Aldric said nothing throughout the journey, and neither did she. The silence between them felt like a cold wall—thick, unbreakable. He only glanced at her once, as they dismounted at the inner gates, and then gave a short, unreadable nod. The palace loomed ahead—its towers sharp as thorns, its walls swallowing the last of the day's light as though even the sun was unwelcome here.
A servant girl was already waiting—young, timid, and silent. Her gaze flickered to Aurora, lingering for a heartbeat longer on her pale face, but her expression stayed carefully blank. Aldric didn't offer a word of comfort. Not a question. Not a glance that suggested she was anything more than a duty completed.
He simply turned to the girl and said, "Take her to her quarter."
No title. No introduction. Not even her name.
The servant nodded, then gestured for Aurora to follow. Aldric walked away before she even took a step. Not once did he look back.
Aurora followed the girl through winding, dimly lit corridors. The deeper they went, the more the walls seemed to close in on her, like the palace itself was swallowing her whole. Dust choked the air, thick and stale, and the torches burned low, casting long, strange shadows that moved like creatures in the dark.
They turned into a narrow passage that led toward the farthest part of the palace—the east wing. Forgotten and silent. Even the air felt colder here, as though warmth refused to enter.
At last, the servant stopped at a door and opened it without a word, then she stepped aside.
Aurora glanced at her, searching for something—anything—in the girl's eyes. But there was nothing. No pity. No curiosity. Just emptiness.
Aurora stepped in slowly.
The room was like a cell. Cold stone walls. A hearth without firewood. A window cracked at the edges, letting in wind that cut like blades. The bed was no better than a stable cot—rough, unkempt, and smelling of old cloth and damp.
The girl said nothing. She simply turned and walked away, closing the door behind her with a hollow thud that echoed through the small, miserable space.
Aurora was alone.
She took one hesitant step further, then another, and stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself. Her fingers were trembling uncontrollably. The cold crawled over her skin instantly, sinking deep into her bones with a cruel, icy grip.
Still, she said nothing.
She looked around again. Slowly. As if hoping the room might somehow change if she blinked long enough.
Then her throat caught. Her breath faltered. And then… it broke.
She sank to her knees, her hands covering her face as tears finally burst free—hot, desperate, unstoppable. She didn't know if they came from the cold, the hunger, the fear, or the weight of everything that had been done to her. Likely all of them. The sound of her sobbing echoed off the stone walls, a lonely, hollow sound in a place that felt carved from despair.
But no one heard. Or perhaps they did—and simply didn't care.
No fire. No food. No blanket. No warmth. Just stone. And silence. The kind of silence that pressed against her ears and made her feel smaller with every breath.
The cold crept deeper into her bones, and when at last the tears dried and her body had no strength left to cry, Aurora curled into herself on the hard mattress. She shivered violently. Her lips turned pale. Her eyes remained open—watching the ceiling in the dark, blinking slowly as the night dragged on like something endless.
She had never known a silence so cruel.
And Velmora, in all its grandeur, had made its first declaration clear. She was not welcome here.
Morning broke cold and grey over Velmora. The sun, if it rose at all, stayed hidden behind thick layers of frost-streaked clouds. The palace did not stir with warmth or music—only with quiet, deliberate movement that felt more like the shifting of ghosts than people.
In the western tower, Aldric stood before a tall mirror framed in black iron. His back was straight, arms slightly lifted as his dresser, a stooped and wordless man, fastened the last of his cloak at the shoulders. The velvet was deep grey, almost silver under the dim light, lined with fur the color of storm clouds.
He glanced at his reflection, smoothing the collar with a flick of his hand. Then he smirked, a small, dark curve of amusement on his lips.
"I recall instructing the Elareth messenger," he said lazily, voice like cool wine, "to have the girl dressed in white."
From the shadows near the window, his right-hand man stood silent. A tall figure draped in black, face unreadable. He didn't move. Didn't blink. He just listened.
"And..." Aldric tilted his head slightly, as if admiring a painting only he understood, "they did."
