The death-chamber was a silent cathedral of cold stone and colder grief.
In its center, upon a dais, the late king lay encased in crystal-clear glass—a final, transparent barrier between the living and the dead. His body was a sculpture of marble pallor, hands folded over a still chest.
Isabelle stood near the entrance, where she had been for some time. She had entered quietly, a shadow among shadows, observing the scene before her.
Tenebrarum sat on the lowest step of the dais, his back to her, a still, dark silhouette against the shimmering glass casket.
He had not acknowledged her. Perhaps he hadn't heard her enter.
Or perhaps he simply didn't care.
Finally, she broke the silence, her voice softer than she intended in the hollow room. "I did not wait for an invitation."
Tenebrarum did not move. "You should have."
"You have been here for two days. The court is restless. Your betrothed is concerned." She took a step forward, the scent of her perfume—night-blooming jasmine—a faint, living contrast to the sterile air.
"Leave your concern at the door," he said, his voice a low, dry rasp. "It has no use here."
Isabelle's eyes, which had been fixed on the rigid line of his shoulders, trailed upward. And then she saw it.
He was not wearing his mask.
The realization hit her like a physical blow. She had never seen him without it.
Not every one in court had seen him without a mask.
But now it was gone.
From behind, she saw the fall of his hair: strands of deep, liquid black that shone like polished obsidian in the candlelight, cascading over the pale column of his neck. It was disarming in its simplicity, its vulnerability.
"Tenebrarum—" she began, but the rest of her words died as he slowly turned his head to look at her over his shoulder.
His eyes, red irises, like banked coals in a deep forge, glowed in the chamber's gloom.
Not a flat or painted red, but a living, burning hue that seemed to hold depths of shadow and fire. They were set in a face of impossible, severe perfection.
High cheekbones cut as if from marble, a strong jaw shadowed with the barest hint of stubble, a straight, elegant nose, and lips that were a pale, cool red, like the first stain of blood on snow.
It was a face that commanded not just respect, but awe.
A face meant for legends, not concealment.
Why?
The question screamed through her, silencing every political calculation, every rehearsed line of comfort or strategy.
Why would he ever hide this?
For a long, breathless moment, she simply stared, her own carefully crafted composure crumbling in the face of his unmasked reality.
He was not the shadow she had agreed to marry. He was something far more dangerous—a prince or should I say the coming king with the face of a fallen angel, carved from night and ember.
"You are beauti…" she whispered, unable to finish.
"I am a son sitting with his dead father," he interrupted, his voice still that chilling, quiet rasp.
He turned fully now, those burning red eyes holding hers. The full effect of his face was staggering. "The rest—the mask, the crown, you—those are all decorations. And I have no need for decoration here."
Isabelle's mind raced, trying to reconcile the strategic alliance she had agreed to with the raw, inhuman enormity of the man before her.
"The kingdom does not stop because your father died," she said, grasping for the familiar ground of politics. "It needs a king, a great one. It needs to see you."
A faint, bitter twist touched his perfect lips. "It sees what I allow it to see. I do not care if they see this. You should leave, now." His gaze did not waver.
This.
The this he was talking about was the grief, the weariness, the unmasked man.
The part of him that was not a king, but a person. And with terrifying clarity, Isabelle understood: she was not invited into that space.
Her presence here was an intrusion.
She had walked into the room thinking to confront a grieving ruler.
Instead, she had stumbled upon a private, monumental truth—and had been coldly, definitively shut out of it.
"I will go...I hope you get better my lord, " she said, her voice regaining some of its steel, though it felt hollow.
Tenebrarum gave no reply. He had already turned back to the glass coffin, his profile once more etched against the light, a perfect, solitary monument between the king he had been and the king he must become.
Finally, she turned to leave. And as she did, she allowed herself a smile—a hard, private, victorious smile that tore from her lips.
He was beautiful. The perfect husband for her.
Even if he was broken now, her plans had worked.
All his brothers, the wailing queens, they had come crying their noises in Tenebrarum's ear. But did any of them truly care? Did any of them see the asset he was?
Now, Isabelle was just another noise in his ear.
The one with the legal claim, the political right, and now, the sharp, selfish appreciation for the stunning, wounded man on the throne.
She walked from the chamber, her steps measured, her smile lingering.
Let him grieve. Let him hide his face again. It doesn't matter...At least I have someone better than my last husband.
Tenebrarum will be all.
Now, all she needed to do was communicate with Velmara.
The message was simple, victorious: I have won.
This was her payment to Matrona—the final piece of the bargain.
Not just a crown for herself, but a king secured. A king who would soon be hers to… guide. To influence.
This was her gift to the whole of humanity.
Isabelle's smile hardened into something seamless, as polished and cold as the marble floors beneath her feet.
The game was not over. It had only just begun.
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To be continued...