The gown shimmered in the candlelight, gold catching on every fold like it had been spun from sunlight and secrets. It was the kind of dress bards would write ballads about. Fit for a queen, they said. Or in this case — a duchess.
Elenya stood motionless on the raised platform, her arms slightly lifted, while a flock of seamstresses bustled around her, clutching pins and silk thread like weapons. The final fitting. One last round of adjustments before they sealed her into this fate with needle and thread.
"It's nearly perfect," murmured the head seamstress, stepping back to admire the work. "Just a final hem. And the neckline could be lifted half a finger."
"One month left," someone added cheerfully behind her.
One month.
Elenya didn't respond. She kept her expression soft, regal, and unreadable — the way she had been trained since childhood.
Her gaze locked with the mirror across the room. It showed her draped in gold, the train fanned out behind her like a gilded wave. Her hair was braided and twisted into a crown of loops and pearls. Her skin powdered, her lips tinted soft rose. She looked like something holy. Something priceless.
She felt like something dead.
"Should we test the veil, Your Highness?" asked a younger maid, her eyes bright with hope.
"No," Elenya said, not unkindly. "Not today."
A pause. Then a nod. "As you wish."
Pins flashed again as they adjusted the bodice, tighter this time. Elenya tried not to wince. The dress pressed against her ribs like a vice, sculpting her into someone else's idea of perfection. Every tug reminded her that this wasn't just silk and gold. It was a cage. An inheritance.
"Does it sit right at the waist, Your Highness?" another asked.
"Yes. It's... fine."
She lied with practiced ease.
The last few weeks had passed in a haze of preparation. Lessons in etiquette, royal history, trade policies. Endless rehearsals of how to walk, speak, smile — all for the benefit of Duke Venthar, her soon-to-be husband. A man more than twice her age. Thrice widowed. Infamous for his temper and his need for control.
She hadn't met him in person. Not yet. Only portraits. Letters. Gifts she didn't want. Perfumes she would never wear. Books she had no time to read. All wrapped with the same message: Obedience is the path to peace.
Peace. What a beautiful lie.
Her parents were thrilled, of course. The alliance with Venthar would strengthen the southern border. Secure military support. Reignite old trade routes. A perfect arrangement.
"A noble match," her mother had whispered while brushing her hair the night they announced it. "You were born for this, Elenya. Born to be admired, married well, and remembered."
Remembered. As what? A woman who disappeared behind a title? A sacrificial lamb in a golden dress?
The seamstress stepped back, brushing imaginary dust from the skirt. "Breathtaking," she whispered.
Elenya said nothing.
"You'll be the most beautiful bride in the kingdom," one of the maids added.
The most beautiful prisoner, perhaps.
She kept smiling.
---
After the fitting, she dismissed the attendants with gentle words. Courteous. Grateful. Every part of her performance intact.
But once the doors to her chambers closed, her expression fell like a mask dropped to the floor.
The smile died. The softness evaporated. She turned toward her mirror and stared.
The gold still clung to her skin, but now it looked like a net. Every jewel a shackle. Every embroidery thread a stitch in her own silencing.
She untied the gown herself, fingers shaking as she yanked the corset open and let it fall. Her lungs expanded greedily. The rush of air made her dizzy.
She wanted to scream. Not out of panic. But rage.
This wasn't fear. It was fury. A quiet, growing storm she had kept inside for too long.
She moved to the writing desk in the corner, brushing aside a pile of court invitations and etiquette manuals. From underneath the false bottom of the drawer, she pulled out a folded set of parchment — maps. Detailed, worn, marked in her own hand.
She traced her finger northward. Past the capital. Past the riverlands. All the way to the outer edge of the kingdom. To the borderlands swallowed in snow.
To Blackspire — the fortress ruled by Lord Kael Dravon.
The Demon of the North.
She had heard the whispers. Everyone had. That he was brutal. That he bathed in the blood of enemies. That he trusted no one, answered to no king, and ruled his lands like a sovereign god. That no woman dared stay under his roof.
They feared him.
And perhaps that was exactly why she didn't.
What was one more monster?
At least Kael Dravon didn't hide behind silk and civility. At least he didn't pretend.
