Elara’s POV
Pre-wedding night. The palace did not sleep. It hummed.
Even as night settled beyond the tall arched windows, the corridors outside my chambers remained alive with movement. Footsteps echoed endlessly. Silk brushed stone. Low voices murmured instructions and corrections, rising and falling like waves that never reached shore. The air smelled of wax, perfume, and something metallic underneath—anticipation sharpened to a blade.
I sat still while hands adjusted fabric around me.
“Lift your chin, my lady,” the seamstress said gently.
I obeyed without thinking.
The gown was heavy. Not just in weight, but in meaning. Layers of ivory and pearl-colored silk wrapped around me, stitched with fine silver thread that caught the candlelight like frost. It was beautiful in a way that felt distant, almost cruel. This dress had never known dirt under its hem or wind against bare skin. It had never run through fields or climbed trees or trained until its muscles shook.
It wasn’t mine.
When the final pin was set, the woman stepped back, satisfied. “Perfect.”
The word echoed strangely.
Serena stood behind me in the mirror, her expression calm, observant. She dismissed the seamstress with a nod, and the door closed softly behind her, sealing us inside.
“You don’t look convinced,” she said.
“I look like someone else,” I replied.
Serena moved closer, resting her hands lightly on my shoulders. “You look like someone the palace can see.”
I met her eyes through the mirror. “And what about someone I can see.”
Her fingers tightened slightly. “That’s the harder part.”
I swallowed. “How did you survive this place.”
She considered the question longer than I expected. “At first,” she said slowly, “I didn’t. I just endured.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It was.” She smiled faintly. “But endurance teaches you where your breaking point is. And once you know it, you learn how not to cross it.”
“Does it ever stop hurting,” I asked quietly.
Serena’s reflection softened. “No. But you stop believing that pain means you’re weak.”
The seamstresses returned briefly to remove the gown for the night, leaving it draped like a ghost across a stand near the wall. When they were gone again, Serena lingered.
“I’ll be nearby tonight,” she said. “If you need me.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
When I was finally alone, the silence pressed down hard.
I crossed the room slowly and opened the small drawer beneath the window, taking out the portrait I kept hidden there. The frame was simple, worn at the edges. Vivian’s smile looked back at me, warm and familiar, untouched by palace shadows.
“I wish you could see me,” I murmured. “I don’t know if you’d be proud… or terrified.”
My throat tightened. Tears blurred the image until I had to close my eyes.
A knock sounded.
I startled, hastily wiping my face. “Yes?”
The door opened.
Caden stood there.
He hadn’t changed clothes. He looked like he’d walked straight out of rehearsal and into my chambers, tension clinging to him like armor. His gaze swept over me quickly, sharp and assessing, before settling on my face.
“You’ve been crying,” he said.
“I’m fine,” I replied automatically.
He closed the door behind him with deliberate care. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I exhaled slowly. “What do you want.”
“To check on you,” he said. “Before tomorrow turns this place into chaos.”
I scoffed weakly. “A little late for that.”
His eyes flicked to the portrait in my hand. “Your mother.”
“Yes.”
He didn’t mock it. Didn’t dismiss it. He just nodded once, acknowledging its importance.
“She taught me how to braid hair,” I said suddenly. “And how to stand straight when people tried to make me smaller.”
His jaw tightened.
“She would hate this place,” I continued. “She believed kindness mattered more than power.”
Caden was silent for a long moment.
“This place doesn’t reward kindness,” he said finally. “It consumes it.”
I looked at him then, really looked. “Is that what happened to you.”
His shoulders stiffened. “Don’t.”
“I’m not accusing,” I said gently. “I’m trying to understand.”
He crossed the room and sat in the chair beside my bed, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him, but far enough that nothing improper could be accused.
“You don’t want to understand,” he said quietly. “Understanding doesn’t change outcomes.”
“It changes people,” I replied.
For a moment, he looked almost… tired.
“I won’t pretend this will be easy,” he said. “I won’t promise you happiness. And I won’t lie and say things will improve quickly.”
“I didn’t ask for promises,” I said. “I asked you to stay.”
He hesitated.
Then he did.
Time passed strangely after that. Candles burned lower. Sounds in the hallway softened. I lay back against the pillows, exhaustion finally claiming me, while Caden remained seated beside me, unmoving, watchful.
“You don’t have to stay all night,” I murmured.
“I know,” he replied.
But he didn’t leave.
At some point, my throat felt dry. I reached for the glass of water on the bedside table.
It shattered the moment my fingers touched it.
The sound was sharp and violent, glass exploding outward as if struck from within. I gasped, jerking back instinctively, heart slamming against my ribs. Shards scattered across the floor and bed, liquid soaking into the sheets.
Caden was on his feet instantly.
“Don’t move,” he ordered.
He stared at the remains of the glass, his face darkening, eyes going cold in a way that made my blood run colder.
Poison. Someone had meant for me to drink it.