The carriage clattered through iron gates taller than my reincarnated self-esteem. As we passed beneath the stone archway with its quaint motto—"Through Shadows, Strength" (subtext: please give up hope)—I could already feel a thin layer of sweat forming beneath my historically inauthentic bodice.
"Is that… a gargoyle wielding a sword?" I ventured, peeking out the window.
"It's a family heirloom," Ronan replied.
"The gargoyle?"
"The sword."
"Ah. Naturally. Classic cursed architecture."
He glanced at me, an eyebrow raised like a disapproving bird.
"I mean, it's beautiful!" I corrected hastily, nodding far too enthusiastically. "So… balanced."
The carriage eventually stopped in front of a gigantic manor, hewn from obsidian rock and questionable life choices. Dreadmoor Castle loomed like it was auditioning to be a villainess in its own story.
As Ronan emerged, a butler—who looked like he was carved from graveyard marble—ushered me inside.
"Welcome to Dreadmoor, Lady Amelia," he intoned, his voice as dry as sandpaper.
"We've prepared your usual rooms."
"Oh, wonderful! Nothing like returning to the site of your guaranteed narrative death."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing!" I beamed, forcing an over-the-top cheer. "Thrilled to be here. Delighted. Euphoric."
Inside, the castle was even worse—beautiful in that intensely haunted, "a ghost most likely plays the violin at midnight" kind of way. I swear the suits of armor were staring at me. One of them blinked. I'm positive.
"This place has… character," I said, a little unnerved.
"It has endured five generations of betrayal, siege, and carnage," Ronan replied matter-of-factly. "It was constructed to endure."
"Fun!" I said brightly. "I once built a pillow fort. Lasted two hours before collapsing under emotional baggage. So, you know—same, really."
He came to an abrupt stop and looked at me with that impossible-to-read stare.
"You've changed."
"Have I?" I asked, all mock-innocence.
"You used to insult the tapestries."
I glanced at the large velvet monstrosity next to me, which depicted a wolf devouring a traitor.
"I still might," I growled. "I'm just pacing myself."
He blinked once. Twice. Then gestured for me to follow him down the hallway.
We came to a pair of double doors. My rooms.
The butler swung them open with unnecessary drama. "Your quarters, my lady."
The room was absurdly lovely—and frigid. Gothic arches, flickering candles, and a bed big enough for three duchesses in need of emotional support. And, naturally, a window that faced the garden where I'd eventually meet my untimely demise.
I smiled faintly. "Perfect. Love the breeze of doom."
"If you require anything, ring the bell," Ronan said, turning to leave.
"Wait," I said quickly. "Can we maybe… talk sometime?"
He paused, brow furrowed. "Talk?"
"Yes. You know. Civil discussion. Conversation. No brooding required."
He stared at me like I'd just asked him to adopt a kitten.
"I'll consider it," he said with a grim finality, then disappeared into the shadows like a stage magician with unresolved trauma.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I exhaled, feeling like I was about to implode under the weight of all the impending doom.
"Alright," I whispered to myself. "I'm officially in the death castle, married to the man who kills me, and faking that I have a plan."
I faced the mirror.
"We are not dying in chapter twenty-three, Amelia. We are surviving. We are rebranding. We are emotionally stable—ish."
The mirror cracked a little bit.
I decided to pretend that didn't happen.