Ophelia Ashvale's POV
The first night, she almost didn't go back.
After the Duke disappeared through the hidden passage, Ophelia had stood alone in that beautiful library for hours, touching the spines of books, reading passages that made her forget where she was, who she was supposed to become.
She'd returned to the tower room just before dawn, terrified that guards would find her gone. But no one came. No alarms sounded. By morning, a breakfast tray had appeared as always—untouched from the day before, replaced with fresh food she still couldn't eat.
The day dragged endlessly.
Ophelia paced. Stared out windows. Counted the hours until dark. Three days until the wedding. Three days until she became a duchess and a corpse.
When night fell, she didn't hesitate.
The loose stone opened as smoothly as before. The passage was less terrifying when she'd walked it once already. And when she emerged into the library, she found him waiting.
The Duke sat at one of the reading tables, surrounded by papers and ledgers and documents that looked crushingly boring. He wore no mask in the privacy of the library—just a thin black cloth that covered the scarred side of his face, leaving his right side visible. His jaw was sharp, his hair dark, his hands strong as they moved across the papers with meticulous precision.
He looked up when she entered, and for a moment neither of them spoke.
"I wasn't sure you'd come back," he said finally.
"I almost didn't," Ophelia admitted.
"Why did you?"
She thought about lying. About pretending it was curiosity about the books, about needing escape from the tower. But something about this room—about him—demanded honesty.
"Because you didn't send me away," she said quietly.
His expression shifted—something complicated and painful crossing his features. Then he gestured to the shelves. "There's a section of poetry near the eastern wall. My sister loved poetry. Perhaps you would too."
And just like that, an unspoken agreement formed between them.
Night after night, Ophelia slipped through the hidden passage.
Night after night, the Duke—Vanus, though she only thought the name in private—worked at his table while she read.
They didn't speak much. Maybe a handful of words per evening. "Have you eaten?" "Not really." "There's bread in the blue box." That was all.
But the silence between them transformed from dangerous to almost comfortable.
Ophelia discovered poetry—verses that made her heart ache, that described loss and longing and survival with words she wished she'd written herself. She found philosophy that challenged her thinking, history that explained the world she'd never understood. She found a journal written in a young girl's handwriting, filled with sketches of flowers and observations about the servants and dreams about traveling beyond the fortress.
Celestia's journal.
She didn't ask permission to read it. She just did. And when she'd finished one entry, she'd glance at him—still working, still present—and see his hands pause for just a moment before continuing.
On the fourth night, she was curled in one of the blue velvet chairs, deep in a book of poetry, when she became aware of him watching her.
Not in a threatening way. Just... watching. Like she was something he was trying to understand.
"What?" she asked without looking up.
"You read like you've been starving," he said. "Like these words are food."
"They are." She turned a page carefully. "Where I come from, there were no books. No learning. Just work and hunger and the same day repeating over and over. These words are freedom."
His hands stilled. "And now?"
"Now I'm locked in a fortress with a man who's supposed to kill me in three days." She finally looked at him. "So the words are still freedom. Maybe more than ever."
"I'm not going to kill you."
The words hung in the air between them, shocking in their certainty.
Ophelia set down her book slowly. "How do I know that?"
"You don't." He set down his pen. "But if I intended to kill you, why would I show you this place? Why would I allow you to read my sister's journal? Why would I speak to you at all?"
"To make me trust you before you betray me?"
"Perhaps." He leaned back in his chair, and in the candlelight, he looked almost human. Almost young. Almost like the boy in the portrait. "But I think you're too smart to be deceived that easily."
She was quiet for a long moment. "Tell me about the other six. The previous brides. Tell me what really happened to them."
His entire body went very still.
"That's a dangerous question," he said quietly.
"I'm already in danger. What's one more truth?"
He stood and walked to the portrait of his family—a nightly ritual, she'd noticed. He always stood before it at some point during their evenings, like drawing strength from ghosts.
"They're alive," he said finally. "All of them. I never killed anyone."
Ophelia's breath caught. "The Emperor—"
"Believes what I allowed him to believe. Bodies were provided—criminals from the dungeons, already condemned. The Emperor never examined them closely. He didn't care enough to verify. He only cared that he had proof of my loyalty."
"Then where are the real brides?"
"Safe. Beyond the Emperor's reach. In Cordova, in the northern kingdoms, in places where his soldiers can't find them."
Ophelia's mind was spinning. "Why would you do that? Why would you risk everything to save them?"
"Because I failed to save my sister." His voice was hollow. "Because I've failed so many people. Because..." He turned to face her, and his visible eye was bright with something that looked like tears. "Because I'm tired of being a tool. Tired of doing what the Emperor demands. Tired of watching people die."
She understood then. Understood that his coldness wasn't cruelty. It was armor. A mask as effective as the silver one he wore in the courtyard—protecting something broken underneath.
"You're planning something," she whispered.
"Many things."
"Against the Emperor."
"Yes."
"And that's why I'm here." Realization crashed through her. "I'm not just a bride to kill. I'm part of whatever you're planning."
He didn't deny it.
"What am I?" she pressed. "Who am I really?"
He moved toward her slowly, like approaching a frightened animal. "You're a Lysander. Your mother was Princess Seraphina—youngest daughter of the last true king. The Emperor murdered your family to claim the throne. He's been hunting the bloodline ever since."
"How do you know that?"
"The same way I know everything. Informants. Spies. Years of listening to people who whisper in corners, thinking no one is paying attention." He stopped before her. "Your father sold you because the Emperor commanded him to. The Emperor sent you here to test my loyalty. To see if I would truly kill a Lysander heir."
"And will you?"
The question hung between them.
"No," he said, and something in his voice was absolute. Final. "I won't. I can't. Because you remind me too much of her, and I've already failed to save one person I loved. I won't fail again."
He extended his hand—not a command this time, but an offering.
Ophelia reached up slowly and took it.
His hand was warm, calloused from sword work and survival. His touch was gentle in a way she hadn't expected from someone so cold.
"The Emperor arrives in two days," he said quietly. "He's coming to verify my loyalty. To watch me prove that I'll kill you."
"What happens then?"
"Then we burn it all down." He pulled her closer, and she could see the scar tissue along his jaw, the way it pulled tight against his skin. "But I won't let him burn you. I promise."
Behind them, Celestia's portrait watched from the wall—the girl frozen in laughter, immortalized in paint and memory, unable to protest or rejoice in whatever came next.
A sound echoed through the fortress.
Footsteps. Many of them. Moving through the corridors above.
The Duke's grip on her hand tightened. "Someone's coming. A messenger, I think. From the capital."
The footsteps grew louder.
And in that moment, Ophelia understood that her five days weren't over.
That whatever was about to happen next would change everything.
That the man holding her hand was about to make a choice that would determine whether she lived or died.
The footsteps stopped directly above them.
Someone had entered the room above—the tower, she realized. Her tower.
And a voice—cold, commanding, absolutely merciless—called out across the fortress:
"Duke Nocturne! I bring orders from the Emperor himself! You are to execute your bride tonight. The Emperor is losing patience. He arrives tomorrow to witness proof of your loyalty. And he wants to see her blood!"