ARIELLE
A collective gasp ripples through the hall as all eyes snap toward the shadows at the rear. A cloaked figure glides forward, movements too fluid to be human. With a dramatic flourish, she casts aside her outer garment—revealing a crown of living serpents, their scales iridescent, forked tongues tasting the charged air.
The horrified silence breaks into screams.
"I am not here for a wedding," the woman declares, her voice a sibilant melody that raises the hair on my arms. "I am here for Caith."
She pauses, her gaze—visible beneath the writhing nest—locking onto the prince with terrifying intensity.
"On behalf of my mistress, the Sovereign of the Deep Below, I am Stygia," she continues, each word dripping with venom. "And I am here to reclaim what was promised."
Chaos detonates. Steel rings as blades are drawn—Caith's men and my Amazons forming a bristling wall between the creature and the dais. An Morrighai warrior, Lyra, steps forward, sword raised. "You are not welcome here, snake-kin! Return to the abyss you crawled from."
Stygia smiles, a cruel twist of lips. "Insolent mortal."
In one fluid motion, she sheds the last pretense of humanity. Her skin darkens to the color of tarnished bronze, her nails lengthen to cruel talons, and her eyes… her eyes shift like molten gold, swirling with ancient malice.
She pulls a thin veil from her face.
"Be still."
Lyra freezes mid-step, her battle cry cut short. A terrible grinding sound fills the air as her skin pales to marble, her form hardening into a statue of perfect, horrified stillness. My breath catches—Lyra trained me in dagger-work just last week.
The hall erupts into violence. But this is no battle; it is a slaughter. Anyone who meets Stygia's gaze stiffens and turns to stone. The sound is grotesque—a crackling, petrifying echo. Elara, who taught me to track deer in the high forests, is next. One moment fierce, the next… a monument.
A strong hand closes around my arm—Caith. He yanks me and my mother toward a side passage, his expression grim. "Move. Now."
No time for protest. We stumble behind a column as the world collapses into screaming and the sickening crunch of petrification. The air grows thick with dust and despair.
Behind us, Stygia's voice rises above the chaos—a shrill, piercing shriek that vibrates in my teeth. The very stones of the palace tremble. Cracks spiderweb across the marble floor; dust showers from the ceiling. Her cry isn't just sound—it's a weapon, eating away at the foundations.
Caith pushes us deeper into the corridor, then turns, sliding his shield from his back. He angles the polished surface, his eyes fixed not on the hall, but on the reflection within it.
"She's immortal, Caith," I whisper, grabbing his wrist. My voice shakes, and I hate it. "You can't kill her. And that cry—it will bring the palace down on us."
As if to prove my point, another section of cornice crashes down behind us.
"CAITH!" Stygia's voice rolls through the hall like poisoned thunder. "Come forth, oath-breaker! Let us see if your bride's courage matches her pretty face."
The serpents twist toward our hiding place, hissing. "She trembles already. How fitting… a princess of flowers, destined to wilt in shadow."
Something hot and fierce ignites in my chest. Fear curdles into anger. I may not have chosen this marriage, but I am no one's wilting flower.
Caith's jaw tightens. He meets my eyes in the shield's reflection—just for a second—and I see not cold detachment, but a desperate, calculating focus. He gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Then he steps back into the hall.
I lurch forward, but my mother holds me back. "Arielle, no—"
But I am not rushing to his side. I am moving to where I can see—where I can help. I press against the fractured archway, my mind racing.
Watch the reflection. Watch her feet. Breathe.
In the polished gold of Caith's shield, the scene unfolds like a deadly play. Stygia shifts, her taloned hands flexing. Caith advances, shield high, sword low.
"She favors her right," I call out, my voice steadier now. "The serpents lean left—her blind spot. And for mercy's sake, do not look up."
Caith adjusts, circling. Stygia strikes—a flash of bronze toward his knee.
"Now!" I urge.
He pivots, his sword sweeping in a silver arc. It misses her flesh but shears through two of her serpents. They fall, thrashing, and Stygia screams—a sound that cracks the remaining stained glass.
"Again!" I shout. "The ones near her temple—they guide her sight!"
He moves like a storm, all controlled fury. Each strike is precise, each dodge calculated. He is not just fighting; he is listening. To me.
But Stygia is ancient, and fury makes her reckless. She lunges, talons aimed at his throat. Caith brings the shield up—but a serpent darts forward, biting his forearm. He stumbles.
My heart plummets.
No.
Before I can think, my hand finds the hilt of the ceremonial dagger at my hip—the one every Amazon carries, even under wedding silver. It is not a sword, but it is sharp.
And I know what I must do.
"Distract her!" I shout to Caith.
He meets my eyes in the reflection once more—a flash of understanding, and protest—before banging his sword against his shield, creating a deafening clang.
Stygia turns toward the noise.
And I move.
Not toward her gaze, but toward the wall of mirrors lining the eastern hall—the ones placed for the wedding to reflect the candlelight. I catch her image not in one, but in a dozen fractured surfaces.
"Your quarrel is with me as well," I call out, my voice echoing in the glass. "You insulted my courage. Let us see whose will truly falters."
Her head whips toward the sound, serpents hissing in confusion. For a moment, she is disoriented—trapped between reflections.
It is all the opening Caith needs.
He strikes not at her, but at the great chandelier above her, its chain already weakened by her cries. With a deafening crack, it plummets.
Stygia looks up—a fatal mistake.
The weight of crystal and iron crashes down, pinning her in a prison of shattered glass and twisted metal. She shrieks, thrashing, but for now, she is contained.
The sudden silence is deafening.
Caith stands breathing heavily, his arm bleeding, his eyes finding mine across the rubble.
He does not smile. But he gives that same slight nod.
And in that moment, I do not see a cold prince or a beast from a dream.
I see a partner.
Then, from beneath the wreckage, Stygia's laughter rises—a broken, chilling sound.
"This changes nothing, little queen. My mistress does not forget. And her reach… is long."