What is this man saying? Is he confusing me with someone else? Me, his wife? Lady Louweris? What does that even mean?

  I take a step back and ask with a trembling voice, “What do you mean, Lord Louweris? Are you sure you’re talking about me? Today is my birthday, and my father, King Mukuta, is hosting this celebration in my honor.”

  The man before me is the opposite of everything one might imagine in a distinguished gentleman. He is corpulent, with a massive belly spilling over his belt, forming soft, barely concealed folds over his trousers. His face is etched with deep lines, as if life itself had left him with nothing but weariness and greed. The skin around his eyes is sagging and wrinkled, with dark circles beneath them that give him the appearance of someone who has lingered far too long in the shadows. A bald patch gleams atop his head, where half of his hair has long since vanished, leaving the thin strands on the back of his head looking like a feeble attempt at concealment. His beard is long and unkempt, the hairs within it greasy and straggly, as if he’d never bothered to find his way to a washbasin. His entire appearance exudes the impression of a man with no regard for himself or his outward appearance. It’s hard not to be overwhelmed by his menacing presence, which speaks far more of avarice and desire than any form of attraction.

  “Is that what your old man told you? Ah, child, I’ve been waiting ten years for us to marry. All these years, he’s hidden you from the world, claiming you were dead... all at my request.”

  “What… what do you mean by that?” I ask, bewildered, my thoughts turning to my childhood. I’ve never seen this man before. How does he know me?

  Lord Louweris strokes my cheek again and says, “Your father owed me a favor. When I first saw you at the tender age of two, I knew immediately that you must become my wife. Your white hair... so unique, and your gray eyes. In this kingdom of vibrant colors, you are the black sheep. You are special, child, and all that is special must belong to me.”

  “But I’m far too young for you, my lord,” I respond, frightened. How should I react to such words? The man seems physically weak due to his age, yet he radiates an aura of threat. “My father would never keep something like this from me.”

  “We both know he would,” the man replies, looking at me with a pitying expression. But it isn’t a pity born of empathy—it’s one of cruel delight. He calls me special, claiming that all things special must be his possession. To him, I am not a person but an object.

  “Perhaps it would be best if I spoke with my father about this arrangement,” I suggest, taking a step toward the door. But the old man grabs my arm violently.

  “I don’t recall giving you permission to leave,” Lord Louweris growls, his voice brimming with anger. “When your lord tells you that you’re to be his wife, you do not question it. Your father took everything from you on my orders—all because I wanted a wife who knows nothing but obedience. And now, here you stand before me, a perfect specimen... a beautiful woman. You cannot imagine how much I desire an heir.”

  An heir? What is going through this man’s mind? First, he tells me he chose me when I was just two years old, and now he’s talking about an heir? I knew it! This celebration was too good to be true! My father made an alliance with this old man behind my back, and now I’m supposed to bear the consequences? At least this explains why he kept me isolated from the outside world all these years. But it neither eases my pain nor calms the anger boiling inside me.

  What should I do now? If I defy this lord and speak my mind, I might face consequences. But what kind of consequences? I can hardly imagine. It seems best to talk to my father and stop this marriage.

  I exhale deeply, trying to steady my racing heart. “Forgive me, Lord Louweris. I did not mean to upset you. I’m just surprised that a man as remarkable as you would want someone like me as his wife,” I say, nearly choking on my disgust.

  “It’s your appearance that fascinates me so much,” the man explains with a faint smile, his hand brushing over my shoulder and letting his fingers graze the fabric of my dress near my chest. “All these years, I’ve watched you, seen you grow. You were like a flower not yet ready to be plucked. But now the time has come. Tonight, the entire North shall know of our union.”

  I nod, forcing a smile, but his words make no sense to me. Despite my years of isolation, I know this is not how a human being should be treated. The Queen treated me like an object, something to be discarded once it was no longer useful. Wait... the Queen! She knew about this marriage! Of course, she did! My father must share every little detail of his secret dealings with her.

  “Before we seal our love in front of everyone, I wanted to see you alone,” says Lord Louweris, his gaze piercing as it shifts to my lips. “Red, my favorite color. You must have known that; otherwise, you wouldn’t have chosen this dress.”