He grinned wickedly. "Had no idea Elareth followed instructions this much."
The man's expression didn't shift. Not a blink. Not a twitch. His silence was perfect—because he knew Aldric preferred it that way.
He had learned long ago that Aldric did not always speak to be answered. Knowing when to speak—and more importantly, when not to—was what had earned him the place at Aldric's side. And what had kept him there through wars, betrayal, and blood.
Aldric chuckled softly to himself. "Still… the white wasn't terrible." He turned from the mirror, reaching for his rings. "Elareth evaded destruction once more, just once more."
He slipped a ring onto each finger, each one heavy with meaning—one for Velmora, one for his family, and one that no one dared to question.
Then he turned to one of the younger messengers waiting silently at the door. "Go," he said. "Tell the palace seamstress to find the girl in the far eastern wing. Dress her. In blue." His voice dipped into something colder. "Then bring her to the inner chamber."
The messenger bowed quickly and rushed off.
Aldric leaned back against the carved edge of the dresser, fingers tapping the wood in thought. He didn't say another word, but there was a certain gleam in his eye—one that suggested he was waiting to watch something unfold. Something he had planned. Something that amused him.
***********
Aurora woke up to the sharp ache in her bones and the sting of cold in her lungs.
She blinked slowly, eyes crusted from tears not yet dried. Her body refused to move at first. Every joint ached from sleeping on hard straw. The thin blanket had slipped off her in the night, but even if it hadn't, it wouldn't have made a difference—the cold was merciless, uncaring.
The air felt colder than before, like the night itself had frozen into the walls. Her fingers were stiff, pale, curled near her chest. She could hardly feel her toes. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, not sharply anymore, but with a hollow, constant ache that felt like it belonged to her now.
She didn't cry again. There were no tears left to give.
Instead, she sat up slowly—each movement dragging pain with it—and looked around the room once more, though nothing had changed. Just stone. Just shadows. Just silence.
Then came the sound—footsteps.
Light ones. Crisp and sure. Closer… closer… stopping right outside her door.
She didn't move. Didn't breathe.
A moment passed. Then the door creaked open.
In walked a woman of middling age, her posture sharp and stiff as the measuring tape around her neck. She wore a high-necked gown the color of dusk, her hair bound in a tight coil, and her mouth pressed into a thin line—neither kind nor cruel. Just… focused.
Her eyes swept the room once, landed on Aurora, and lingered with a brief pause. Not pity. Not surprise. Just a slight flicker of disapproval at the sight of the half-frozen girl before her.
"You're to be dressed," the seamstress said without greeting.
Her voice cut through the cold like a blade. She turned and gestured behind her. Two younger attendants entered, carrying folded blue fabrics—deep, royal blue with silver threading so fine it shimmered like frost.
Aurora blinked again, unsure whether she should stand or speak, unsure if her legs would even obey.
The seamstress didn't wait. "You'll be presented in the inner chamber. Stand, if you can. There's little time."
The attendants set down their tools and fabrics, already moving toward her with practiced, brisk hands. They didn't comment on her appearance—on her matted hair, the tear-stains on her cheeks, the faint frostbite blooming on her fingers. And if they noticed, they cared even less.
Aurora stood slowly, wobbling once as the room tilted for a second—but she steadied herself. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.
Still, she said nothing.
Inside her chest, fear tightened like a fist.
She didn't know what waited in the inner chamber, but she knew— This was no longer her life.
It had become something else.
Something stitched in silence, sewn by the hands of others.
And now… they were dressing her in blue.
The blue gown was beautiful.
That was the first thing Aurora noticed as the seamstress unfurled the fabric. A deep, regal blue, richer than anything she'd ever worn. Silver embroidery curled along the hem like creeping vines, delicate and sharp. It looked expensive. Untouched. Perfect.
Not something meant for someone like her.
The attendants moved quickly, their hands cold and impersonal as they undid the knots of her old dress. They didn't ask permission. Didn't apologize. Her dirty garments slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet like a life she was being forced to shed.
