The morning light, usually a cheerful stream through the stained-glass windows of her chambers, felt strangely muted. It cast the elaborate bridal gown, draped over a mannequin, in a ghostly pallor. This was it. Her wedding day. Aurelia's stomach fluttered, a raw blend of nerves and the calculated resolve she'd painstakingly built. Part of her, the old Seraphina buried deep beneath the veneer of Princess Aurelia, still yearned for the fairytale: the grand hall, the cheering crowds, the Duke waiting with something akin to warmth in his cold eyes.
But the new Aurelia, the survivor forged in the fires of fear, knew this was a strategic maneuver, a perilous climb to power. She'd play her part. She'd survive.
Lyra and Elara, her maids, moved with an unusual, almost somber efficiency. They helped her into the gown, a masterpiece of ivory lace and heavy silk that shimmered like moonlight on snow. It was beautiful, undeniably. But as the voluminous skirt settled around her, the fabric felt less like a dream and more like an exquisite, suffocating weight.
The air was thick with the scent of bridal blossoms, yet the atmosphere hummed with a strange, foreboding stillness. No excited chatter, no nervous giggles, just hushed movements and solemn faces. It was far too quiet for a princess's wedding day.
"Is… is Her Imperial Majesty not coming?" Aurelia asked, her voice softer than she intended, a tremor betraying her carefully constructed composure. She twisted a silk ribbon around her finger, avoiding Elara's gaze. Her mother, the Empress, hadn't visited in weeks, not properly. Nor had the Emperor. Surely, on her wedding day?
Elara smoothed a crease from the gown. "The Empress has urgent Imperial duties, Princess. And the Emperor is… resting. They extend their profound congratulations, of course." Her tone was clipped, rehearsed.
"Urgent duties. Resting." Aurelia repeated the words, testing their emptiness. They were vague, dismissive, chillingly rehearsed. A cold sliver of suspicion pricked at her. Her own parents, absent on the most significant day of her life? It felt less like a simple slight and more like an intentional avoidance. A deep, unsettling pang of abandonment echoed within her. What are they hiding? What have they done?
She turned to face Elara, her gaze sharp. "And His Grace? The Duke? Has he sent word? Will he not come to greet his bride this morning?"
Elara shifted uncomfortably. "Lord Vesper has just arrived with the summons, Princess. His Grace awaits you in the Private Council Chamber. He… he is a very busy lord. His preparations for the union require all his attention."
Busy? Preparations? Aurelia's jaw tightened. He'd been distant, almost elusive, since that cold dinner and his even colder "lessons" in the study. She knew him to be a cold, calculating creature, but this level of detachment, even on their wedding day, was unnerving. It felt less like the aloofness of a powerful groom and more like the disinterest of a man preparing for a mere transaction.
A sharp rap on the chamber door announced Lord Vesper. His face was as impassive as carved marble. "Princess Aurelia," he announced, his voice devoid of any warmth, "The Emperor requests your immediate presence for the commencement of the union ceremony. In the Private Council Chamber."
The Private Council Chamber? Aurelia's breath hitched. Not the Grand Imperial Hall? Not even the Sunstone Chapel, where all royal weddings took place? Her vision of a magnificent spectacle, the public affirmation of her new station, vanished like smoke.
This sounded like a secret, hurried affair, a mere formality. It felt like a demotion, a public slight, and it deepened the growing unease within her. She scanned the corridor, hoping for a glimpse of Isolde, or even Prince Valerius, but saw no one familiar. Utterly alone.
The walk to the chamber was short, hushed. No cheering crowds lined the corridors, no lavish procession. Only the soft rustle of her gown against the polished stone, accompanied by the muted padding of guards' boots. It felt less like a triumphant march and more like a grim procession to a solemn, private business deal. Each step brought a fresh wave of dread.
The Private Council Chamber was stark, austere. No altar, no vibrant blossoms, no warm, flickering candlelight. A long, polished table dominated the center, and on its surface, a single, heavy parchment lay unfurled, a stark white against the dark wood. The air was cold, formal, thick with an unseen tension that prickled her skin.
The Duke, Alaric, stood at the far end of the table. He was a rigid, unsmiling figure, his eyes like chips of obsidian. He offered no greeting, no gesture of welcome, only a cold, efficient nod towards the parchment. Beside him stood Lady Selene, the severe, elegant woman from the Sunstone Coven. Her presence here, at a Thorne Solara union, felt deeply, horribly wrong.
Aurelia approached the table, her heart now thrumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Her eyes skimmed the parchment. The words were a dense, intricate script, formal and forbidding. Terms. Assets. Transfer of rights. Solemn Covenant. Possession. Her blood ran cold.
This was not a marriage certificate in any language she understood. It was a contract. A legal document. She tried to read faster, to comprehend the full, horrifying scope of what was written, but the words blurred into a dizzying pattern of dread. A knot of ice tightened in her stomach.
This isn't right! Her mind screamed, a desperate, unheard cry. This isn't what a wedding document looks like! Her new survival instincts, honed by weeks of fear, flared to life, screaming danger. Her hand hovered over the quill, trembling, unable to force itself to complete the action.
Alaric's voice, low and polite, yet utterly absolute, cut through her spiraling panic. "Princess. Time is of the essence. Simply affix your signature. Your union is a matter of great importance. Do not delay." His eyes, cold and unwavering, briefly flashed with a warning, a subtle, cold power that made her stomach clench. He didn't need to say more. Refusal meant immediate, catastrophic consequences. She was trapped. She felt the weight of unseen eyes on her, the silent judgment of the ancient courtiers in the room.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a fleeting second, the image of her true parents' graves flashing before her. Her past life's lessons: sometimes, obedience is the only path to survival. She forced herself to pick up the quill, her hand trembling almost imperceptibly as she lowered it to the parchment. She signed her new name, Aurelia Solara, the letters feeling heavy and foreign, yet irrevocably hers. A chilling sense of finality settled over her, like a shroud.
The instant her signature was complete, the Duke snatched the parchment. He did not sign it himself. Instead, he turned to Lady Selene, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips, a look of profound satisfaction.
"There, Lady Selene," Alaric announced, his voice calm, utterly devoid of emotion, yet each word was a hammer blow to Aurelia's soul. "As agreed. The transfer is complete. Princess Aurelia, now legally bound, is ready for her relocation to the Obsidian Peaks. Lord Vorlag awaits his newest acquisition."
Aurelia's world spun, plunging into an abyss colder than death. Her mind replayed the words, each one a separate, agonizing knife twist. Relocation? Acquisition? Lord Vorlag? Not her husband. Not the Duke. Her "wedding" was a formality for a sale contract. The "marriage" to the Duke was a lie, a thin veil over a horrifying transaction.
She was merely a vessel, a commodity. The whispers from the dinner, her "assets," her "purpose" for two vampire lines... it all crashed down with sickening clarity. She wasn't being married; she was being sold.
She looked at the Duke, her emerald eyes wide with a horror that eclipsed any previous fear or disappointment she had known. He met her gaze, a cold, triumphant glint in his obsidian eyes, utterly devoid of mercy or remorse. His lip curled slightly, a silent, chilling message of absolute triumph and her utter insignificance.
"No, no, not again," she whispered, the words choked and raw, swallowed by the sudden, suffocating darkness that had claimed her.