Sorry for the late update. I've been so busy with college, I barely have time to rest.
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The morning of my departure began before the sun had risen, although I couldn't close my eyes, not once, during the interminable night. Sleep fled me, leaving a hollow silence and a weight of dread. When the knock came at my chamber door, loud and portentous, I was already sitting upright on the edge of my bed, still dressed from the night before, staring at the door as though I might burn a hole through the wood. The fierce effort left my eyes burning and dry.
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Servants entered without waiting for my answer. Faces blank, movements brisk. Not one bowed, not one dared meet my eyes. They scrubbed me raw, the water almost scalding, then dressed me in a gown of muted purple. The fabric was fine, but it itched against my skin. I welcomed the discomfort. It reminded me I was still alive.
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No words were spoken. Only the swish of cloth, hard pulls of the brush through my tangled curls, the misting of scented oils, and the faint clatter of jewels being fastened around me. Each sound felt amplified, echoing off the silence that had settled deep into my bones.
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When they finished, I rose, stiff as a statue. No one offered me a hand, so, like a puppet, I followed as they led me out of the room.
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The corridors of Draherne, once alive with light and sound, were colder than the grave. Guards stood at rigid attention, their eyes sliding past me as though I were invisible. Courtiers who had once crowded to greet me with smiles and shallow bows now turned deliberately aside, their whispers darting like knives against my back.
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Every step was a reminder: I was not a daughter. I was not a princess. I was not even a person.
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Outside, the air was sharp with dawn’s chill. Pale light spilled across the courtyard, painting the high walls in ghostly hues. I stopped, my feet refusing to carry me forward just yet, and turned to look at the castle. How many years had I dreamt of these towers, these turrets? How many times had I imagined standing within its walls, welcomed home at last?
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What a fool I had been.
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Draherne loomed before me now not as a sanctuary, but as a tombstone—engraved with the death of every foolish hope I had once nurtured.
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A quaternity of soldiers waited: three astride their horses, one by the carriage door. Their faces were void of emotion, their royal-blue uniforms glinting faintly in the dawn light, a mark of their belonging to the King’s personal guard. The carriage awaiting me was small and pale green—yet far grander than the one that had brought me here—its polished frame gleamed like ice. Two white horses were harnessed to it, proud and still, their noble eyes watching me with what seemed like appraisal. For a fleeting instant, I wondered if they, too, judged me. The thought was absurd. I forced my leaden feet forward and climbed into the carriage. Each step felt like wading into quicksand. I sank into the cushioned seat, folding my hands tightly in my lap to still their trembling. A stern-faced soldier shut the door, and silence enclosed me like a coffin. I almost welcomed it.
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Then the door opened again.
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Aunt Martha entered.
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For one foolish heartbeat, my chest swelled with something close to hope. Had she come to tell me they had changed their minds? But her face—lined with age, softened with kindness—held the same helpless sorrow I felt. My hope disintegrated as swiftly as it had flared. She sat across from me, her eyes averted.
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We did not speak as the carriage jolted into motion. The wheels rattled over cobblestone, hooves clattered, and Draherne began to fade behind us. The silence that had settled deep into my bones now seemed to seep out and fill the carriage, a suffocating cold shared only between us.
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The silence stretched until it became unbearable.
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“I tried,” Aunt Martha whispered at last. Her voice was rough, as though the words themselves wounded her.
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I turned to her, blinking slowly.
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“I begged them,” she continued, her lips trembling. “I told them it would destroy you. I pleaded for another way, but the king, the queen, and the council—they’d already agreed. The decision was made before I was even summoned.”
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Her hands twisted in her lap, knuckles white. “Never have I hated myself more. I can’t even save the one person who means the most to me. I’m so sorry for letting you down, Tres.”
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I said nothing.
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“I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me,” she added brokenly. “I know I’ve failed you.”
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Her self-loathing stung me more than I could explain. In that moment, I realized I wasn’t the only one suffering from my parents’ cruelty. I had forgotten how deeply my aunt loved me. True, she had advised me to accept their heartless decree—but only because she wanted me alive. Better alive and bound than gone forever. The miniature resentment I had harbored against her wilted in shame.
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Aunt Martha reached out and took one of my trembling hands, wrapping it between her warm, wrinkled ones. “I may not be able to change what’s been done, but I won’t let you face this alone,” she murmured. “As long as you will have me, I’ll walk beside you every step of this hard journey. I promise to share your pain and your sorrows.” She pressed a gentle kiss to my knuckles, her smile wobbling with effort.