  So the Queen deliberately selected these four dresses. The others weren’t nearly as special as this one. She planned everything so skillfully that I’d pick the red dress and please this man. My heart races, my head pounds. I just want to leave, escape this room, this castle, everything!

  “Well then, you should return to your mother and brother,” he says, though I know it’s a command. “This evening has been planned down to the smallest detail. All you need to do is follow the words of your father and your husband. Do you understand me, my dearest?”

  “Of course, Lord Louweris,” I reply without meeting his gaze.

  He grabs my chin with one hand and lifts my face. “In public, you will address me as Lord Louweris or your husband. When we’re alone, you will call me your beloved or lover.”

  He stares at me with greedy eyes, awaiting a response. “Forgive me. Of course, my beloved. I apologize for my mistake.”

  “Remarkable,” he says, placing a hand on my cheek. But suddenly, he slaps me hard, and I recoil in shock. “Let this serve as a reminder that a Lady Louweris does not make mistakes. This time, I’m merciful, but it will not happen again. Do you understand, my dear?”

  Tears sting my eyes. My cheek burns, and my head throbs from the impact. “Of course, my beloved,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

  “Now go to your father,” he commands, dismissing me with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “Be a good girl and obey.”

  I nod silently, leave the room, and return to the grand ballroom. The servant is no longer there. Amidst the lavish hall, I find a quiet corner and lean against the wall. I can’t hold back my tears, but I must prevent my makeup from smudging. I can’t let anyone see how much I’m breaking inside. My heart aches, stealing my breath. Why is this happening? What have I done to deserve such rejection from this world? Don’t I deserve even a sliver of happiness?

  In the background, the muffled voices of other guests echo. They blend with the music and the clinking of glasses. I had so wished to be a part of this world today, but instead, I feel like the child once again, listening longingly from the other side of the wall. Nothing has changed. My heart yearns for peace, to escape far away from this pain.

  Soon, I will be married to a man likely older than my father. I know what such marriages entail: children. And I know how they’re conceived. The mere thought that Lord Louweris has likely harbored such thoughts for years sends a shiver down my spine. No matter what happens, I have to speak with my father!

  With trembling knees and this suffocating feeling in my chest, I make my way to the center of the ballroom. Each step feels heavier than the last. I strive to remain inconspicuous because in a situation like this, I don’t want to draw attention to myself. If Lord Louweris’s words are true, there might still be hope. Hope that my father loves me and only agreed to this isolation because he had no choice. I want to believe it—desperately.

  My gaze falls on the platform in the center of the hall where he stands: my father, the king. My heart pounds in my chest as I approach him.

  “Vespera, you’ve come at just the right time,” he says, his voice cold and unchanged. He dismisses the guests speaking with him with a wave of his hand. “Your mother told me about your meeting with Lord Louweris. Did he like you?”

  Did he like me? What kind of question is that? Shouldn’t it be more about whether I liked him? I muster my courage. “Father, that man is surely older than you!”

  “Be silent,” he hisses sharply, his eyes glaring at me in warning. “You’re the one who always wanted to leave this castle. Now I’m giving you the chance to live somewhere else.”

  “But with a man who could be my grandfather?!” I try to remain calm, but my voice trembles with indignation. “I won’t marry this Lord.”

  His face contorts with rage. “Either you marry him without objection, and I’ll ensure he doesn’t lock you away forever, or you’ll be the obedient wife he desires, only emerging when he permits it.”

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you complying?” The words leave my lips before I can stop them. But the real question is directed at myself: Why am I complying? When will I finally start to fight back? I’ve tried so many times, only to fail each time. Would it be different this time?

  He leans down threateningly, his breath brushing my face—unpleasant and bitter. “You will not question me,” he hisses dangerously low. “You should be grateful a man like him even chose you. You will be a good wife and make yourself submissive to him tonight.”

  Though these words from my father no longer surprise me, they hit me like a blow. Part of me wants to scream; another part wants to run. But my heart tells me it’s time to act—no matter how hopeless it seems.

  I swallow hard, battling the lump in my throat. No words come to my lips. There is no one to turn to. No one who will help me out of this desperate situation.

