The room was too quiet.
Velvet drapes fluttered against the tall arched windows, stirred by the faint evening breeze. A pale firelight shimmered across the marble floors, casting soft halos against the gold-inlaid mirrors. White candles burned in silent rows, their light pure, ceremonial—unlike the thoughts that twisted behind Serenya's eyes.
She sat still before the mirror, as if carved from the same ivory stone as the walls. Her long silver hair, smooth as moonlight, fell over her shoulders in waves as the court maids weaved it into an intricate braid. They painted her lips in rose-glass dye and dusted her eyelids with a shimmer like snow. She looked like a bride sculpted from winter.
But inside—she was storm.
She didn't smile. She didn't speak. Her blue eyes, cold and unblinking, studied the reflection with a soldier's detachment. Every flick of a brush, every tightening of lace, every whispered compliment—it was all armor. A mask. She buried her dread beneath the weight of purpose.
This is not for love. This is for the Light. For Ariathen. For justice.
The door opened with a heavy groan.
All the maids dropped into bows. Serenya didn't turn. She already knew who it was.
"Leave us," came the firm voice of the King.
They obeyed.
He stepped closer, his golden robes rustling like banners before battle. He didn't touch her. Didn't smile. His crown glinted under the chandeliers, sharp and cold.
"You are ready," he said. It wasn't a question.
Serenya rose, hands folded before her. Her gaze met his through the mirror.
"I am."
Silence stretched.
"You know what is required of you," the King said. "This union—it is not peace. It is strategy. They think they can deceive us with smiles and sacred rites. But we'll be watching. You will be watching."
"I will do what must be done."
He gave a single nod. Not as a father, but as a commander.
"When you walk that aisle, remember who you are."
"I am the daughter of Ariathen. A weapon of the Light."
"And his blood," the King added, "is our key to uncovering Velstrath's sins."
He turned and left. Not a single glance back.
The next knock was softer. Familiar.
Meristele entered like a hush—cloaked in soft lavender silk, eyes brimming with affection. Her silver curls, tinged with wisdom and age, framed a face of serene warmth. The scent of wildflowers followed her.
"My dear," she whispered, stepping close. "You look like your mother."
Serenya stiffened. Not visibly—but she felt the ache behind her ribs.
"May I?" Meristele asked, lifting a hand toward her hair.
Serenya nodded once.
With practiced fingers, the older woman adjusted the braid, weaving in a string of glowing pearls.
"She'd be proud of you," Meristele said. "Strong. Beautiful. A symbol of everything Ariathen stands for."
Serenya met her gaze in the mirror.
"She was killed because she stood for those things."
Meristele's hand paused.
"Yes," she said softly. "And not just killed. Hunted. Torn from us like a warning. By them. By the monsters you now walk toward."
Serenya didn't flinch. Her eyes darkened.
Meristele cupped her cheek, voice low. "They won't say it aloud, but every person watching tonight will be hoping for one thing—that you end what your mother could not. That you walk into Velstrath and bury its curse from the inside."
The words lodged deep. But Serenya gave no outward sign.
She simply said, "I remember why I'm doing this."
Meristele smiled and kissed her forehead. "Then may the Light guard you."
The bells began to toll.
It was time
---
The corridor stretched endlessly before her, lit with floating flames of pure white. The ceremonial veil trailed behind her like a second shadow. Every step she took echoed through the marble halls of Ariathen's high temple.
People lined the walls—cloaked nobles, sacred knights, silent acolytes. Some bowed their heads in reverence. Others stared, wide-eyed, as if witnessing prophecy.
She gave them nothing. No smile. No tears. Only poise.
But inside…
She was choking on stories. Tales whispered about the cursed kingdom of Velstrath—the land that bled flame and shadow. About the Veyr prince who turned into beasts. About the screams of brides who never returned.
She crushed those thoughts beneath her heel.
' I'm doing this for my people'
The courtyard was vast—an open sky temple with no ceiling but the moon. Silver torches circled the altar in ghostly halos.
And he was waiting.
Hooded. Motionless. Cloaked in black and gold.
Prince Kaelen.
She walked to him as rehearsed, steps measured. Her gaze never strayed.
Until he lifted his head.
Her breath caught.
My God.
That wasn't a prince.
It was a trap disguised as beauty.
He was... beautiful. Terrifyingly so.
His raven-black hair shimmered with threads of gold, like embers in ash. His skin was pale bronze, unmarred. And his eyes—sharp and unreadable—held a molten calm.
And that was more terrifying than fangs.
He's not what I prepared for
He said nothing. Merely extended his hand.
A ceremonial blade was placed between them. The priest began to chant in Old Ariathi.
Kaelen took the blade.
With no hesitation, he sliced his palm. Blood—dark, crimson, ancient—fell into the silver bowl between them.
Serenya took the blade next. Her fingers trembled—but only for a moment. She cut herself cleanly. Her blood mingled with his.
The bowl glowed.
A wind rose—low and murmuring, though the sky remained still. Candles flickered. Voices faded.The bowl glowed.
A wind rose—low and murmuring, though the sky remained still. Candles flickered. Voices faded.
The ritual would begin.
Kaelen's hand gripped hers—firm, warm, binding.
She kept her gaze on the blood between them, her breath steady, her thoughts louder than prayer.
This is it.
No turning back.
The ritual was done.
And from this moment on, nothing could be undone.