankt Krasota, blanketing the marble spires of the Gojo empire.

You were inside your chambers, the fire pits of your room crackled softly, casting a red warm bloom across your silk screen and the velvet cushions of your bedroom. You sat in the amidst of it all, before the gold-gilded mirror that stare at you with your reflection. Your breathing slow, your hair pouring down your back like [hair color] satin. You were still in your gown—a deep crimson red, lined with white fox fur from the Americans. It hugged your body in the right places, you were ready, ripe, and royal.

I mean you were a beaut, the type that men would go to war for.

— then the door slammed open 

it was him, your brother. well-half brother, waltzing into your chamber, dressed in flowing blue and white robes, shimmering with every step he took. His snowy-white hair was a trademark, his Six eyes glowing faintly beneath his crown.

A god sent on earth to most,

to you he was your brother, simply your onii-sama, your only family you trust left.

"You're to be married," he said flatly, dropping a letter onto her lap. You turn your head and blinked, "Who this time?" you cocked your brow, Satoru just smirked at you, but it didn't reach his eyes. 

"The French. House of Zen'in. They offered you to Duke Megumi Fushiguro.." He starts walking around your vanity,

You just raised a brow, "The bastard son?" you sigh.

"The legitimized bastard son. France wants peace, and you're what they want, the prize...Зайчик" He stops walking, and turn to you.

You ran her fingers along the gold ribbon sealing the scroll. The wax bore the mark of France: a wolf howling under rose, 

You used your nail to open the seal up, looking at the formal letter before putting down onto the vanity. 

"So.. when will I be ship off,  brother.." You murmured,

"In about a month, preparation have to be given to you" He said, then leaned in, cupping your jaw with his gloved hand, "And if you don't want to partake in this affair, I will raze france to the ground"

You smiled faintly. "You always say that"

He stared at you, truly looking at you. Then whispered, ever so slightly, "I will burn this world to the ground for you, сестричка. You're the only one I trust in this world" 

You looked up at him, his gloved fingers still resting beneath your chin.

Even if he was the king, he was your brother first, your onii-sama.. the boy who chased you down the palace halls, who taught you had to hold a blade, who had diplomat's throat slit for speaking too loosely about your hips.

Then he released your chin and turned away, the weight of his robes sweeping behind him like a ride. You watched his reflection in the mirror—tall, cruel and regal.

"But..I'm being given away" you began, "To a man who I haven't spoke to, didn't ask for my name, just a title"

"A man," Gojo said, pouring himself a small glass of dark cherry liquor from your sideboard, "who refused the princess of Spain, the archduchess of Denmark, and the daughter of Kamo's war general"

He sipped, then look over his shoulder, "And yet, he accepted you, hm"

You blinked, parting your lips. The sound of the glass being placed down on the wooden table, as his steps echoed through the chamber, then lowered his voice,

"I wouldn't be sending you, if he were like the others" he said, 

"You know me, y/n.." 

and you did, for your whole life..it was hard not feel like some chess piece in a game. A jewel plucked from the Gojo vault and offered like some prized jewel.

Then he paused, 

"Megumi Fushiguro, is twenty-one. Bastard son of Toji Zenin, born to a seamstress in the South. Taken in at six after a conformation of his lineage. Fought in his first war at fifteen. Earned his ducal title at eighteen. Turned the tide at the Battle of Val-de-Rose by twenty. They call him the Duke of wolves"

You turned your head, ever so slightly, listening.

"His father is dead, he has no mistress. No bastards, no close advisors. His mother died but he claimed her name. His estate is ran like a monastery. His people love him, but they fear him too. They say he never raises his voice, and he's quiet but a gentleman" Gojo looked at you meaningfully.

"They say he only speaks when it matters" He finishes, before taking another sip of wine.

You stayed silent for a moment, processing all of his words, "So..he's quiet, reclusive and brooding too, hm" 

Gojo just chuckled, "He's French"

You laughed, to steady yourself. Just a small sound, it warmed the room more than the fire could. 

"I suppose I'll have to be the loud one, then," you said softly, glancing again at the letter.

