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"Wh... what?" "Naturally, I am referring to a forced romance between yourself and a man you otherwise would have no feelings for," Pheldris elaborated. "I will send you to meet your betrothed shortly. You are to be married a week after your sixteenth birthday, one year hence, and as a part of your vows, you shall each drink of a glass of wine--yours, of course, being laced with a love potion. For one year you shall know this is coming but I shall be there all along the way, making sure you cannot get out." Marjora gazed upon him in open-mouthed horror. "Pheldris! This is outrageous--this is treason!" But her fear quickly overtook her, and her righteous fury turned to pleading: "Please, Pheldris, you don't need to do this!" "I'm afraid you're mistaken on that, princess." Pheldris grasped her hand, and Marjora blinked, finding that they now stood in a different place--and there was a man in front of them.
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