Dinner with the Ashfords is exactly as excruciating as I expected.
The dining room is oppressive—all dark mahogany and crystal chandeliers that cast fractured light across the long table. I'm seated near the end, far from my father at the head, far from the Duchess and Aria who flank him like decorative bookends. The message is clear: you're here, but you don't belong.
I don't care. I've spent seventeen years not belonging. What's one more night?
"So." Aria's voice cuts through the clinking of silverware. She's been watching me all evening with those bright blue eyes, curious and calculating in equal measure. "You're really going to marry him. The Tyrant of the North."
The servants freeze. My father's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. The Duchess—a cold woman named Beatrice who has never spoken directly to me—makes a small sound of disapproval.
I take a sip of wine before answering. It's expensive, probably older than I am. Wasted on this gathering.
"I am," I say simply.
"Aren't you frightened?" Aria leans forward, and there's something almost hungry in her expression. "They say he killed his own father. That his shadow magic drives people mad. That he—"
"Aria." My father's voice is sharp. "That's enough."
But Aria ignores him, her attention fixed on me. "I heard he keeps his late mother's portrait in a locked room. That he talks to it like she's still alive. I heard—"
"You heard gossip." I set down my wine glass with deliberate care. "Court rumors designed to make people fear him. Tell me, sister, have you ever actually met Duke Draeven?"
She blinks. "Well, no, but—"
"Then perhaps you should reserve judgment until you have." I pick up my knife, cutting into the roast pheasant on my plate with precise movements. "I've met him. I found him... perfectly reasonable."
The silence that follows is deafening.
My father clears his throat. "Seraphina. You will show proper respect at this table."
I look at him—really look at him—and see the barely concealed fury in his eyes. He wanted me to be terrified. Grateful. Properly cowed by the prospect of marrying a monster.
Instead, I'm calm. Composed. Making Aria look like a gossiping child in comparison.
"Of course, Father." I keep my voice neutral, pleasant. "I meant no disrespect. I'm simply... excited about the match. Duke Draeven is very wealthy, after all. Very powerful. I'll be a duchess. Surely that reflects well on our family?"
The muscle in his jaw twitches. Because I'm right, and he knows it. My marriage to Kael Draeven elevates the Ashford name, whether he likes it or not.
"Indeed," he says through gritted teeth. "How... fortunate for us all."
The Duchess finally speaks, her voice like ice water. "The ceremony will be small, of course. Given the... circumstances."
"Of course." I smile at her, and watch her eyes narrow. "I wouldn't want to inconvenience anyone."
What I don't say: I know you're hoping I'll disappear quietly into Draeven Castle and never darken your doorstep again. You'll get your wish. But not in the way you think.
The rest of dinner passes in tense silence. I eat mechanically, my mind already moving ahead. Three days until the wedding. Three days to prepare. To gather information. To make sure I'm ready for what comes next.
When the final course is cleared, my father dismisses me with a curt nod. I rise, curtsy with exactly the proper depth—not too deep, not too shallow—and leave.
Behind me, I hear Aria whisper, "She's different than I remembered."
"She's desperate," my father replies. "Desperate people do strange things."
I smile as I climb the stairs to the guest room they've assigned me. A small chamber in the east wing, far from the family quarters. The room itself is sparse—a narrow bed, a plain wardrobe, a washbasin. The accommodations of a servant, not a daughter.
Perfect. I don't need luxury. I need privacy.
Margaret is waiting inside, her eyes red-rimmed. She's been crying.
"Oh, my lady." She rushes forward as soon as I close the door. "I heard the servants talking. They say Duke Draeven is... they say terrible things. That his first wife will be his last because no one survives marrying him. That he—"
"Margaret." I catch her hands, stopping her spiral. "Breathe. Look at me."
She does, tears streaming down her round face.
"The servants are wrong," I tell her firmly. "Duke Draeven has never been married before. He has no history of harming women. Everything you've heard is rumor and propaganda."
"But his father—"
"Died under suspicious circumstances, yes. But if Kael did kill him—and that's a big if—it was because Duke Aldric was a brutal, abusive man who blamed his son for his wife's murder." I release her hands, moving to the window. "Sometimes the monster is the one who dies, not the one who survives."
Margaret sniffles. "How do you know all this?"
