The silence that followed was heavier than any scream. Zaria stood in the center of Prince Kael's private study, heart pounding beneath her ceremonial robe. The fire in the hearth cast long shadows along the obsidian walls, flickering like dancing demons.
Her fingers trembled, but she kept them clenched at her sides. She dared not show fear—not here. Not in front of *him*.
Prince Kael leaned against a carved desk near the window, his gaze fixed on her with the cold precision of a man who had never known mercy. His silver-gray eyes were unreadable, a storm waiting behind ice.
"You defied a royal command," he said, his voice quiet, but sharper than a blade. "You were told to remain in the East Wing chambers until summoned."
"I just… needed air," Zaria whispered. "I didn't think I was a prisoner."
Kael pushed off the desk and approached. His movements were fluid and slow, like a predator savoring the distance before the pounce. Every step he took made her pulse race faster.
"You are not a prisoner," he said. "But you are *mine*. And mine does not mean free."
She took a breath, but it caught in her throat when he stopped inches away. His scent was dark—smoke, leather, nightshade. Dangerous.
"Do you know why that wing is guarded?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Because it hides the parts of this palace the light dare not touch. Ancient magics. Forbidden rituals. And the bones of wives who wandered too far."
Zaria flinched, her stomach twisting.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. "The next time you disobey, I will not protect you. No one else will either. This castle is alive—and it eats the weak."
Her voice trembled. "I didn't ask for any of this."
His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Neither did I."
For a second, silence stretched between them. Zaria thought she saw something behind his stern expression—pain? Guilt? But it disappeared like mist, replaced by iron again.
"You will bathe. The servants will dress you for tonight's formal welcome. Do not embarrass me again."
Then, as he turned to leave, he said, "Wear something red."
"Red?"
He didn't turn around. "It's the color worn by wolves before the hunt."
---
The bath was drawn in silence. Steamy water filled the massive tub carved from pale marble. Zaria slipped in slowly, flinching at the heat as it licked over her skin.
Maids moved around her like ghosts. They poured rose oil into her hair, scrubbed her back with lavender salts, and laced herbal scents into the water. None of them looked her in the eye.
"You mustn't provoke him," one whispered. "He can be… cruel."
"Cruel?" Zaria asked, voice low.
"The last woman who angered him vanished. They say she was turned into a statue. Or fed to something in the dungeons."
"Stop," hissed another maid, glancing over her shoulder. "She doesn't need to know that. Not yet."
Zaria closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the water. The warmth couldn't erase the chill in her chest.
---
The gown was deep crimson, flowing like blood in candlelight. Gold clasps cinched it at her waist and shoulders. A jeweled choker encircled her neck, firm as a collar.
When she stepped into the grand ballroom, the nobles turned as one. Whispers slithered across the hall like snakes.
"Is that her?"
"The village girl?"
"Pretty, but soft. She won't last a moon."
Prince Kael stood at the center of the dais, regal and terrifying. His black-and-gold tunic shimmered in the firelight, a blade sheathed in silk. When she reached him, he offered his hand. She placed hers in it without hesitation.
His grip was firm. Controlling.
"Smile," he said under his breath. "They smell weakness."
The feast began. Servants brought platters of roasted pheasant, jeweled fruits, and wines that shimmered like liquid stars. But Zaria barely tasted anything. Her eyes remained on her plate. Her ears on the conversations around her.
"You don't belong here," a lady in white said sweetly as she passed by. "But at least you look lovely, dear. Like a lamb at a lion's wedding."
Kael didn't respond, but Zaria saw the flicker of anger in his eyes.
Later, a robed figure approached. The High Magus. His staff glowed faintly, as though reacting to Kael's presence.
"This is the girl?" he asked, studying Zaria like a rare insect. "No magical aura. No bloodline. Curious choice, Prince."
"She is no girl," Kael said flatly. "She is my wife."
"Even so, she will not help strengthen the bloodline," the magus murmured. "Unless… you plan to awaken her."
Zaria's pulse jumped. "Awaken?"
Kael's smile was thin. "You've said enough."
The Magus bowed and vanished into the crowd.
Kael turned to her. "Ignore him."
"I don't understand anything that's happening," she admitted.
"You will," he said. "But not yet. For now, just survive."
---
That night, her chambers were colder than usual. The fire had burned low, and the stone walls seemed to pulse with silence.
She sat on her bed, brushing her hair with shaky hands, trying to make sense of everything.
Then she heard it.
"Zaria…"
A whisper.
She looked up. The door was shut.
"Zaria…"
The voice was female. Fragile. It sounded like it was coming from the East Wing.
She stood slowly. Her breath hitched.
"Help me…"
The voice cracked like glass. It was crying.
Zaria reached for the door. Her hand hovered above the latch.
"Don't," she told herself. "He warned you."
But the voice came again, louder this time. *Desperate.*
"Please…"
And Zaria—timid, obedient Zaria—did something reckless.
She opened the door.
And stepped into the dark.