  “Ah, Zyar,” I hear my father say, and my gaze shifts forward. There stands Lord Sylas with his father. His blue-green eyes study me intently, almost curiously. As my father greets him, the young man bows politely, lingering in the gesture for a moment.

  “Sylas has grown into quite the young man. When will he marry? How old is he now?” my father asks with a hint of jovial interest.

  “This year, he turned 23, my king,” Lord Velqorin replied with a respectful smile. “Your daughter, Princess Vespera, celebrates her 18th birthday today, does she not? Happy birthday, Princess.”

  For a moment, I am speechless. Did he truly just wish me a happy birthday? My eyes meet those of his father. Standing before me is a man said to have defeated a hundred warriors single-handedly, yet now he appears as a mere subject, speaking politely to his king.

  “Thank you, Lord Velqorin,” I finally reply with a faint smile, overshadowed by deep sadness. My own father has never wished me a happy birthday—not even today. “I have heard of your victory...”

  “Silence, child!” the king cuts me off sharply, his tone threatening. His gaze is menacing. “Forgive me, old friend,” he continues, offering Lord Velqorin an apologetic smile. “This girl truly has no manners. And to think, she is to become Elowirn’s wife today!” He chuckles dryly, as if this were an especially amusing joke.

  Lord Velqorin ignores my father’s condescending behavior and straightens. “That is precisely what I wanted to discuss with you, my king,” he says calmly, while Lord Sylas’s gaze remains fixed on me. I feel it but dare not meet it. Something deep within warns me against it. “Do you not think the princess would be better suited to a man her own age? My son would be a perfect candidate.”

  My father strokes his beard, a gesture that makes him appear contemplative. His brown curls gleam in the light, and his eyes seem livelier than usual today. “Well, circumstances unfortunately do not allow for that,” he finally admits. “Elowirn asked for Vespera’s hand many years ago. He is a good man, and I can think of no one else to whom I would entrust my charming daughter.”

  “My king, I urge you to reconsider,” Lord Velqorin presses, polite but firm. “If Lord Louweris decided so many years ago to marry the princess, even though she was just a child, then there is something amiss with him. That thought alone should give you pause.”

  The air in the room grows heavy with these words. My father straightens and hisses, “That is none of your concern, Zyar. If I hear another word questioning my decisions, I will be forced to punish you accordingly. Do not forget who is king here!”

  Lord Velqorin hesitates for a moment, visibly working to contain his anger. Sylas’s gaze remains locked on me, and within me, a storm of fear, hope, and helplessness rages.

  No one will save me. Not even a man said to have defeated a hundred warriors on the battlefield. Even he stands no chance against the king. But how can I reconcile this with my conscience? This feeling of powerlessness, which wraps around me like a leaden shroud.

  “I apologize,” Lord Velqorin finally says, bowing his head slightly. His voice is calm, but there is a hint of resignation in it. “My son and I will leave today.”

  My father chuckles lightly, as though he had heard a harmless comment. He claps Lord Velqorin companionably on the shoulder. “Don’t be so sensitive, Zyar. I bear you no ill will for your thoughtless words. Stay overnight in one of our guest chambers. Tomorrow, we will hunt in honor of my daughter’s wedding to Elowirn. You know how much Elowirn loves venison.”

  My stomach churns, and a cold dread runs through me. I have despised all kinds of meat since I was a child, when I understood that innocent animals had to die for it. The memory of that day, which shaped my abhorrence, is as vivid as it was back then.

  I was maybe nine years old when the cooks prepared a dish with chicken legs. My appetite was already low that day, but when I saw the legs, I felt nauseous. However, my father allowed no objections. He forced me to eat an entire leg in less than thirty seconds, threatening to take away my favorite stuffed animal if I did not comply.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  With tears streaming down my face, I forced myself to swallow the meat, but my stomach rebelled. In front of my father, the queen, and the servants, I finally vomited. The shame was unbearable, but it was surpassed by the punishment: my father took away my stuffed animal—and left me with a wound far deeper than the loss of a toy. Since that day, not only did I develop a deep aversion to meat, but I also carried the bitter memory of how little my feelings mattered in this family. After that incident, I was forbidden from eating with the family. The queen claimed that even the thought of my “embarrassment” would make her sick. For me, however, it was no great loss. I had never felt welcome at that table anyway. It was easier to be alone than with people who neither appreciated nor respected me.

