The veil scratched against her cheek like the whisper of a lie. It wasn't silk — not really. Too stiff, too starched, too white. Lyra Vellorin had worn white once before. That time, it was soft and shimmering. That time, she had cried into the bodice while her maid pinned it. This time, she didn't cry. She bled.
Tiny pinpricks decorated her palms where she had clenched her hands too tightly, nails digging into skin. She hadn't even noticed the crescent cuts until she saw the dark smudges on the veil's hem. Fitting, really. Blood on white. A truth hidden in plain sight.
The bells outside the cathedral tolled.
One.
Somewhere in the crowd gathered beyond the great doors, Evelyne would be smiling. That tight, poison-laced smile she wore whenever the world bent in her favor. But today, it wasn't Evelyne in white. It wasn't Evelyne they bowed to.
It was Lyra.
The forgotten girl reborn in spite.
Two.
Her father would be seething — his precious family name now tied to the man they whispered about like a ghost story. Thorne of the Southern Wastes. The Butcher Prince. The general who conquered cities like chess pieces and never played fair.
Lyra had chosen him for that very reason.
Three.
She glanced sideways at Thorne, dressed in black and silver. Not a trace of white on him. He looked like a storm given shape — brutal, unyielding. His dark hair was swept back, his sharp jaw tense as if the cathedral walls offended him.
He hadn't spoken much since they arrived.
She didn't blame him.
This wasn't a wedding.
It was a warning.
When they stepped forward, the music swelled — too bright, too triumphant, like a victory anthem composed for someone else's war.
Lyra's knees didn't tremble. She'd burned once. She would not burn again.
Thorne extended his hand, gloved and steady. His touch was ice under the cathedral's heavy light. But when their fingers brushed, something flickered.
Not warmth.
But recognition.
The priest droned on about holy unions and the gods above. Neither of them listened. Thorne stared at her like he was still trying to solve her. Like her body was armor, and he was hunting the cracks.
When the priest finally paused for the vows, Lyra spoke first.
"I take you not for love. Not for faith. But for fire," she said, voice sharp as glass. "For the sword at my back and the shield at my front. I take you as war takes a banner — for protection, not peace."
Gasps rippled behind them. She didn't care.
She looked up at Thorne, daring him to balk.
He didn't.
"I take you," he replied, voice rough like gravel in snow, "as a blade takes an oath — sharp, necessary, and without mercy."
No promises. No sentiment.
Only fire.
The rings were exchanged without flourish. A cold metal band slid over her finger like a shackle, but she didn't flinch. Thorne's fingers lingered just long enough for her to feel the calluses — rough, real, the kind born of blood and ash.
"By the power vested—"
They didn't wait for the priest to finish.
Thorne pulled her close, and their lips met — not in affection, but in declaration. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tender.
It was war.
His mouth was cold steel and salt and something darker underneath — hunger, maybe. Or fury. Hers was fire — dry, bitter, unyielding. She kissed him like she meant to carve her name into his spine.
And he kissed her back like he meant to wear her wrath like a crown.
When they pulled apart, the crowd was silent.
Even Evelyne.
Especially Evelyne.
Lyra didn't need to see her face to know — her half-sister was unraveling behind that velvet mask of control. This wedding was never meant to happen. Not like this. Not to her.
Thorne offered his arm. Lyra took it.
They walked out of the cathedral side by side, monarchs of a kingdom built on spite.
Outside, rose petals rained down like blood drops — red, thick, cloying. Someone had chosen the color to symbolize love.
It looked more like carnage.
Lyra lifted her chin as nobles bowed, their eyes darting between her and her husband like frightened children watching wolves circle each other. She could hear the whispers already beginning to swell.
"Why him?"
"Why her?"
"Did you see how she looked at Evelyne?"
Let them talk.
Let them choke on every rumor.
She had a new name now. A new title.
Princess Consort of the Southern Wastes.
And soon, she would have a new throne too.
Their carriage waited at the bottom of the cathedral steps — obsidian and silver, pulled by stallions with crimson plumes. Thorne helped her in with a hand at her waist, fingers briefly brushing the bare skin beneath her corset.
It sent a flicker of something up her spine.
Not desire. Not yet.
But a question.
He sat beside her in the dark velvet interior, silent, watching.
She broke it first.
"You looked like you wanted to kill the priest," she murmured, voice low.
"I did," he said plainly. "He mispronounced your name. Twice."
A pause.
Then — a laugh.
It slipped from her before she could catch it. A real laugh. Shaky. Sharp. Unexpected. She covered her mouth, startled by her own sound.
Thorne tilted his head, as if memorizing the moment.
"You laugh like you haven't in a long time," he said.
She sobered. "I haven't."
Silence.
Then, softer — "Do you regret it?" he asked. "This choice?"
"No," she said. "But I regret I didn't do it sooner."
He didn't smile. But there was something in his eyes — a storm held still, waiting.
He reached out, tugged the edge of her veil aside, fingers brushing her cheek. It wasn't tenderness. Not yet.
But it wasn't indifference either.
"Then let's burn the rest of them together," he said.
Lyra met his gaze.
And for the first time since she clawed her way back from death, she let herself feel the heat.
Not hope. Not yet.
But power.
And in her chest, where a girl once trembled beneath velvet and lies… a woman sat, spine straight, wearing her spite like a crown.
Let the games begin.