She stood there in her shift, arms held close to her sides, chest rising in small, frightened breaths. She tried not to flinch. Tried not to shrink.
The seamstress circled her once, eyes sharp and measuring. "Too thin," she muttered. "Shoulders too narrow. Hips too small. But it will do."
Aurora didn't respond. She couldn't trust her voice not to shake.
The dress was lifted over her head, lowered carefully onto her frame. The fabric slid over her cold skin like water, heavy and unfamiliar. It wasn't tailored for her, yet it fit almost perfectly—almost as if someone had guessed her size with unsettling accuracy.
The bodice constricted her breath, the sleeves weighed down her arms, and the collar reached her throat like a silk noose. She felt swallowed by it.
One attendant took her hair, brushing through the knots with quick, painful strokes. Aurora winced but didn't move away. Her white hair was smoothed back into a braid, pinned with silver clasps. A blue ribbon tied at the end.
No mirror was offered. No words spoken.
She didn't need one to know she didn't recognize the girl now dressed in blue.
When the attendants stepped back and the seamstress inspected her one last time, a faint nod followed. "Take her to the inner chamber."
Just like that.
Not are you ready?
Not are you warm enough now?
Not even are you afraid?
Because none of that mattered.
She wasn't a girl to them.
She was a symbol.
A bride. A body. A blue-dressed offering.
As the servants led her from the room, Aurora didn't look back. But something inside her—small, fragile, trembling—felt left behind.
She wondered, what would they see when she walked in?
The princess of Elareth?
A girl made of shame?
Or someone dressed in a color that was never meant to be hers?
The halls of Velmora stretched endlessly, dark and ornate, like the ribs of some ancient beast. Each step Aurora took echoed sharply, swallowed by the cold. She walked in silence, flanked by two servants, - one ahead, one behind- but she felt more alone now than when she had woken.
Her fingers trembled at her sides, curling into the folds of her dress.
What did Miri say again?
'Please stay alive, Aurora.'
Stay alive.
The words rang louder now than they did that day—like a plea, like a warning.
And now, mixed with that voice, came whispers she had heard long ago. Whispered stories about Aldric. Stories that once terrified her.
The Butcher of Viremont.
The man who didn't blink when a councilman bled at his feet.
The king who'd once set fire to an entire village because someone there had lied.
Her breath hitched.
What if this is it?
What if the chamber isn't for a welcome… but an execution?
Her steps faltered. The servant behind her gently nudged her forward, guiding her like someone guiding livestock to an unknown fate.
Aurora lifted her chin—just barely—but the weight in her chest didn't lift with it.
As they moved into a broader hall lined with black columns, she started to feel the eyes.
One soldier stopped mid-step, eyes fixed on her.
Then a maid carrying linens paused.
Then two more. Then five. Then everyone.
Servants. Guards. Courtiers.
All staring.
Not at the dress. At her.
At the mythical white-haired girl they had only heard whispers of. At the ghost of a creature they weren't sure should exist. And her eyes—bright, crystalline blue, full of something neither soft nor sharp, but something else entirely. Something haunted.
Some murmured. Some bowed. None smiled.
Aurora felt her heartbeat spike until it echoed in her ears.
If she had ever imagined being admired, this was not what she pictured. Not this cold attention. Not this fear wrapped in curiosity. Not this dread coiling in her chest.
The great door to the inner chamber came into view at the end of the hall.
Tall. Dark. Carved with thorns and ancient symbols.
Two guards stood on either side, hands on their hilts, eyes locked on her as though they were reading her soul.
Everyone watched her. And still, no one said her name.
Her feet kept moving, though her instincts screamed to turn back, to run, to hide, to beg for warmth or safety or mercy.
But she couldn't.
The door was already being opened.
And whatever waited for her inside…
She would face it in silence, wrapped in blue, with fear on her tongue and the weight of every gaze pressed against her spine.