  In the solitude of my meals, I found comfort—not in the silence itself, but in the absence of their judgments, their looks, their contemptuous comments. Being alone didn’t mean loneliness to me, but a small piece of freedom within these golden cage walls.

  Why have I stayed all these years? Why have I allowed these humiliations? What has bound me to this place? Was it really just fear of the unknown? And why was my father forced to owe this man a favor? What happened back then that he now uses me as a pawn?

  Suddenly, everything shatters. My world, my understanding, my belief that I had a choice. Nothing makes sense anymore. I cannot even grasp why I allowed this. Did I ever truly think about what I wanted? And as the last fragments of my illusions crumble, Lord Louweris’s words echo in my head. He knew it. This stranger had seen through it from the start: the absence of any connection between my father and me. And me? I didn’t see it.

  “Alright,” I hear Lord Velqorin say as he accepts the king’s invitation. My father laughs contentedly.

  “I would love to have you by my side, Zyar,” he says with a feigned benevolent sigh. “You are the strongest warrior who has ever fought for me. And that is precisely why I do not ask you where you are going or where you are coming from.”

  “I thank you for this trust, my king,” Lord Velqorin responds humbly, and Sylas bows, his eyes briefly resting on me.

  My father claps his hands and announces, “Well then, it’s time for a celebration! Child, go to your mother.”

  He gestures toward the queen. Next to her stands my half-brother, Crown Prince Yula. His dark curls are a mix of his parents’ genes. With his large brown eyes, he fixes his gaze on me, but behind this facade of an innocent child lies a tyrant. I once loved him like my own brother. Yet now he despises me, mocks me, even though I’ve never given him a reason.

  I approach them, trying to ignore their looks. But Queen Mayyira and Crown Prince Yula are just waiting to pounce on me.

  “She really thought we arranged all this for her birthday,” the queen whispers maliciously, low enough that only we can hear.

  “She thinks anyone is interested in her?” Yula adds scornfully, and they both laugh softly.

  That a thirteen-year-old boy can say such things is horrifying. Had he been raised differently, perhaps by a kind-hearted person, we might have had a real sibling relationship. Instead, I now see him, my half-brother, treating me like dirt.

  “As soon as I’m king, I’ll make you mother’s slave,” he declares with relish. “Then she can let her anger out on you without hesitation.”

  “But Yula,” the queen responds with a smug smile, “Lord Louweris won’t allow that. She will be his wife after all.”

  “By then, he’ll be dead anyway,” Yula says indifferently. “Look at him. If he can still perform his duties tonight, it would be a miracle.”

  I shut my thoughts off against their words, but they hurt. Their contempt is a dagger that keeps stabbing into my heart.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” my father raises his voice, and the attention of the hall shifts to him. “I thank you for coming to celebrate the union of my daughter, Princess Vespera Valdyris, with my esteemed friend Lord Elowirn Louweris.”

  The crowd murmurs, heads turn in all directions. They are looking for me—the princess who was declared dead years ago.

  “The princess has been under the care of our beloved queen’s mother,” my father continues. “It was my wish to raise her away from fame and wealth, so she could learn humility.”

  Humility. The word burns in my mind. What humility is there when you have no choice?

  “Now, I ask my friend Lord Louweris to come to me.”

  I follow his gaze, and my heart stops. There he stands. The man who has beaten me. The man who wants to own me. The air is knocked out of me, but I fight to maintain composure.

  Lord Louweris waves to the crowd, a radiant smile on his lips that hides his true nature. He steps onto the podium, and the people applaud enthusiastically.

  “I thank you all,” he begins with a charming voice. “Who would have thought that at my age, I would find true love? But my dear Vespera and I have found each other.”

  His gaze pierces into mine. The room turns to me, and my heart races. Their curious eyes make the burden harder to bear.

  Yula steps to my side and places my hand on his arm. He leans in and whispers, “Smile. Be the slave he wants you to be.”

