The carriage rattled along the cobbled path, each jolt echoing up Ariana's spine like a slow, deliberate tolling bell. She sat still, hands clenched gently in her lap, knuckles pressing into the coarse fabric of her old wedding dress—the very one her mother had worn long ago. Its lace had dulled with age, and its neckline was modest, outdated by the court's standards. But Ariana hadn't chosen it for show. She had chosen it for memory.
Flashback, that morning—
The scent of old linen and lavender hung in the air as Ariana stood in front of the mirror, the soft fabric of her mother's wedding gown clinging to her like a memory she wasn't ready to wear.
"Such a bland choice, really. You look like a washed-out milkmaid pretending to be a bride," her stepmother's voice hissed in her mind, brittle and sharp. "But I suppose it suits you. Uncultured, hysterical little girl—screeching like a fish monger before your own father. Fitting, really, that your future husband is just as lowborn in his behavior."
Ariana had stood in silence as Lady Trimene adjusted her own silk gloves, every word laced with derision. There was no rebuttal to offer—not when everything had already been decided for her.
"Your father and I will not be attending the ceremony." The Lady's voice turned colder. "The Duke finds this arrangement disgraceful. An embarrassment to our name."
She had simply turned to Marila then, and said softly, "I expected that."
The maid had stiffened, visibly irritated by Ariana's quiet composure, as if hoping for a final outburst, a crack in the glass. But Ariana gave none. When the veil was lowered over her face, she took a slow breath and bowed her head.
"Then, I will take my leave," she said with steady voice and an elegant smile on her face.
Marila bristled at the formality, perhaps expecting tears or resistance. But Ariana offered none—only distance.
Now, in the dim carriage, the silence stretched. Ariana exhaled, as if releasing her mother's scent from the folds of her dress. The past hovered like dust in sunbeams—soft, suffocating.
She turned to Xavier beside her. He looked striking in his dark formal attire, his hair neatly combed for once. When he offered his hand to help her into the carriage earlier, she'd squeezed it gently.
"You look good, Mr. Trimene," she had teased, trying to force a smile.
"It's my sister's wedding after all. I have to look right," he replied, eyes soft despite the irony in his voice.
"It's hardly anything grand, brother," she had sighed.
Ariana rested her forehead lightly against the cool carriage window.
The capital blurred behind her like melting paint—her home, her prison, her stage. A man she had never met. A future she hadn't chosen.
Her fingers fumbled over the fabric of the dress—her mother's dress. The one sacred thing left. I wonder… would she be proud? Or would she pity me?
Her thoughts darkened.
And what of the man I'm marrying? A stranger with a name forged on battlefields, drenched in the blood of enemies and secrets.
Count Rael Ravenclive. Loyal dog of the crown. Monster in noble skin. They say he was born of war, that even the Emperor tugs his leash tightly. No one knows where he came from. No one dares ask.
Is he cruel? Is he another man like Father? Will he try to control me, break me?
She swallowed hard. What if he's… like me? Trapped. Caged. Forced to play a part.
She couldn't decide which was worse—his rumored ruthlessness or the possibility of his silent suffering.
What if he's more mask than man? Just like me.
The thought festered. Ariana didn't trust him. Not yet. Maybe never. But she would meet him not as a victim—but as a woman cloaked in courtesy, laced with poise.
She adjusted her veil and smiled—thin and bright like porcelain.
The mask was on.
The carriage came to a slow halt. Ariana lifted her head, smoothed the folds of her dress, and straightened her shoulders.
She whispered to herself, "Let's do this the right way. No fear. No weakness."
Then she smiled.
It wasn't a fragile thing—it was dazzling, serene, the kind of smile that made heads turn and words pause. The kind that masked the hollow pit in her chest with practiced grace.
As she stepped out of the carriage, sunlight hit her veil just right. She looked like a painting—elegant, composed, almost regal. A vision of what they hoped a bride should be.
The grand chapel of the royal palace stood cloaked in candlelight, its high arched windows casting dusky rays over the polished marble. Shadows danced along golden murals of saints and kings long past.
Ariana stepped inside.
Her heels echoed softly on the aisle, trailing lace and silence. She kept her smile in place, carefully drawn like an artist's final brushstroke.
She noticed first—Prince Hendrick.
The second prince sat near the altar in formal regalia, silent and composed, but Ariana's brow creased. Why is he here? Her wedding wasn't grand enough to merit a royal presence—at least, not one of his standing. Yet there he was. And he stood far closer to the groom than to her side.
She swept her gaze slowly across the room.
Aside from her brother Xavier at her side, and her two closest friends—Lydia and Annabeth—there were only a few attendees. Each face familiar. Each one belonged to the most influential nobles in the Empire. The ones known to pledge fealty not to the throne, but to the king himself.
She felt it then—a ripple of unease.
Then her gaze shifted—and caught.
There, at the altar, stood him.
Rael Ravenclive.
His black hair, like a raven's wing, was neatly combed back, revealing the faint scar beneath his left eye. The ceremonial outfit clung to his tall, broad frame, gilded yet severe. He looked regal. Not princely—manly.
His face was beautiful in a way that startled her—not soft, but refined. Crimson Eyes dark and gaunt, hollowed by nights without rest, heavy with a burden she couldn't name.
