Valkyrie opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains of their grand chamber. She felt a dull ache in her body—sleep had eluded her again. Every night was a restless battle between fleeting moments of unconsciousness and a constant stream of nightmares. She shifted slightly and noticed the weight of someone beside her. Alexander.
"When did he come in?" she muttered under her breath, surprised to find him there.
She turned slightly toward him, though keeping her distance. "Hey, wake up," she said softly, her voice tinged with annoyance. "What are you doing on the bed? I thought you left last night."
Alexander stirred, opening his eyes slowly as if awaking from a much more peaceful sleep than hers. His expression was unbothered, the drowsiness still heavy on his features. "This is to avoid people's assumptions," he replied lazily, his voice a low murmur as he propped himself up on one elbow.
Valkyrie raised an eyebrow, still confused. "What are you talking about?"
He let out a soft sigh, as if explaining something tedious. "Do you think a married couple would leave their room before dawn in the morning?" he explained, rubbing his face.
"What kind of culture is that?" Valkyrie mumbled, more to herself than to him, as she lay back down on the bed. She stared at the ornate ceiling, her thoughts far from the trivialities of Dradevows customs.
Their marriage was a façade, a political arrangement born out of necessity. The bed they shared was large enough that they could each occupy their own space without so much as brushing against one another. Despite the proximity, there was a vast chasm between them. Their union was cold, loveless, built on resentment and bloodshed.
As she lay there, Valkyrie's mind betrayed her once again, pulling her back into memories she desperately tried to suppress. Her family's faces—her mother, her father, her sister—flashed before her eyes. She could still hear their screams, their pleas for mercy that had fallen on deaf ears. The image of her mother being dragged away, the cold steel blade that had ended her father's life—these were horrors she could never escape. Every night, she relived them. Every morning, she woke up with their ghostly voices echoing in her ears.
She closed her eyes, a tear threatening to escape, but she forced it back. She had sworn not to cry. Grief had no place in her heart anymore. It had been consumed by something far darker—vengeance. The fire that burned within her now wasn't born of sorrow, but of anger, of the desire to see those responsible for her family's deaths pay with their blood.
Her mind lingered on the moment she had been dragged from the ruins of her kingdom. Her hands had been bound, her body bruised and battered. She had been thrown at the feet of the Dradevows soldiers like an offering. The jeering crowd demanded her execution, their cries for blood filling the air.
"Kill her, your highness!" they had shouted, their faces twisted with hate and cruelty.
But instead of delivering the killing blow, Alexander had untied her, lifting her up as if she were nothing more than a political pawn. His voice had boomed over the crowd, silencing them.
"Princess Valkyrie of Narva will soon be my wife," he had declared with cold authority, "and she will rule alongside me."
That day, something inside Valkyrie had shifted. She had become numb, detached from her emotions. Her tears had dried, replaced by a steely resolve. She knew that if she wanted to survive, she would have to play along—at least for now.
But survival wasn't enough. Revenge was the only thing that kept her going.
'Should I just kill all of them?' she thought darkly, the idea flitting through her mind like a tempting whisper.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of movement beside her. She glanced over to see Alexander rising from the bed. He stretched and then walked toward the door, his steps casual, as if the weight of their situation meant nothing to him.
In the hallway, he was met by the maids, who were waiting with trays of breakfast. They bowed as he approached, their faces respectful, though there was a nervousness in their demeanor.
"Should we go inside, your highness?" one maid asked cautiously.
Alexander paused, his gaze flicking between them and the closed door. "What for?" he asked flatly.
The maid lowered her eyes slightly before responding, "The crown princess is to meet the Saint today for her baptism, your highness. We are here to prepare her."
He nodded, understanding. "Wait a moment," he said before turning back and entering the room.
"Hey, wake up," he said, his voice a little sharper than before. Valkyrie opened her eyes slowly, meeting his gaze with mild irritation.
"What is it now?" she asked, sitting up slightly.
"The maids are here to prepare you," he explained, his tone matter-of-fact. "I need to mark you."
Valkyrie's stomach twisted at his words, but she didn't protest. She knew the game she was playing—she had to keep up appearances. Without a word, she pulled her hair to the side, exposing the pale skin of her neck.
Alexander moved closer, and for a brief moment, his breath brushed against her skin. It was warm, and for a fleeting second, she felt a chill run down her spine. His lips barely touched her skin, but it was enough to leave a visible mark—a claim of possession for anyone who would doubt their marriage's authenticity.
"You may go inside," Alexander called out to the maids.
"Yes, your highness," one of them replied. They entered the room cautiously, their gazes dropping respectfully as they approached Valkyrie.
"Your highness, we have to get you ready for the baptism. Please wake up," one maid said softly.
Valkyrie slowly opened her eyes, forcing herself to sit up. The maids moved around her, preparing brushes, perfumes, and gowns for the day. Some of the younger maids who hadn't seen her on her wedding day were left speechless at the sight of her. The rumors had been true—Valkyrie was breathtaking. Her long, flowing red hair gleamed in the morning light, and her emerald eyes seemed to hold the depth of oceans.
One of the maids couldn't help but gasp softly. "Your highness, you look like a goddess," she whispered in awe. "You are so beautiful."
Valkyrie smiled faintly, though the gesture didn't reach her eyes. "What is your name?" she asked, her voice calm.
"I'm Hannah, your highness," the maid whispered nervously.
Valkyrie nodded as Hannah carefully began to style her hair. 'A goddess?' she thought to herself. 'I wonder how long you will see me as your goddess. Because I prefer the devil more.'
The baptism was a formal affair, meant to symbolize Valkyrie's acceptance into the Dradevows royal family and her rebirth as one of their own. She wore a black dress as she entered the chapel, a symbol of her status as an outsider. The fabric clung to her frame, its darkness a stark contrast to her fiery hair and pale skin.
After the ceremony, she changed into a gold and white dress, symbolizing her transformation into the kingdom's new princess. The dress was adorned with delicate embroidery, shimmering in the soft light as she walked toward the altar where the Saint awaited.
"What is your name?" the Saint asked, his voice echoing through the sacred space.
"Valkyrie Elaine," she replied, her voice steady.
The Saint looked puzzled, a slight frown crossing his features. "Your new name, your highness," he clarified, bowing his head slightly.
Valkyrie stiffened. She hadn't realized that this baptism would involve giving up her name—her last remaining link to her past.
"Can I keep my name?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly for the first time.
"I'm sorry, your highness," the Saint replied, his tone gentle but firm. "That's not the way it works."
"Do I really have to change my name?" she persisted, her hands clenching at her sides.
The Saint nodded solemnly.
"I... umm..."
"Genevie Harlow," a voice interjected from behind her.
Valkyrie turned to see Alexander standing there, his expression unreadable.
"What a lovely name, your highness," the Saint said, smiling softly. "Princess Valkyrie—no, Princess Genevie. Do you agree with your new name? If so, please sign here," he said, offering her the pen and paper.
Valkyrie stared down at the parchment. Her old name—Valkyrie Elaine—was already written there in delicate script. Her chest tightened as she realized this was more than just a name; it was her identity. Signing her new name felt like erasing everything she had been, everything that had been taken from her.
With a deep breath, she signed the paper.
Genevie Harlow