  His words hit me like a blow. My mind rebels, but my body obeys. With each step, I feel less like a person and more like a puppet.

  “Now, Princess Vespera Valdyris,” my father calls out. “Kneel.”

  With trembling knees, I obey as the icy cold of the marble seeps through the thin fabric of my dress. It is not the cold floor that makes me tremble, but the gazes of the crowd. They scrutinize me like a predator eyeing its prey, their eyes digging into my skin until I feel nothing but raw vulnerability. My heart pounds so violently against my ribs that I am certain they can hear it.

  “In our great tradition,” my father begins, his voice imbued with pride and power, “the bride kneels before her future husband to demonstrate the devotion and submission expected in this union. This is an essential symbol of our heritage.”

  His words echo through the hall, and though I stare rigidly at the ground, I feel the approval of those present as a weight on my shoulders. My will is like a tree whose branches break under an invisible load, yet I stand still—not out of strength, but simply because I have no other choice.

  The crowd nods reverentially, whispering words of approval, as if this were a sacred moment and not the spectacle of my humiliation. In their eyes, I am not a person, but a role in a ritual they know by heart and worship unshakably.

  “Lord Louweris,” my father continues, and his gesture calls him forward.

  With measured, graceful steps, he approaches—the man who will possess me. His presence is like a shadow, draining the light from the room. When he stands before me, he places his hand on my head. The touch is gentle, almost tender, yet it carries a message of unshakable power. His fingers run through my hair, not with an expression of love, but as though I were an object whose quality he is assessing.

  “I, Elowirn Louweris, take this woman as my wife. May she serve me faithfully, as long as I live, as duty demands.”

  The hall bursts into thunderous applause, but I can barely hear it. The sound is muffled, as if I were underwater. My world shrinks to the space beneath my feet, as I feel the weight of his hand on my head—a seal of his claims.

  “Vespera Valdyris,” my father says, his tone unmistakable: a command, not a wish. “Give your words of devotion.”

  My mouth opens, but the words stick in my throat. My tongue feels like lead, and I struggle to breathe. Louweris’s hand remains on my head, and I know that any resistance would lead to even worse consequences.

  “I...” My voice is barely a whisper. I don’t know the right words, yet I sense what is expected of me. “I promise to serve you.”

  The words fall from my mouth like broken shards, slicing my throat on their way out. They hurt me, while they seem to excite the crowd. A roaring cheer fills the hall, but to me, it sounds like the cawing of crows feasting on a dead animal.

  A servant steps forward. Not anyone of noble lineage… just a woman—just another cog in the machinery of this cruel spectacle. In her hand, she holds a golden vessel and a small, ornately decorated knife. The vessel shimmers under the lighting, but I feel no respect, no awe—only fear.

  “The blood of the bride is the ultimate symbol of her devotion,” my father declares, and his words strike my ears like hammer blows. “It shows that she is ready to dedicate herself, body and soul, to her husband.”

  The knife is handed to me. My hands tremble so much that I can barely hold it. The room seems to spin as I feel the cold metal in my hand. There is no turning back. Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, I draw the blade across my palm. The pain is sharp, almost relieving. Dark, warm blood seeps from the wound and drips into the vessel.

  The servant lifts it reverently and hands it to Lord Louweris, who brings it to his lips. His gaze remains fixed on me, his eyes full of triumph. A small, satisfied smile spreads across his face as he takes a sip, as if savoring his victory. The servant takes the vessel from him.

  “The ceremony is complete,” my father announces at last, and the crowd erupts into thunderous applause. “My daughter now belongs to Lord Louweris, and our houses are united.”

  The applause is deafening. The faces around me shine with excitement and pride, but inside, there is only emptiness. I am no longer Vespera. I am no longer human. I am nothing. A symbol. A tool. A possession.

  In this world, in this society, a woman has no worth. Her existence is only as valuable as the utility she provides to the men around her. And I... I am no more than another trophy.

  My hatred grows immeasurably, yet with each breath, it becomes heavier and sinks deeper into the earth, until it threatens to suffocate me. All that is left within me is darkness—a darkness that crushes me. I feel like a caged bird, its wings broken, and yet all that remains is to fly where it pulls me. A burning pain spreads through my chest, because I know there is nothing I can do to escape this dreadful moment.

