Winter in Valkathra had always been cruel, but that day? It was plain vicious. The sky stretched out in one long, endless slab of gray and the air felt like knives slicing into bare skin. Snow blanketed the courtyard in this perfect, soft layer, until they trampled all over it with their game.

Rylan led, of course. He always had to. Tall for eleven, with that sharp jaw and messy dark auburn hair falling in his eyes, already carrying himself like the whole world was his responsibility. Those jade green eyes of his had that look that always made people think he was older than he was.

Meliora stayed close beside him, whispering strategies like some pocket-sized tactician, her short platinum blonde hair peeking out from under her hood, cheeks flushed from the cold, dressed head to toe in velvet and fur, she looked more like a porcelain doll someone forgot on the palace steps than an actual child. Winter made her glow like that.

And Kaelen, well, he trailed after them like a stray pup, all messy light red hair sticking to his forehead, too-long for his round face, hazel eyes wide with clueless, stubborn curiosity. Six years old, mischievous enough to be ignored, but just determined enough to never actually stop.

And then there was Cessalie, the straight coral-haired little thing standing just behind them. She wanted to run ahead alongside Rylan. But she wasn’t supposed to lead, wasn’t supposed to decide anything. But she tried anyway.

Instead of adding to Rylan’s snow fort, she built her own quietly. Every snowbrick shaped with little hands, packed tight like it might actually matter.

"Cessalie, stop," Rylan barked.

She didn’t.

Meliora sighed, all bored and ladylike. "You’re ruining the game, Cece."

"No, I’m not," Cessalie said, not even looking up. "I’m making my own too, just like Rylan. It’s better."

That got his attention. His jaw locked.

"Cessalie." His tone was clipped and cold. "You don’t get to make the rules."

She ignored him.

And then, she did something.

It was dumb. Just a snowball, but it hit him dead in the chest and he staggered back, shattering his fort. Perfect shot.

He didn’t expect that. She wasn’t supposed to make her fort against him.

Before she could celebrate or run, his hand lashed out.

There was a flash of something. What was it? Ice? A sharp broken piece of ice. She barely registered it before a burning and sharp pain ripped across her cheek.

She hit the ground hard. Cold dug into her spine, but her body only registered the sting. Hot and wet blood sliding down her skin.

Everything blurred.... snow, blood, the iron taste in her mouth.

Rylan let out a slow exhale and shook his hand, like she had made him do it.

"You shouldn’t have done that," he muttered.

Meliora stepped forward, but not helping. "You made him mad, Cece."

Cessalie’s breathing came too fast. Her fingers pressed to her cheek and came away stained red.

Kaelen hovered beside her but didn’t say a word. He scaredly looked at his older siblings to understand the situation. But he understood nothing.

Then the maids showed up, and went straight to Rylan.

"Oh, young master," one cooed, brushing snow off his coat. "Please don’t be angry. It wasn’t worth your temper."

Another gently took his hand.

"Your hands must be freezing. Come inside. Let’s warm them."

No one looked at Cessalie. The cut on her cheek pulsed, but the ache in her chest? Way worse.

And then, her mother came.

One glance at Cessalie’s blood-stained dress, the scarlet drops melting into snow, and she sighed.

"Cessalie," she said sharply, like the wound was an inconvenience. "What have you done now?"

Cessalie tried to speak, but Meliora beat her to it.

"She was being difficult."

"Disrespectful," Rylan added.

Her mother’s expression iced over. "You always bring trouble upon yourself."

That was it. No scolding for Rylan. No punishment. Not even a why.

When Duke was told, he didn’t even glance up from his work. "She needs discipline," he said. "A daughter should know her place."

That night, the maids cleaned Cessalie’s wound without saying a word. The stitches pulled at her skin, but the sting barely registered anymore.

The pain faded. The scar didn’t.

A pale crescent, etched into her cheek like a brand. It became permanent and unavoidable.

That was the day she understood. She was the only legitimate child, but the one they valued the least.

Cessalie exhaled slowly, her eyes flickering to the mirror as she shook off the memory that had crept into her mind. A childhood memory.

Useless now.

She was nineteen. Thirteen years passed since that day, but the scar stayed. Unlike the others, it never faded. It clung to her like a reminder of what happenes when she stepps out of line.

Valkathra belonged to men. Every kingdom did. They ruled, Women obeyed. That was the way of things. She’d learned that the day Rylan struck her for the first time.

Everything shifted after that.

Fear, resentment, atred chewed through whatever love she had left for her family. She never looked at Rylan the same way again. Truthfully, she never looked at him at all.

Her fingers curled into fists. She took a breath. Then another. Silky strands the color of sunlit embers slipped through her fingers as she ran her hands through them, the same strands her hairdresser insisted on straightening, even though they were already straight.

They all just want to control what I have.

She pushed to her feet and stepped outside.

The air was hot, the sky stretched wide and pale, an endless sheet of blue. And there she was, Elysande, her mother waiting.

Cessalie wanted to walk past her, to retend she didn’t see her standing there. But she couldn’t. In this family, in this gilded cage, Elysande had no one but her.