The scar beneath his left eye, the stern line of his jaw, the weight behind his eyes.
Regal. Commanding. Not merely handsome.
Their eyes met.
Something in her breath hitched.
She quickly looked away.
Her hand tightened just slightly on Xavier's arm, and together they reached the altar.
Together with Xavier, she walked the aisle, each step feeling longer than the last. She placed her palm in Rael's, her fingers trembling as they touched his gloved ones.
The priest began the ceremony, invoking the gods of union and duty, his voice echoing off the high arches. There was no grand pageantry, no songs or choirs. Only solemn vows and rigid silences.
"Before the eyes of the gods and all gathered here, we unite two souls—not by whim, but by fate, by duty, and by the bond of covenant."
Ariana slowly lifted her gaze as the priest continued, her eyes brushing past Rael's shoulders to the stained glass depicting the goddess Eirene—bathed in celestial light, holding a rose.
She tasted the bitterness of irony on her tongue.
The priest continued.
"Count Rael Veyron Ravenclive, Lord of Ravenclare, son of Aladric Lucien las Alvatore—do you vow to guard and cherish this lady as your own, in spirit and strength, in joy and sorrow, from this hour to your last?"
A hush fell like a blade.
Ariana's breath caught.
That name—Aladric Lucien las Alvatore.
The Emperor's name.
His name before the crown.
His birth name.
She blinked once.
Then again.
Son of Aladric?
Was it a title? A formality?
No.
There was no announcement. No shock. Only calm. No one else flinched.
Which meant… they all knew.
Her gaze swept over the guests—names etched into the bones of the Empire.
The Duke of Fallor, silent and sharp-eyed.
Marquess Bolven of Scartton, seated beside his wife, Lady Cardia Valen—the Empress's ever-graceful shadow.
Dame Margie, Countess of Bertindfern, draped in silver and strategy, the mind behind a dozen royal victories and the Empress's truest confidante.
Lord Claudius Everline, cold as marble, steward to the Emperor and voice of the palace's oldest halls.
And there, at the very front, Prince Hendrick—Duke of Catusberg, heir in all but name, watching with the serenity of someone far too accustomed to court games.
None of them looked surprised.
Neither did Xavier.
The entire room knew. And she—she was just realizing it now.
Rael was the Emperor's bastard. And this wedding wasn't just a binding—it was a warning, a power play.
She wasn't marrying a war hero.
She was being tethered to royal blood.
Father knew, she thought, her eyes narrowing just slightly.
That's why he tried to stop it. Why he called it shameful.
Her thoughts spiraled—but the man beside her stood still. Tall. Silent.
"I do," Rael said, voice smooth and resolute.
The priest turned.
"Lady Ariana Lesley Trimene—do you, before the gods and your people, vow to walk beside this man as his equal, to offer strength when he falters, and loyalty even when shadows fall?"
Her heart was a drum. Her tongue was dry.
She looked at Rael, at the scar beneath his left eye. The weight in his stare. The hollowness behind his noble poise. The tiredness that no sleep could wash away.
And the mystery of it all.
A bastard prince. A dog of the crown.
But how much of that is truth? And how much is mask?
"I do," she said softly.
The priest gave a nod. "Then, by the light of Eirene and the will of the Empire, I declare you husband and wife."
Ariana barely registered the words. Her hand in his. Her veil. The lilies trembling from a breeze.
"You may seal your union with a kiss."
A pause.
A silence, thick enough to choke on.
Ariana's breath hitched. Her lashes fluttered once, her spine drawing taut beneath the weight of all those eyes. The chill of the marble floor seemed to climb through her skin. She hadn't thought of this part. She hadn't let herself.
Her gaze darted to Rael.
He didn't move.
Not until the priest turned expectantly toward him. Then, with a breath so subtle it could have been a sigh, Rael stepped forward—each motion smooth, composed, far too careful.
He leaned close, and the chapel seemed to still.
Her veil shifted faintly with the draft between them.
Her lips parted—but only in instinct. Not in invitation.
"Pardon me," he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear it. His breath ghosted against her cheek.
He bent slightly, lips brushing the air just above hers.
Not a kiss. Not even close.
A phantom gesture—crafted for appearances, void of affection, mercy disguised as decorum.
Ariana did not move. She couldn't. Her lashes trembled once, then stilled. The muscles in her jaw clenched, not from rage but from restraint.
And then it was over.
Rael stepped back, his expression unreadable, carved in calm. The priest smiled thinly, and the witnesses began to applaud with soft, perfunctory claps.
But Ariana's heart drummed in a silence only she could hear, her gaze caught in the pull of his—those strange, smoldering red eyes that held storms she couldn't name. She searched them, as if the truth of the man—her husband—might be buried somewhere beneath the weight of all that quiet. Doubt and wonder tangled in her breath, trying to make sense of the stranger fate had sealed her to.
The moment lingered longer than it should have. When Rael finally pulled away, it was with the grace of a man used to restraint, to playing roles he didn't ask for. His arm steadied her lightly at the waist as they turned toward the witnesses.
Ariana didn't realize she had been holding her breath until she smiled—and even that felt borrowed.
The applause came, soft and muted, like the end of a funeral.
Ariana put on her perfectly fake smile again.
Next chapter :
The wedding Aftermath