  “My wife,” Lord Louweris announces loudly, pulling on my hand with such force that my bones nearly crack. To the crowd, it may seem like a loving gesture, but in truth, it is tyranny that suffocates me. The coldness of his hand digs into my flesh, and I can only suppress the pain by clenching my teeth.

  “Listen, Velarier! Lady Louweris will soon bear me a son! The Louweris bloodline will be preserved!”

  The crowd’s cheers roar like predators circling fallen prey. They are no longer humans to me, they are nothing but spectators of a repulsive spectacle where my fate is staged as a pathetic joke. I do not feel the cheers as joy, but as mockery vibrating through every fiber of my being. What role does this man play in the kingdom? What does he have over my father?

  Lord Louweris pushes a strand of my hair roughly from my shoulder, and as his fingers brush my neck, I feel as though he is not just claiming my hair, but also my entire being. I try to hold myself together, but an awful revulsion spreads through me, almost driving me to the ground. I look to the crowd, searching for Sylas—his gaze meets mine, but it is nothing but horror. I see that he too cannot help me, that he is just another silent victim of this game.

  “You are finally mine,” Lord Louweris hisses in my ear, and the stench of his breath—onions and rotten meat—fills my lungs like poison. “You are mine, my possession.”

  His hand moves with rough force over my shoulders, turning me toward him as if I were nothing but a piece of meat he has finally claimed. My body begins to tremble as I feel the coldness of his gaze pierce deep within me. I am nothing. Nothing but his property, which he claims with a cruel grin.

  He pulls me toward him and presses his lips to mine. It is not a kiss. It is a punishment, a humiliation that tears me apart from the inside. The revulsion within me crashes down like waves, and with every inch his lips spread across mine, I am further distanced from myself.

  He not only robs me of my innocence, but he also robs me of my dignity. Each touch is a wound to my soul. His body presses against mine, as if he seeks to take away every breath I have left. My chest tightens, my stomach churns. I can no longer bear the pain in my head, in my limbs, but I cannot fight back, cannot move. I am too weak, too broken, to escape this nightmare.

  This kiss is the end of everything. The world disappears around me, and all that remains is the disgusting taste of him on my lips and the knowledge that I am nothing to him but property. A tool. An object to be used.

  Lord Louweris pulls me by the arm to one of the elevated tables, which looms over the rest of the company in the ballroom like a pedestal. Each step feels like a judgment, while my gaze briefly falls on my father, who sits with the queen and my half-brother at the table across from us. The distance between us is greater than the space—it separates me from the idea that I was ever truly part of their family.

  “Eat now,” Lord Louweris commands, his voice sweet but cutting. He hands me a fork with a piece of succulent, glistening chicken on it. “Chicken is delicious. Not like venison, of course, but it’ll do for now.”

  I swallow heavily, the lump in my throat insurmountable. My gaze is fixed on the meat pierced before me, while my stomach clenches in disgust. But the fear of angering him keeps my eyes chained to the food.

  “How long will you make me wait, my dearest?” His voice slides sweetly into my ears, but I feel the threat beneath it. “The guests are watching. A possession like you has no will.”

  “Lord Louweris… I don’t eat meat,” I whisper, my voice barely more than a breeze. I dare not look at him as I speak.

  His smile hardens, but his voice remains deceptively gentle. “Open your mouth now.” The unspoken threat hangs in the air, heavy as lead.

  I comply, allowing him to shove the meat into my mouth. The taste explodes bitterly on my tongue, each bite a battle against the gagging rising in my throat. My body rebels, but the fear of inciting his wrath keeps me in check.

  He leans closer to me, his breath heavy and onion-scented. “And you dare claim you don’t eat meat,” he murmurs mockingly, softly enough for only me to hear. “When tonight, you’ll taste a very different sausage.”

  A dirty laugh follows as my skin burns with shame. No one else hears his disgusting remark. So I force a frozen smile on my face to give the impression he said something funny. My hands tremble beneath the table.

  The minutes stretch out like hours as I endure his relentless attention. His hand clutches mine like an unruly child that must always be watched. Occasionally, his fingers graze places on my body where I never wanted them.