"No," he said, stepping close, "You'll be his wife, and keep him in order, and fulfill the contract"

"I want spies in his court," You whispered,

"They're already there"

"I want a tutor in French"

"She will arrive here tomorrow"

"And.. a sword under my pillow"

"I'll have it arranged"

You smiled again—"Of course you did"

— then, he leaned forward pressing his forehead to yours, just briefly. A gesture rare between royals—but then again you were his little bunny, his sister.

[🃏]

Over the next month, your chambers were transformed into a war room disguised as a bridal suite. Silks from East were already laid out for fitting—dove-grey, indigo, gold-threaded crimson and pearl sticthed white. Perfumed oil arrived from your mother homeland. You practiced walking in heels made from swanbone.

—then the door opened up,

the sounds of shoes against the marble flooring, you turned yourself to see Shoko.

"Maîtresse Shoko!!" You exclaimed, bunching up your dress and running to her. She caught you mid-run, arms open and steady. Her brown hair was pinned back messily, as if she'd ridden through the night without pause, "Satoru, made you my tutor!"

"Yes, my princess," she replied, voice low and like velvet. "I came from the West just for you, when I heard your annoyance of a brother, told me you were to be wed off to French blood"

She made face, wrinkling her nose, "I must say, France. The land of moldy cheese, and smug men with titles longer than their swords"

You giggled, breath hitching from excitement. "You'll protect me from them?"

She smirks, and adjusted the collar of your robes, straightening it with a of her fingers, "No, зайчик. You'll protect yourself. I'm here to make sure you know French and etiquette of the France"

"And.. I heard one thing that Duke Fushiguro hates is nobles..especially loud ones"

"I'm not loud" You said, crossing your arms under your bust, "But I'm just right"

Shoko just laughed, "He'll love you, and if he doesn't he shall die"

She teaches you when to curtsy, and how to. 

In the incoming time, dozens of letter came from Val-de-Lys, written not by Megumi himself, but from his steward. Each was cold and proper. Instruction. Schedules. Protocols.

A sketched map of your new quarters, you traced the lines of his signature on the bottom of the last letter. 

Simple, clean and almost indifferent. You just set it aside, narrowing your eyes slightly. 

What kind of man accepts a royal bride, and sends no personal words to her.

For the next four weeks, your mornings began before sunrise and ended well past moonfall.

Shoko drilled you in French, not just the language — but court French. 

The kind used by nobles to say one thing and mean another. You learned the difference between a bow and a bend. When to speak and when silence would slice sharper than any word. 

How to flirt without smiling. 

How to threaten without ever raising your voice.

"You are a weapon of russia" Shoko would whisper, adjusting your spine as you practiced court walks. "But they must think you are a song."

Sometimes she would lounge on the divan, wine in one hand, lecturing while you stood on one foot in heels, balancing a book on your head.

"What do you say if the Queen Dowager remarks on your accent?"

You rolled your eyes. "I say: Ah, forgive me, madame — I tend to sound like power." You said it a over exaggerate French accent.

Shoko cackled. "Good girl."

[🂡]

Soon the time came, the journey across the water.

Your servants packed everything into Russian ornate trunks,

your furs from the Volga region

Satin dresses laced with gold from the East

Perfurmed oil infused with wild mountain rose

A small dagger — etched with the word любовь from your dear brother

a red silk nightdress

You were only allowed a small entourage, your four ladies-in-waiting, three guards and one priest. And a single white borzoi puppy, a gift from your cousin—nestled in a silver cage, a white note that etched "for luck," they said

"I hear the duke likes silence," one of your ladies-in-waiting teased, lacing up your corset.

"I hear the French like wine" You replied, "but they're getting vodka" you replied calmly, smoothing the front of your gown with one gloved hand.

That earned a stifled snort from Marina. Tatiana giggled behind her hand. Even Anya, your quietest lady, cracked a smile.

You didn't smile.

You were wearing winter white — not the ivory of innocence, but the sharp, bone-pure white. The gown's sleeves were lined with pale grey ermine, your bodice stitched with silver thread that shimmered like moonlight on fresh snow. Your neck was bare, save for the heavy sapphire pendant — the Gojo eye, cold and watching.

There were two soft knocks, just two taps, then the door open

Just Satoru coming to into your chambers before dawn. No guards. No advisors. Just him.

Snow still clinging onto his boots.