Because I read it in a novel. Because I've had seventeen years to research every scrap of information about Kael Draeven that exists in this world. Because I've studied him the way scholars study ancient texts, looking for truth beneath the lies.
"I pay attention," I say instead. "I listen to the right people. And I trust my own judgment more than I trust gossip."
It's not entirely a lie.
Margaret wipes her eyes, looking at me with something like awe. "You're very brave, my lady."
"I'm very practical." I turn back to face her. "Now, help me undress. I need to sleep. Tomorrow, we have a lot to do."
"What are we doing tomorrow?"
I smile, and it's not entirely kind.
"Tomorrow, we're going shopping."
The next morning dawns gray and cold, typical for Eridell in early autumn. I wake before the servants, years of countryside habits making early rising automatic. Margaret is still asleep on the small cot they've provided for her, so I dress myself in a simple day dress—dark blue wool, practical—and braid my hair.
I'm just finishing when there's a sharp knock at the door.
I open it to find a man I don't recognize. Tall, brown-haired, with a scarred face and the bearing of a soldier. He wears the black and silver of House Draeven.
"Lady Seraphina." His voice is gruff, his bow perfunctory. "I'm Viktor Aldren, Knight Commander of the Draeven forces. His Grace sent me."
Viktor. Kael's only friend, his most trusted knight. In the novel, he was fiercely loyal but deeply suspicious of outsiders. Looking at him now—at the way his hand rests casually near his sword, at the assessment in his hazel eyes—I can see that suspicion clearly.
"Knight Commander." I step aside. "Please, come in."
He doesn't. Just stands in the doorway, radiating disapproval.
"His Grace has instructed me to provide you with funds for wedding preparations. Clothing, jewelry, whatever you require." He produces a heavy purse from his belt, holding it out. "He also wants you to understand that the ceremony will be at the Grand Cathedral in three days' time. Two in the afternoon. A carriage will collect you at noon."
I take the purse. It's surprisingly heavy. "Please thank His Grace for his generosity."
"I'll do that." Viktor's eyes narrow. "Word of advice, my lady. Don't think this marriage makes you special. Don't think you can manipulate him or use him for your own ends. His Grace has enough enemies. He doesn't need a viper in his bed."
Ah. So that's how it is. Protective knight suspicious of fortune-hunting bride. It's almost charming, in a threatening sort of way.
"I have no intention of being a viper, Knight Commander." I meet his gaze steadily. "I plan to be exactly what this marriage requires: a wife in public, a stranger in private. One year, then we part ways. That's the agreement."
"See that you keep it."
He turns to leave, but I call after him. "Knight Commander? One question."
He pauses, looking back with obvious reluctance.
"Why does Duke Draeven use you as a messenger?" I ask. "Surely he has servants for this."
Something flickers across Viktor's scarred face. Not quite amusement. More like... respect. As if I've asked the right question.
"Because servants talk, my lady. And His Grace doesn't trust easily." He inclines his head, just slightly. "Good day."
Then he's gone, his boots echoing down the hallway.
I close the door and open the purse. Inside are gold crowns—dozens of them. More money than I've ever held in my life, even counting both my lives.
Kael Draeven doesn't do anything by halves, apparently.
"My lady?" Margaret sits up, rubbing her eyes. "Was someone here?"
"Duke Draeven's knight. With funds for wedding preparations." I toss her the purse, and she catches it with a squeak of surprise. "Get dressed. We're going shopping, and we have a lot to buy."
The shopping district of Eridell is a revelation.
In my first life, I was a middle-class office worker. Shopping meant department stores and online orders. In this life, I've spent seventeen years in the countryside, making do with whatever my father's estate steward deemed appropriate for an illegitimate daughter.
This—this is different.
The streets are lined with boutiques and ateliers, each more opulent than the last. Dress shops with window displays that look like works of art. Jewelers with security guards standing at attention. Milliners, cobblers, perfumers, all catering to the nobility's endless need for beautiful things.
Margaret is overwhelmed immediately. I am not.
I've had seventeen years to plan this. Seventeen years to imagine what I would buy, what I would wear, how I would present myself when this moment finally came.
The Tyrant's Bride needs to look the part.
We start at a dress shop called "Madame Celeste's"—the most exclusive boutique in the district, according to the research I did years ago using smuggled society papers. The proprietress, Madame Celeste herself, is a severe woman in her fifties with perfect posture and sharp eyes.