  The sudden voice of Lord Velqorin snaps me out of my inner struggle. “Lord Louweris,” he begins, a hint of disgust in his tone that escapes his host’s notice.

  “Zyar, you old seducer!” Louweris exclaims enthusiastically, pulling Velqorin into an embrace. The other man remains stiff, his eyes avoiding mine.

  “I didn’t expect your wife… to be so young,” Velqorin says, carefully choosing his words.

  Lord Louweris bursts into loud laughter. “What do I want with old women whose tits hang to their knees?” He pulls me closer, his hand resting shamelessly on my chest. “Look at her, Zyar,” he challenges, his eyes greedy.

  Lord Velqorin raises a hand in protest, his gaze revealing the struggle with his disgust. “Congratulations. My son and I will go to bed now. The king has invited us to tomorrow’s hunt, and we need our rest.”

  “As you wish,” grumbles Louweris, already losing interest in the conversation. His gaze returns to me, and he slowly moves his hand down my arm. “What really interests me now,” he whispers softly, “... is what’s hidden beneath this red dress. My property. You belong to me, child.”

  Inside, I boil with fury. No, nothing belongs to you, I think desperately. Not my body. Not my soul. Nothing.

  My words remain silent. They are like birds that cannot fly—choked by the weight of my fear. Instead, I let him do with me as he pleases, each humiliation that drips from his lips poisoning my soul. Time loses its meaning as I play his puppet, until he finally leads me to Queen Mayyira. She smiles sweetly, but in her eyes, a cold fire glimmers. Her posture screams flattery as she tries to please the old man. Her gestures, her glances—everything about her is a carefully staged facade.

  After Lord Louweris leaves the hall with his servants, Queen Mayyira returns to me. Her smile sharpens, and her eyes narrow. “Lord Louweris is ready to consummate the marriage,” she announces, and her words sound like a death sentence. “What a glorious day, isn’t it?”

  I feel my heart miss a beat before it races in panic. “Why do you hate me so?” My voice is barely a whisper, choked with tears. “Why could you never be a mother to me? What have I done to you?”

  Her smile disappears. With a hiss, sharp as a whip’s crack, she steps closer. Her presence is suffocating, and her gaze pierces me like a cold dagger. “Silence, disrespectful brat,” she hisses, her voice a dangerous whisper. Yet, to the guests around us, she seems like a loving mother, scolding her daughter. No one sees the threat in her movements. “You should be thankful I didn’t marry you off to this old pig five years ago. You are the child of a whore. Your mother seduced my husband and bore you. Your existence is a stain—an error of nature.”

  Her words hurt more than any blow could. “But…” I begin, but my voice falters. How can my life be a mistake? If my parents loved each other, why am I being punished for it? Why…?

  She doesn’t let me finish. “All your belongings are already packed in your husband’s trunks. After the hunt tomorrow, you will leave this castle for good. And don’t you dare defy his wishes tonight—or you will wish that only he punishes you.”

  “I… I can’t do this,” I whisper. My voice trembles with suppressed tears. “This man… I don’t want this. Please, Queen Mayyira. I beg you. Make it stop.”

  Her eyes gleam with pleasure, as if my pleas are a delightful melody to her. “Your pleading is a welcome melody,” she murmurs, her fingers conducting an invisible symphony in a mocking gesture. Then she turns her icy gaze back to me. “But your father and your husband expect you to bear an heir soon. Not for the throne, but to secure his legacy. Louweris won’t live forever, and a son will take over for him. His daughters, though...” She scoffs derisively.

  “Daughters?” I repeat, confused. “But… where are they? I haven’t seen anyone.”

  The Queen laughs coldly. “That’s because all his wives are dead, and his daughters are fulfilling their duties in brothels.”

  The words hit me like a blow. Every shred of hope, every ounce of resistance, vanishes. My thoughts spin. Is this really the fate that awaits me?

  She signals to the servants to take me away. No further explanation, no mercy. Silence returns, heavy and oppressive. I follow them mechanically, my fear growing with every step. The voices of the guests fade, and once again, I am enveloped by this suffocating silence—the silence of an unavoidable judgment.