If she had to chain herself to a man, better a wolf than a vulture.
She unrolled a second map. Marked a route. The fastest way out of the capital undetected. Through the lesser-used forest roads. Past the checkpoint. West, then north. Changing horses every village.
She could leave after the next full moon.
It was risky. Reckless. Dangerous.
But so was surrendering to Venthar.
So was doing nothing.
She pressed her palms flat against the desk and bowed her head, letting the fury settle into steel.
She would give them their final fitting. She would wear the dress. Smile for the nobles. Pretend to play the part of the willing bride.
And then she would vanish.
Let them whisper. Let them search.
By the time they noticed she was gone, she would be in the North — offering her fate to a warlord, not a politician.
Elenya stood again, wrapped herself in a wool cloak, and crossed the room to the hearth. The golden gown still lay where she had dropped it.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then she picked it up and folded it gently.
Not because she would wear it.
But because she wanted to choose the moment she destroyed it.
A knock sounded. Not the usual polite tap-tap — this was firm, quick, familiar.
"Elenya?" Lira's voice, hushed but sharp-edged. "It's me."
"Come in," Elenya said, rolling up the maps fast and shoving them beneath a stack of books.
The door opened and Lira stepped inside, cloak damp from snow, boots tracking melted droplets across the stone floor. She moved like a shadow — lean, quick, aware of everything.
Elenya's breath caught. For a moment she feared Lira had seen too much. The crumpled gown. The firelight. The tightness in her posture.
But Lira's eyes were already scanning the room with purpose, not suspicion.
"The last of the preparations are complete," she said quickly. "Feast arrangements. Guest list. Security patrols. Your mother approved it all."
Elenya exhaled. "Good. That buys us time."
"No," Lira cut in, stepping closer. "It doesn't."
Elenya blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean…" Lira hesitated, then lowered her voice. "I heard things today. Whispers in the lower kitchens. Your mother's planning to assign you a shadow — a watcher. Someone to keep tabs on you around the clock."
"What?"
"She doesn't trust how quiet you've been. She thinks something's off. I think she's right." Lira's eyes narrowed, but there was no anger in them. Only loyalty. "I know you planned to wait for the full moon. But that's not an option anymore. If she assigns someone, they'll know the moment you step out of line."
Elenya pressed a hand to her chest, steadying herself. "That only gives us a few days."
"No. It gives us hours. We leave tonight."
Elenya stared at her. "Tonight?"
"Yes. I've already packed. Just enough to get us beyond the outer city." She pulled a folded satchel from beneath her cloak and tossed it onto the bed. "I've been preparing since the first day you tried on that cursed dress."
"You knew?"
"I knew you wouldn't go through with it. Not all the way. You're too smart, and too angry. The palace has been waiting for you to break. I've been waiting for you to fight."
Elenya was quiet for a long moment. The fire crackled. Her hand curled into the gown again, fingers pressing into the fabric like it was flesh she wanted to tear apart.
Then softly: "I didn't want to ask you to come."
"You don't need to ask." Lira stepped forward. "I'm not staying behind while they marry you off to that snake."
"This isn't a safe path. You know that."
"No. But it's your path. And if there's anyone I trust to survive it, it's you."
Something behind Elenya's ribs broke — not in pain, but release. Relief.
She nodded once. "All right. Tonight."
Lira pulled out a second cloak — black, wool-lined, weathered. "Put this on. Take nothing that glitters. No crests. No royal stitching."
"I'll burn the dress."
"Good. It deserves worse."
Elenya didn't laugh, but she smiled. A sharp one. "We'll go through the old east corridor. The one behind the scullery stairs. No guards after midnight."
Lira nodded, already calculating. "We'll ride hard through the forest road. Change horses at Merin's Pass."
"And the North?"
"We head straight for Blackspire," Lira said. "If Kael Dravon lives up to even half the rumors, then the capital won't dare chase us into his snow."
Elenya moved to her writing desk and unsheathed the hidden dagger tucked beneath the drawer. Her hands no longer trembled.
"I won't beg him," she said.
"You won't need to."
Together, they worked quickly. Quietly. Methodically. The palace slept behind gilded walls, dreaming of ceremony and silk.
But in this chamber, two women packed for war.