Behind the grand doors of the "Hall of Mirrors," the cacophony grew steadily—a blend of orchestral melodies and the whispers of nobles that hissed like a nest of vipers. But for Scarlett, there was nothing but the rhythmic thumping of her own heart and the muffled sound of her breath held tight behind the rigid corset of her gown.
She stood in the shadowed corridor leading to the hall, deftly adjusting her white silk gloves that reached her elbows. She glanced at her hands; they were perfectly still. Her pride forbade her body even the slightest tremor. The crimson dress she wore was not merely a luxurious garment; it was a silent declaration of presence amidst the faded, hypocritical faces of the capital. It was a sharp, cutting color—like a wound on a shroud of ice.
"My Lady, it is time. Everyone is awaiting your entrance," her maid whispered anxiously, trying to smooth the long train of the dress that flowed behind Scarlett like a river of molten lava.
Scarlett took a deep breath, tilting her chin at a calculated angle that reflected her family's ancient lineage. There was no outward rage on her face, only a marble-like stillness that betrayed nothing of the thoughts swirling within. Suddenly, the doors swung open, and the glow of crystal chandeliers flooded over her in a golden haze. She walked with confident, measured strides. The click of her heels on the marble was the only rhythm to be heard in the hall, which had fallen into a sudden, awe-struck silence.
At the end of the royal aisle, beneath arches of ornate gold, he stood. Damian de Blackwood.
Damian did not move an inch. He looked like an ebony statue carved with terrifying precision amidst the light. His black hair was meticulously styled, and his dark eyes—like a bottomless sea—watched her with a polite coldness that sent shivers down the spine. There was no overt hatred in his gaze; instead, there was a sense of quiet "entitlement," as if he were viewing the final and most precious piece finally added to his vast estates.
When she reached him, he slowly extended his hand. It was not the hand of a man seeking affection or pleading for acceptance; it was the hand of a man imposing his presence and asserting his sovereignty. Scarlett placed her palm in his, and she felt the heat of his body seeping through the thin silk of her glove—a startling, sharp contrast to his unreadable, frozen features.
— "You have kept us waiting a long time, Lady Scarlett," he said in a low, resonant voice, unsettlingly calm. "But I must admit before this assembly... the result is worth every minute of the effort."
Scarlett replied, looking directly into the depths of his eyes, her tone devoid of any human emotion yet brimming with layered meaning:
— "Waiting gives things their value, Your Grace—just as patience grants the strength to endure. Though I would have preferred if this meeting had never been on my calendar for this year at all."
Damian offered a faint, nearly invisible smile that never reached the spark in his eyes. He nodded to the Imperial Priest to begin the ceremony. The priest stepped forward with solemn strides, carrying a velvet cushion upon which rested the "Vow Ring."
Damian took her left hand firmly and began to slide the ring onto her finger with excruciating slowness, as if he were savoring every second of officially claiming her before the eyes of the Empire. The ring was unexpectedly heavy, its black diamond glinting like a raven's eye watching its prey. As he pushed the ring home, he leaned toward her slightly, making the image appear to the onlookers as a moment of intimacy—a whispered word of love. But the words that left his lips were crystalline cold:
— "There is no need for this frost that envelops you, Scarlett. We are now bound by a vow that only death can break. Try to grow accustomed to the weight of this gold on your hand; it shall never leave your finger, just as my shadow shall never leave your life from this moment on."
— "Its weight only reminds me of the burden placed upon my shoulders without a choice," Scarlett whispered, watching the ring settle into place like an eternal brand. "I hope you do not expect me to dispense smiles while I feel, with every pulse in my veins, that I am wearing a golden shackle."
— "I do not ask for joy, nor do I ask for false smiles," Damian replied, releasing her hand with lingering slowness. "I only ask for commitment to the role. The Empire does not care for the sincerity of our feelings behind closed doors; it only cares for the sturdiness of this alliance before the world."
The first waltz began, deep notes filling the air, and they were required to lead the opening dance. Damian wrapped his arm around her waist with a hidden strength, pulling her to the precise distance mandated by royal protocol. Their movements were hauntingly synchronized, as if they had been dancing together for years, rather than two people who could barely stand to be in the same space.
— "Since the laws dictate that we must meet once every week from now on," Damian said as he spun her smoothly amidst the silence of the watchful crowd, "I suggest we find a common language other than this sharp silence you have mastered."
— "The only common language between us is necessity, Your Grace," Scarlett replied, her hand on his shoulder feeling the strength of the muscle beneath the fine fabric. "We shall perform our parts brilliantly before the people, and in our forced weekly meetings... we shall suffice with discussing post-wedding arrangements and the management of joint estates."
— "A practical and logical agreement," Damian said, his eyes gleaming with a mysterious spark as if he expected something different. "But you forget one thing, Lady Scarlett... I am a man who does not care for boring or repetitive things. Our future meetings will not be a mere exchange of dry papers and arrangements. I promise you that."
— "It will be a long day, then," Scarlett replied, pulling away from him as the music drew to a close. "I shall make sure to brew the tea bitter enough to suit your temperament."
With the final note of the music, they came to a graceful halt in the center of the hall. Damian bowed to her with absolute dignity and took her hand to plant a cold kiss on the back of her glove. Scarlett withdrew with breathtaking poise, leaving the scent of her pride lingering in the air. Damian remained standing, watching her silhouette vanish among the throngs, realizing that this woman was not just a deal, but the war he had long yearned to fight.