You turned. And despite everything — despite the fact that you'd just been laced into one of the heaviest, most ornate garments ever stitched by mortal hands — you moved toward him.

He kissed your forehead gently.

And for a moment, just that moment, you were children again. Him — already a crowned godling in training. You — the little girl chasing him through frozen corridors, clinging to his cape.

He kissed her forehead gently. "Make them kneel, дорогая."

She touched his cheek, "Only if he deserves it"

He cupped your face — thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if checking to see if you were trembling. 

"I'll be watching," he said quietly. "Every step of the way."

"Not every step," you said. "Let me make some mistakes."

He laughed, tired and soft. "Not in France, you won't. The Zenin court doesn't forgive women like you."

You tilted your head. "Powerful?"

"Beautiful," he replied.

...

You descended the grand staircase with your head held up high, your eyes forward, your breath calm. The train of your gown trailed like starlight behind you, the silver fox fur catching faint echoes of torchlight.

Your gloves were stitched with holy thread. Your boots lined with lambskin. 

The entire court was waiting in the main foyer — courtiers and stewards, handmaids and foreign dignitaries, all gathered in hushed reverence. The priest walked ahead of you, swinging his censer, holy smoke trailing in curls of frankincense and fir resin.

Your ladies-in-waiting following you through, and the palace gates open, the cold air hitting you like second breath.

The sun had only just begun to rise, casting everything in blue and gold. Snow sparkled over every roof tile, every tree branch and every frozen fountain.

All of Sankt Krasota was awake to see you off. Nobles, servants, guards. Your procession of carriages gleamed like icicles beneath the pale sky. Your carriage was just awaiting at the foot of the steps — carved from white ash, rimmed in silver, with the Gojo sigil painted across both sides. Four white horses stamped their hooves impatiently, their harnesses fitted with bells that chimed like wind through glass.

You wore a cloak of white and silver, your hair tucked under a fur-lined hood, lips tinted with berry red. Around your neck, your brother's crest , the Gojo eye, carved into a sapphire pendant.

Then you stepped forward, descending — one slow step at a time — like a falling star.

When your boots touched snow, you did not falter.

The captain of your guard helped you into the carriage. Inside, it smelled of cedarwood and violets, lined with thick wool blankets and soft furs. A silver decanter sat beside you, filled with sweet brandied tea. You didn't touch it.

You sat upright, the borzoi pup on your lap, but your eyes were fixed on the gates.

Outside, the crowd murmured. Somewhere above, a choir began to sing — a parting hymn, ancient and cold, meant for queens and warriors alike.

A bell tolled once.

And the gates of Sankt Krasota opened.

In your carriage you looked through the window, staring up to see, Satoru, he was standing at the top of the palace steps, tall and silent, waving his hand, bidding you a 'goodbye'

—Then the sound of the whip echoed, the horses started moving, the carriage rolled forward, and the gates of your homeland closed

[🃏]

Chapter Text

You did not cry when the gate shut, the sounds of the metal gate echoed through the winter air.

You did not allow yourself to blink for too long, knowing you would cry. Not when Satoru stood at the top of the marble stairs, not when his sihouette—tall, regal and unyielding—disappeared behind the white-gold archway of the Sankt Krasota palace.

He didn't call out nor follow just simply raised one gloved hand.. and let go.

The horses stirred, the bells of their bridles rang softly, like the wind chimes in pouring. Your carriage rolled forward, wheel crunching over the packed ice. You turned around, holding onto the pup in your lap. You pet its head and just kissed its forehead.

You left Sankt Krasota through the mountian gate, the oldest exit in the palace, where king only left for two things, once for battle and once for burial.

You chose the third path, wrapped in delicate lace, white and silver. The ladies-in-waiting arranged in separate carriages behind you, one by one, disappearing into the snowy fog. The wheels being swallowed by frost, winter, and shadow.

Your borzoi pup, nestled in your lap, lifted his narrow head and stared at you with pale blue eyes. You let your fingers curl through his fine fur.

"They'll all try to own me," you whispered.

The puppy blinked. His little body warmed your knees. It was the only warmth in the carriage you allowed yourself to feel. 

—soon the days blurred into another, through the polish lowlands, the world was flat and dead, the trees you saw outside your carriage, were bare, and frozen. You watched crows wheels over distant rooftops, the winds humming through the slats of the carriage.

and then the German duchies, you stopped for one night in a fortress in, where some local baron tried to catch a glimpse of the winter rose of russia.