She takes one look at me—my simple dress, my practical braid, my complete lack of jewelry—and her expression becomes glacial.
"We cater to the nobility," she says coldly. "Perhaps you would be more comfortable at one of the... simpler establishments."
I pull out three gold crowns from the purse and set them on her counter.
"I need a wedding dress," I say calmly. "I'm marrying Duke Kael Draeven in three days. I also need a complete wardrobe suitable for a duchess. Day dresses, evening gowns, riding habits, everything. Money is no object. Can you help me, or should I take my business elsewhere?"
Madame Celeste's eyes widen. Then narrow. Then she snatches up the gold crowns with surprising speed.
"Duke Draeven?" Her voice is carefully neutral now. "You're the bride?"
"I am."
A pause. I can see her calculating—the prestige of dressing a duchess, versus the risk of associating with the Tyrant of the North.
Prestige wins.
"Of course, my lady." Her smile is sudden and shark-like. "Please, come this way. We'll take your measurements immediately. Three days is very little time, but for Duke Draeven's bride, we'll make it work."
What follows is a whirlwind.
Measurements. Fabric samples. Design consultations. Madame Celeste brings out her finest materials—silks and velvets and laces in every color imaginable. She has assistants draping me in different styles, pinning and tucking and making notes on little cards.
"For the wedding dress," she says, holding up swatches of white and ivory and champagne, "traditional white? Or something more... dramatic?"
I think of Kael. Of his black coat and pale eyes. Of the darkness that surrounds him.
"Ivory," I decide. "With black lace accents. Gothic but elegant. I want to complement my husband, not clash with him."
Madame Celeste's eyebrows rise, but she nods approvingly. "Unusual. But... yes. I can see it. You'll be memorable."
Good. That's the point.
For the rest of the wardrobe, I'm equally specific. Dark jewel tones—emerald green to match my eyes, deep purple, sapphire blue. Rich fabrics that speak of wealth but practical cuts that won't hinder movement. Because I don't know what's coming, but I know I might need to run, fight, or think quickly.
Fashion as armor. Fashion as strategy.
"You have excellent taste, my lady," Madame Celeste says as her assistants sketch frantically. "Most young brides want everything pale and pretty. You understand that a duchess needs to command respect."
"I understand that I'm marrying a man half the kingdom fears," I reply. "I need to look like I belong at his side. Not like a frightened girl playing dress-up."
She laughs—a sharp, surprised sound. "You'll do well, I think. Better than most expect."
I hope she's right.
We finish at the dress shop as the sun reaches its zenith. The wedding dress will be ready tomorrow for final fitting. The other pieces will be delivered to Draeven Castle after the wedding.
Next, we visit a jeweler.
The proprietor—a thin man with a jeweler's loupe permanently affixed to his eye—shows us trays of diamonds and rubies and emeralds. Beautiful things. Expensive things.
None of them feel right.
"Do you have anything with sapphires?" I ask. "Dark sapphires. Or black diamonds."
He blinks. "Black diamonds? For a bride?"
"For a duchess." I keep my voice firm. "Dark stones. Unique. Something that will stand out."
He disappears into the back and returns with a velvet case. Inside is a necklace that makes my breath catch.
Black diamonds set in silver, arranged in a pattern that looks almost like thorns. It's dramatic. Slightly dangerous. Perfect.
"I'll take it," I say. "And matching earrings, if you have them."
"I can have them made by tomorrow, my lady."
"Good. Also..." I consider. "A ring. Not a wedding ring—His Grace will provide that—but something I can wear on my right hand. Something with a dark stone. Sapphire or onyx."
He shows me several options. I choose a silver band with a deep blue sapphire, carved to look like a rose. Beautiful and sharp, like everything I'm trying to project.
The cost is astronomical. I pay without flinching.
This isn't frivolous spending. This is investment. The right appearance will buy me credibility. Access. The ability to move in spaces where Kael's bride is expected to be.
By the time we return to the Ashford estate, it's late afternoon. Margaret is exhausted, weighed down with packages from various shops. I'm energized, my mind racing with plans.
Three days. Then the wedding. Then I move into Draeven Castle. Then the real work begins.
I'm just handing packages to a bewildered footman when Viktor appears again.
"Lady Seraphina. His Grace requests your presence. Immediately."
My heart skips. "Now? Why?"
"He didn't say. The carriage is waiting."