••{RHIANNON'S POV}••
I stand on the raised platform in the fitting chamber while three seamstresses bustle around me. Cold pins brush my skin through the fabric and I try not to flinch. The fitting mirrors on all sides trap my reflection like I am prey caught in a cage of glass.
My breath fogs for a moment. The room is warm, the candles bright, yet I feel cold.
This gown is supposed to be a wedding gown. My wedding gown. The thought makes my stomach twist.
One seamstress lifts my arm to adjust the sleeve. Another measures my waist. A third is muttering about lace patterns as if any of this matters when I did not choose a single stitch of what is happening to me. I keep my gaze forward, my jaw locked, pretending I cannot feel the way my pulse stutters each time I imagine Azrael calling me his bride.
"Princess Rhiannon," the eldest seamstress says, "turn for me, please."
I obey because it's easier. Resistance only brings sharper consequences in this place.
The eldest seamstress steps back, her gaze sweeping over me from head to toe. Her eyes narrow in concentration as she studies every inch of me as if I'm fabric and not flesh. Then she folds her hands together.
"Your Highness, you will look so beautiful in the black wedding gown we're preparing for you," she says.
My brows pull together immediately.
"Black?" I ask, not sure if I heard her correctly.
"Yes," she answers, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"That's not right," I say. "White is supposed to be the color a bride wears at her wedding. White is—"
The sound of soft laughter cuts through my words. All three seamstresses share a look, then one of them shakes her head.
"In vampire tradition, Your Highness," she says gently, "the bride always wears black."
My mouth opens but no sound comes out. I'm too stunned to form any words. The seamstresses keep working—circling me, whispering to one another about lace, stitching, gemstones—but I can't hear a single word anymore. The room goes completely silent except for this loud ringing sound I can hear echoing in my skull.
My wedding gown…
A black wedding gown.
What does that even mean for someone like me?
Just the thought of it suddenly makes my heart start to feel heavy.
A hand settles on my shoulder and I flinch, looking up immediately. One of the seamstresses is staring at me, her brows pulled together with the look of concern on your eyes.
"Princess… are you alright?" she says.
I nod slowly.
"I've been trying to get your attention," she continues. "We're finished with the measurements. You're going to love the gown once you see it in full. It—"
"Leave me," I say, cutting her off.
Her eyes widen. "Your Highness?"
"I said get out! I want to be left alone."
They stiffen for a moment, then exchange quick glances before bowing. They leave the room and close the door behind them.
The silence that follows feels heavier than the gown they're planning for me.
I step off the platform and lower myself into the nearest chair. My knees suddenly feel weak, like they don't want to hold me anymore.
White is what a bride wears when she pledges her heart and binds her soul to the one she loves. In Astragarde and so many kingdoms across the seas, white means joy. White means rebirth, hope, and new beginnings.
But black…
Black is grief.
Black is mourning.
Black is what you wear to honor the dead, or to carry a piece of them with you.
A black gown for a bride with celestial blood? I might as well be walking into my own funeral.
My chest tightens. I press my palms against my temples, trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling again, but it's useless. All I can see is myself walking down an aisle in shadows, the color of death wrapped around me like a promise I never agreed to make.
The door creaks open.
"I thought I said I want to be alone," I say sharply, not bothering to hide the strain in my voice.
I turn in my chair.
A woman stands in the doorway, long blonde hair falling down her back in soft waves. She closes the door behind her without taking her eyes off me.
I stand slowly.
"I've never seen you before," I say.
She slowly walks toward me as if she has all the time in the world. When she's close enough, I see the color of her eyes.
Violet.
It striking, unusual, wrong in a way that makes my instincts flare.
"Who are you?" I ask.
Slowly, she gives me a warm smile, though something about it unsettles me.
"Greetings, Princess Rhiannon," she says. "My name is Delilah."