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My breath caught. I inhaled deeply, trying to draw strength from her words—or perhaps to convince myself that her presence could truly make things easier in Hargeisa, the way it once did in our cottage. But deep within me, I knew it wouldn’t be the same. Back in our cottage, our hardships were manageable. But in Hargeisa, under a king whose power was law, even a whisper could destroy us both. Part of me wished she would stay behind, far from the shadow of my fate. Yet a greater part clung to her presence, soaking it in like a wanderer finding water after days in the desert.
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The carriage rattled on. Hours blurred by. Forests gave way to rolling hills, and the hills dissolved into small villages until at last we reached Mowlet—the coastal town situated at the edge of the northern peninsula. The carriage first passed through a crowded square alive with voices and clamor—the marketplace, Aunt Martha murmured, though I dared not lift the curtain to look. Then we turned onto a quieter road, one reserved for nobles, leading to one of Hargesia’s three entries.
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Unease churned in my stomach. Goosebumps prickled my arms. My heart pounded, the sound thunderous in the silence. Aunt Martha must have heard it; she took my hands again, her smile gentle, though her eyes betrayed her worry.
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The carriage stopped.
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I exhaled shakily, gripping her hands tighter. The door swung open, and the same stern-faced soldier stood waiting. "We've arrived," he announced.
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Nausea coiled in my throat. For a heartbeat, I thought of refusing to move. But that was precisely why my parents had sent their soldiers—to ensure compliance, not safety. I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me falter.
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I drew a deep breath, released her hands, and rose. I refused the calloused hand extended to me. The effort was a spasm of pure will, and I stepped carefully down from the carriage. With my chin lifted, I met the gaze of the company awaiting me.
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Hargesia's soldiers.
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They stood in perfect formation—a wall of steel and silence. Afar behind them, an enormous bridge of dark marble and shimmering blue magic arched across the horizon, its aura pulsing faintly. Their armor was unlike Draherne’s—lighter, more elegant, and forged of some golden alloy that clung closely to their powerful forms. Crimson cloaks hung from their shoulders, stirring faintly in the wind like spilled blood. This was power refined to a terrible aesthetic: beautiful, expensive, and designed only to kill. None spoke. Even their horses stood motionless, eerily disciplined.
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Above them, their banners whipped and snapped in the wind.
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A lion’s head, its jaws parted in a roar, eyes of gold blazing like summer’s molten sun.
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Vityior’s sigil.
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It struck me harder than a blow. That beast was no mere emblem—it was a warning. A promise. I could almost hear its deafening roar echo through my bones. My throat constricted; my knees trembled.
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Then one figure dismounted. Smaller than the rest, the figure approached with quick, purposeful steps. When she stopped a few paces away, she bowed deeply, startling me. Then she removed her helm—and I blinked at the sight of a young woman with luminous green eyes and a bright, unrestrained smile. The unfeigned warmth in her expression caught me off guard; she looked as though she were genuinely glad to see me, a stranger.
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Realizing her friendliness unsettled me, she quickly schooled her features into composure. “Apologies, my lady,” she said with crisp grace. “I’m Captain Brianna Michael of His Majesty’s Army. I’ll be your personal escort to Roseburst Palace.”
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A sharp intake of breath came from my side. Curious, I blinked when I saw how white my aunt's face had become. Her soft brown eyes, round and slightly moist, flickered with shock, anguish, and a terrible fear—a look I hadn't seen since the day I fell into a perilous quicksand whilst attempting to uproot a branch of wild velon. I was bedfast for three weeks. Aunt Martha did everything to make sure I was but a temporary guest in Death's domain.
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There isn't a situation like that right now, is there?
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“Aunt Martha, is something wrong?” My fingers barely grazed her hand when she flinched from my touch. My worry grew.
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Aunt Martha, realizing what her reaction might mean, blinked, swiftly hiding away her raw feelings. She brushed off the drops of tears that had leaked down her cheeks and beamed a bright smile at me. “Oh, don’t pay me any mind, dearie. I just got pulled into a memory, that’s all. Your silly aunt is slowly growing old.”
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“You're forty-two summers,” I deadpanned.
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“See? Even you're confirming that fact too. But don't worry, I don't think I'll have another decline any sooner.”
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And I know when you're being equivocal.
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I examined Captain Brianna. Her demeanor remains indecipherable. While I know better than to judge a person based on their appearance, I still couldn't fathom it was about her that drew such... provoking memory from my aunt, if that's really the truth. She seemed fairly benign. Her elfin features perfectly put her in the same category as one of those delicate, fancy ladies who couldn't kill a fly, not to mention killing a mouse. I well-nigh guffawed at the ludicrous thought. She might look like a doll, but it's certainly not by her attractiveness that she became the captain of the Blood Butcher's Army. Perhaps that's where Aunt Martha's trepidation comes from.