"Cover the curtains," you ordered, "No one shall look at me, expect for my husband" you murmur, 

and then the alpine passes, you crossed bridges so thin it felt like ribbons in the air, so delicate and breakable. Below, a mist rose frozen frozen lakes and gorges. Your guards rode close, sabers heated in silence through the forests.

every checkpoint, at every inn and outpost, was familiar murmurs, talks about the affair, and rumors that spread like grass on the snowy mountains.

on the seventh night, you dreamt of him.

there were no portraits or painting of him that you brought—not in person. The French claim he refused to be drawn, but your dream didn't care for diplomacy.

He stood in a forest, bare-chested, with snow in his black hair. His back was to you, and yet, he knew you were there. You could feel it.

When he turned, his eyes weren't cruel.
But they were sharp.

"Why did you come?" he asked.

And you replied without hesitation:

"To see if you more handsome in person."

He didn't smile. Didn't frown.
He only tilted his head, and behind him, you saw the wolves.

Tall, grey, silent — they circled him like shadows, fur bristling, breath steaming into the frozen air 

And then you woke up—your heart racing, mouth dry, and your hands still gripping the dagger in one of your designed pillows.

Shoko's voice rang through your head,

"Don't fall for mystery, its just silence with a better wardrobe" You exhaled through your nose, "I want to see him" you ran your hand through the pup fine hair, giving it a kiss.

[🃏]

Then, the carriage erupted stopped, your eyes were still tired. Standing up straight, looking through the windows. 

the southern frontier of France, Zenin territory.

The land had shifted, gone was the snowbanks, bare branches, but now there were lush forests, filled with greens, pink, blues, and every color. Dark green and gold, the wind smelled like rosemary and iron. You could hear the river before you ever saw the castle.

Val-de-lys, it was. Carved into the mountainside like a crow set into bone. The stone towers roses like claws from the cliff, ivy blanketed the battlement, the tallest spire bore the Zenin crest—a crimson rose bloomed up.

You were at the outer courtyard, outside the welcome part was already assembled—dozens of courtiers, guards, and ladies of the French court. All of them dressed like winter had never touched them or kissed them at all. Warm-toned velvets, bare neck, gloved hand holding perfumed fans.

One of the guard open the front door of the carriage, holding out his hand as you held it, taking your slow yet unhurried steps onto the ground. You were silent, your eyes set ahead, your ladies-in-waiting were already present. The cold of France was gentler than Russian winds, it smelled and felt like spring.

The crowd gasped,

Your hair was braid with silvery thread. Your cloak trailed behind you like a comet's tail, lined with the pale fox fur of your homeland. You finally had your feet on the ground, French ground. You eyes scanned everywhere, from the styles of dresses the women wore, to the men, then up.

There he was, your husband-to-be, the Duke himself,

He was standing at the top of the keep's staircase, you turned your head towards him, just slightly. Enough to acknowledge him, Megumis stopped halfway down the stairs, studying you .

No perfume, no powders. Just smelled faintly of the frost, maybe spiced or smoked. Then began descending down from the stairs, and stopped before you.

Nearly eye-level with him, but he was much taller than you expect, not taller your dearest brother, but taller than what you thought of the stereotypical French man. He looked so still but alive at once.

"Monsieur" you said, your voice was clean, and precious despite being in the carriage for several days.

"Princess" he held out his hand, gloved. 

You placed your hand on his. Soft. Cool. He didn't kiss it—he never would—but he hovered close, out of formality. You noticed. Your brows raised just faintly.

"You didn't send a letter.." you said, a faux frown on your lips. Megumi's voice, when it came, was low.

Quiet. Absolute.

"I don't write to women I haven't met"

His pause was intentional,

"...Now," he said, "I have nothing to say. But I'll listen."

Something flickered in your eyes—brief.

You tilted your head, expression unreadable. "You are yet so cruel, monsieur" you said, your tone light your accent slipping through.

Megumi didn't react immediately. His expression remained unreadable, eyes shadowed by soft gold of the setting sun. You saw the shift in his shoulders, the slight inhale—subtle as a breath drawn before a duel.

