Stolen Identity, Forced Marriage

Two days later, I stood in my family’s foyer, the weight of the gown heavy on my shoulders. It was a masterpiece of black velvet and silver filigree, beautiful and severe.

The room was filled with wedding gifts from the Prince’s allies—caskets of aged blood-wine, chests of moon-forged chalices, ancient tapestries depicting scenes from the Long Night. A fortune in grim splendor.

My parents approached me, their steps hesitant. My mother wrung her hands.

“Elara,” my father began, his voice low. “About Liana’s… confession. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. A moment of youthful rivalry. To demand she humiliate herself at your wedding… it’s so harsh. Can’t you find it in your heart to be merciful? To be the bigger person?”

The last, fragile hope I’d clung to—that they might see me, just once, on this day—shattered into dust.

I had made excuses for them. For the empty seat where a dowry chest should be. For the lack of any familial blessing. I’d told myself they were distracted, forgetful.

But they remembered. They remembered to beg favors for their favorite.

“No,” I said, the word final as a slamming door. “The deal stands. If you break it, I will refuse to walk out that door. You can explain my absence to Prince Kaelan yourselves. I wonder how forgiving he is.”

Their faces flushed with impotent anger.

A commotion erupted from the front parlor. Boisterous, arrogant laughter. Marcus’s laughter.

I swept down the hall, the train of my gown whispering over the stones.

He was lounging in my father’s high-backed chair as if he owned the manor. In his hand, held loosely like a staff, was a slender branding iron. Not the vulgar one from the shop, but one bearing his own family’s wolf-head sigil.

“Ah, Elara! There you are,” he chuckled, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “You have thirty minutes before the city ledger finalizes your match with some gutter-born sellsword. Here is my new offer. Bow to Liana, here, now. One thousand eight hundred times. If you complete it in time, I will generously grant you my servant’s mark. Despite your wretched behavior.”

He paused, his gaze finally taking in the black gown. His smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. “What is this morbid costume? Are you trying to steal attention from Liana on the very day she needs comfort?!”

I met his gaze, my own like flint. “I am being wed today. I don’t recall inviting you.”

“Hah!” He snorted, leaning forward. “Still playing the proud fool? Fine. You just wasted two minutes talking. That’s three thousand six hundred bows now. Decide. Or I will decide for you.”

He snapped his fingers.

Three of his burly retainers stepped forward from the shadows. Their intent was clear in their eyes—to strip the gown from me, to force me to my knees in front of everyone.

I stumbled back as hands reached for me. “Don’t you dare touch me! I am to be bound today—!”

They closed in with cruel grins, shoving me back. “And what’s to stop us? You’re about to become Marcus’s lowly blood-bound servant—ranked beneath us all. Keep your hands off your chest—what’s there to hide? Dressed like that, you’re asking to be looked at.”

As they pressed me back and Marcus opened his arms as if to receive me—suddenly, the entire hall dimmed into darkness.

Outside the windows, a swarm of blood-red bats flooded across the glass.

Color drained from every face in the room. No one dared to move.

“Go on then,” a voice drawled from the entrance of the parlor. “Lay a single finger on my wife. I dare you.”