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“Shall we proceed, my lady?” she asked, offering me her arm. Lightly, I laid my palm in the crook of her elbow, and we moved. Beneath the fine fabric, her muscle was coiled, startlingly hard. As we approached the formation, the squad, with coincident movement, immediately maneuvered their horses aside, creating a clear path to walk through to a massive, grand carriage hidden at the back of the formation. The question of why bother wasting such an extravagant carriage just to carry a mere captive who wouldn't live long slipped out. Thankfully, I bit down on my lips to prevent the words from spilling.
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“I prepared everything to give you a comfortable journey to the palace, but I failed to foresee the need for a maid who'd attend to you. A great failing on my side, I humbly ask for your pardon, My Lady. If there's anything you'll be needing, I'd personally see to it myself.”
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I didn't reply.
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Not because I didn't want to, but my jaw collided with the ground the instant Captain Brianna opened the carriage's door. If I thought the exterior was lovely, then the interior was beyond... words. Literally, it was like a palace inside the space. From the exquisite designs on the walls to the golden draperies, large cushioned seats, table, heavenly snacks served on jeweled plates, and golden teapot and cups, everything looked expensive and sparkly. There's even a bed! How were they able to fit that in there?
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“What—?”
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A hand held my forearm. Aunt Martha gazed at the sight that made me wordless, marvel mirrored in her visage.
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“Shall we?”
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As we journeyed, I behaved like an unaware idiot. As though the way I was treated in Draherne had taught me nothing, I allowed myself to savor and enjoy the delicacies prepared for me (including the ones in the compact cupboard beneath the table), reclined back on the plush seat when done eating, found the movement of the carriage to be virtually nonexistent, and dozed off. My shame knew no bounds when my aunt roused me up, saying we've arrived at Roseburst Palace. At the place I'd be slaughtered.
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All the apprehension, tension, and hate rushed back with a hundredfold intensity. I couldn't stop trembling as I got down from the carriage. I tried to bury the crushing emotions. Tried to summon courage or even the defiance fire that'd lit in me when confronted with the Drahernian ridiculing court, if at least to help me to stop being a quivering mess as I was guided into the towering, ivory castle. But to no avail. My shoulders, held rigid since dawn, suddenly sagged. All my bravado had abandoned me, and I hated myself more.
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Captain Brianna handed me over to five maids who wasted no time readying me for my wedding to the Blood Butcher. I didn't recognize the alluring image of a girl reflected in the full-length mirror.
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Dressed in a white silk gown that appears light and flowing, falling around her with gentle grace. The snug bodice was designed with a round neckline and long sleeves, the translucent overlay adding softness without exposing more than she wished. A diamond belt cinched at her waist, shaping her figure beautifully. The skirt, close-fitted around the top but flared at the bottom, cascaded in smooth folds, its long train trailing behind with quiet dignity. The cut flattered her full, curvy frame. Her dark curls, usually having a mind of their own, were tamed into an elegant chignon. A lone ruby tiara adorned it. Her turquoise blue orbs shone; whatever paints the maids applied elongated them, adding a further enchantment.
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I blinked. The girl did the same, making me realize that that's really me. A long, thready veil was draped over me. Then, like a sheep led to the slaughter, I was taken to a church. There were only five people, including the priest standing at the altar, present. The groom, however, hasn't arrived.
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I nearly flop on the floor in relief. I know that the relief is short-lived, but right now, I couldn't help what I felt. Seconds trickled into minutes, yet the Blood Butcher hadn't shown up. Like a fool, I even started praying he wouldn't appear. The only sounds were the rasp of my own silk gown and the priest's faint, nervous cough; the silence was a physical weight, pressing down on the hope I was too ashamed to feel.
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The door of the church burst open without warning. Everyone jolted as though electrified. Or maybe it's just me.
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“I see everyone is here,” A throaty voice spoke. There was a nipping edge suppressed in the accented tone. Instantly, the temperature in the church decreased. I grew rigid as a plank when the crushing of boots drew closer to where I stood. My stomach turned, and the substance inside threatened to come up. I felt his presence when he stopped by my side. It's like a raging ice storm unleashing its fury on the land. The air, already thin with dread, became brittle, threatening to shatter the silence of the holy space. My blood froze.
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A large hand held my chin, forcing my gaze upward to meet the coldest pair of eyes.
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“So this is the woman I am getting married to. How... refreshing.” The Blood Butcher drawled, the deliberate lull tearing the final threads of my composure. Goosebumps rose all over my skin, my head feels lighter and lighter, and my vision is growing dislimned.
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Oh. I think I'm going to faint....
ns216.73.217.39da2
and then Add to home screen.