"I'm not cruel," he said,

"Only honest"

He held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Long enough for the courtier to wonder, long enough for the wind to still between you. Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned. Not rudely, simply with finality. A man accustomed to being followed, not chase.

"Come," he said, "The court is waiting"

You let him walk two steps ahead before following. Not because you were meant to—but you wanted to watch him move. The quiet command to his stride, the way his coat shifted with the breeze, the sword at his hip speaking louder than anything.

The doors opened like wings, inside the keeps of the Val-de-Lys was carved in stone and silence. The inner halls were dim, only being illuminated by the tall windows and flickering candle light. Ivy crawled along the inside columns—half wild and unchecked.

The guard posted at each threshold saluted wordlessly as you passed, nobody, nor courier stepped forward to greet you.

tsk,

well, it was better to underestimated then worshipped.

The duke, didn't say anything to you, as he led you down the main corridor, his boots striking through the flagstones with the same calm as your. The steps echoed like a metronome,

but the weight of his presence against yours, it wasn't like flame or wind but like a wall.

[🂡]

The hall of roses—the throne halls wasn't as grand as Sankt Krasota's crystal court,

the banner were green of lush forest and gold. The floor was black stone, veined with gold. At the far end stood a raised platform with two carved chairs—not thrones, but more ancient.

One was already occupied—an older noblewomen with pale eyes and a hard mouth. The Dowager Marquise, if you remembered correctly, his aunt by title, but no clear warmth.

When you entered at his side, the court began to murmur again

"She walks beside him—"

"Not behind—"

"She hasn't removed her cloak—"
"She didn't bow—"

You kept your eyes ahead. Kept your chin raised.

Let them speak.
Let them see the frost of your breath and think it smoke.

Megumi stopped before the platform, and then turned slightly to face you, you mirrored him, hand at your sides, expression serene.

The Marquise rose slowly, her voice carried like ice over glass.

"The court of Zenin welcomes the Princess of Russia. By his majesty's sealed command, the house of Zenin acknowledges this union—"

her words were cut by the sudden clatter of hooves, and boots just beyond the windows. A courier burst through the main doors, breathless, clutching a scroll.

He dropped to one knee before Megumi, then held the scroll aloft. "From the crown of Russia, sealed by the Eye"

Megumi took the scroll, unrolling it with gloved fingers. The blue wax seal was already broken. His eyes skimmed the content, no change in his face.

—then held the letter onto you, you stepped forward and took it gently, reading the materials.

' Let them know who you are, сестричка. 

Let no one forget whose blood runs through your veins.

And if they do—remind them.'

you smiled faintly, then refolded the letter and placed it back into your sleeves. Looking up, megumi was still watching you. 

"You're not what I expected," He said quietly, 

You tilted your head, "Nor you"

Then, after the beat—voice soft, almost bored.

"Will you offer me your arm, monsieur? Or shall I take my seat alone?"

His jaw flexed, his eyes darkened, but hand rose without protest. You place your fingers on his forearm. Light. Formal. Unshaken.

and in silence, walking towards the dais.

soon, the bethoral ceremony ended without a toast. Without a kiss. Without a flourish.

just the sound of boots on stone and the parting of the crowd as the princess from the North, covered in silver, cloaked in cold— was escorted from the hall of roses.

no one dared touch you. even the pages who didn't bow didn't come within a arm's reach. The ladies of the French stared from behind their jeweled fans, their painted lips curling in unreadable shapes.

the hush was thick as snowfall, then the royal chamberlain finally—dressed in navy and grey. The Zenin sigil was stitched along his shoulder, and his voice was firm when he spoke. 

"Your highness," he said, bowing. "If you will allow me—your apartments await"

You nodded, saying nothing, only inclining your head slightly—enough to show you'd heard, the palace was different kind of cold as were led through it. It was biting with frost, but a chill that lived in the wall, in the carved faces of gargoyles, in hush of guard who did not smile.

The winding corridors were high-ceiling and dim. The tapestries depicted battles and beasts—wolves with open jaws, roses coiled like serpents, men dying in silence.

You took it all in.

The borzoi pup nestled in the crook of your arm gave a small whine. You touched its head gently, eyes never straying from the path ahead.

When they opened the doors to your new chambers, you paused. It wasn't what you expected, no towering ice chandelier, no massive hearth like in Sankt Krasota.

Your chambers were craved from the stone the color and cream. Vaulted ceilings arched overhead. A long balcony overlooked the rose fields below, now dormant for winter. The heart in the man room was already lit—flickering with orange againist the velvet drapes and candles sconces.

The bed was wide, covering in white linen and dark wool. A wolfskin was draped at the foot. Above the headboard, carving into the stone itself, was the sigil of the House Zenin, a single rose blooming between them. You stepped inside, slow.

Your ladies-in-waiting following closely behind you like petals falling from a cherry tree.

"Would you like assistance undressing, Your highness?" Anya asked, her voice was delicate.

You shook your head, "I'll manage" you said,

They paused, then cursed and moved about the room, unpacking brushes, laying out your silks for the morning, placing rose oil into the baths. Elena returned from inspecting the bathwater and whispered in your ear, "No eyes in the walls. I checked not yet, at least"

You huffed, 

Tatianna ran a cloth over the dagger  you kept hidden in your bodice lining. "French steel will snap on a bad day," she murmured, "But this, is Gojo-rus forged. Good choice, my princess"

You unhooked your cloak, the women moved in reverence and quietly. In the minutes that came, your layers were gone, your skin breathed again. You stood barefoot before the hearth, dressed on in your shift of the light cotton, your hair tumbling down your back.

They left you before midnight, one by one shuffled out of your chamber. 

"You'll ring if you need us?" Anya said,  you nodded, then left.

The fire crackled softly, the wall were high and the ceiling quiet. You walked back to the balcony, opened the heavy doors, and stepped into the cold. The French sky was different. Lighter. Less cruel. The stars were scattered wide and high like spilled glass. You could see the moonlight glinting off the rose garden below.

Then sounds from the woods echoed the midnight wind, your borzoi stirred behind you, ears twitching.

You didn't flinch, your eyes just stared at the forest, you whispered, 

" Пусть все смотрят, как я расцветаю"

You returned inside, shutting the balcony. Before entering the bathroom, your bath was still steaming faintly, and the sheets untouched. You dipped your fingers in the bath. Still warm. Smelled like warm cedar.

The hot water soothing your muscles and your bones, you sighed out. The water lapping against your skin, soft ripples breaking the silence. The scent steam coiled upwards curling into your hair like smoke. The copper tub was wide, deep, polished to a mirror sheen.

You rested your arms along the edge, head tilted back, gaze fixed on the ceiling's carving, rose tangled with thorns.

how fitting, pursing your lips at the scene.

your mother used to day that the bath were where queens, or important women plotted, not just cleansed.

You were here now, naked beneath foreign stone, warm in enemy territory..

The ladies of court with their honeyed smiles.
The Dowager with her slow disdain.
Even your husband-to-be — all quiet storm and steel-gray eyes — would measure your footing.

Let them bring their hushed politics, their sideways glances, their whispered slurs about your blood, your skin, your name.

You were Gojo's sister.
And that meant you were frost beneath silk. Steel wrapped in satin.

Your fingers trailed through the water slowly. Idly.
Then you stopped.

Opened your eyes.

In the mirror above the vanity across the room, barely visible through the rising steam, you saw your own reflection — dark hair damp and curling, shoulders glistening, lips slightly parted.

You looked like a ghost of something holy. A woman anointed by fire and ice.

"Let them watch," you whispered again.

After your bath, you dried yourself in silence.

The linens here were soft — finer than expected. Embroidered with the Zen'in crest. Their touch against your skin made you wonder how many women had used them before you. How many foreign brides had come here, trembling and naive, only to wilt.

You were not that bride.

You donned a soft robe — silver-threaded, your own — and pulled your hair into a single long braid, letting it fall over your shoulder.

The bed loomed. You stood before it for a long moment.

Then climbed in, slowly, the borzoi leaping up beside you without command. He curled near your legs, his breath steady.

The wolfskin blanket at your feet was warm. Heavy.

Above you, the moonlight spilled through the windows in a wide arc, casting silver across the floor, the bedposts, your bare collarbone.

You lay back. Eyes open.

Sleep did not come easily.

But power didn't need rest.
It needed presence.

And when morning came — you would be ready.

[🃏]