And yet, Cessalie hated her for it.

Hated the way her mother had taught her to endure. To stay quiet, to bow. She bore it too. Her own scars buried beneath layers of powder and silk. But no amount of makeup could erase what had been done to her or to Cessalie.

The resemblance between them made her sick. The same turquoise eyes that gave away every quiet, lingering trace of sadness. Her hair were stolen from her father's red, just another reminder of a legacy she wanted nothing to do with. She never wanted to look like them.

Even her mother’s hair had lost its glow. Once, when Cessalie was small, it gleamed like the pale gold of early dawn, kissed with silver strands that shimmered in the light. Now, it was dull and faded, likee an old portrait left too long in the sun.

Cessalie couldn’t even hold her gaze for long. Her eyes flickered away, but she still stepped closer. "Good morning, Mother."

Elysande nodded, offering a small, wornout smile. "Cece, your father expects you in the dining room today."

Cessalie frowned. Why her? She never joined them for meals. That was Rylan’s role. Playing heir, discussing duchy affairs with Cyrion. The rest of them, his mistresses, sat like quiet, painted insults to her mother’s existence. Their children, nothing but decorative fixtures at the table.

She was the only legitimate daughter. The only one born of marriage. In Valkathra, only the royal family was permitted to take multiple wives as no child born of royal blood could be illegitimate. But nobles? Commoners? They weren’t granted that right.

Cyrion didn’t care.

He had three mistresses. One before Elysande. Two after.

"Cece… what are you thinking?" Her mother’s hand closed gently around her arm.

Cessalie flinched, pulling back without thinking. Elysande noticed but masked the hurt behind her eyes, withdrawing her hand. "Your father doesn’t tolerate indiscipline. Be on time."

Cessalie nodded, though they both knew indiscipline just meant refusing to stay quiet about his bullshit.

She didn’t say another word. Stepped ahead. Elysande followed, her footsteps soft behind her.

They reached the grand double doors. The guards flanking either side moved in sync, pulling them open without a sound.

Cessalie walked in after her.

She thought, Of course, he isn't here yet. Typical.

She was the one who had to be on time, yet the man who enforced the rule couldn’t bother to show up himself.

How poetic.

Elysande slipped into her usual seat along the long side of the table, right next to the head. Cyrion’s throne, basically. That spot had always been hers. First chair on his right. Close enough to look like privilege, still a few inches away from actual power.

And beside her, like polished, poisonous statues arranged for display, sat the other two mistresses. Perfectly aligned on that same long side, all three of them dressed in quiet competition, their smiles stiff and surgically placed.

Anwen didn’t even glance up. She was Cyrion 's first mistress, from before his marriage. She was tall, even taller than Cyrion. She was rigid and elegant in that cold, untouchable way. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was pulled into a low, immaculate twist at the nape of her neck. Those jade green eyes stayed locked on nothing, like the entire room wasn’t worth noticing. She sipped her wine like existence bored her, like dinner was another performance she stopped clapping for years ago.

Amara, though… Amara lived to talk. She tilted her head, platinum blonde curls falling over her shoulder like she rehearsed the move daily. "Oh? She decided to join us today?" Her voice was sweet, all honey-dipped spite. "We almost thought you’d forgotten where the dining room was."

Her hazel eyes swept over Cessalie, that sharp, perfectly painted smirk slicing through the air. Too pretty for her own good, too good at biting. And it wasn't even a secret, she couldn’t stand Cessalie.

Cessalie didn’t bother replying. She was used to it.

She pulled out a chair herself, the screech of it dragging across the marble floor a little too loud in the stiff, rehearsed silence. Amara’s gaze snapped to the sound like a hawk locking onto prey, smirk deepening.

Cessalie sat down, keeping her expression unreadable. But the moment her eyes lifted, her breath caught.

Directly across from her sat Rylan, Anwen's son, the duchy’s golden boy. Twenty-four now. Her older half-brother. Cyrion’s pride when it came to managing Ferendia.

He never smiled. Not once in her memory. His face was all sharp edges and calm authority, like responsibility had carved him out of stone.

Taller than even Anwen, lean, athletic frame, dark auburn hair that never looked out of place. And those same jade green eyes, already locked on her.

She always got under his skin somehow. Walking out of line, saying the wrong thing, never knowing when to shut up. But after that incident, they barely spoke. Cold exchanges here and there, nothing more.

She hated admitting it, even to herself, but… he scared her. Every time she saw him, the scar on her cheek burned, like it remembered.

"What happened, Cece?"

The voice came from beside him. Meliora. She was three years older to Cessalie.

Her poised and beautiful older sister, so insufferably perfect it made Cessalie nauseous. Her golden hair fell in soft waves, hazel eyes sparkling like she practiced that exact look in the mirror. A mirror she probably still kissed goodnight.

Meliora was Amara’s mirror image, and she knew it. Knew she was pretty, knew how to use it, and definitely knew how to twist her manicured nails into every insecurity she could find.

As stunning as she was, she was twice as awful.

Cessalie forced a smile, swallowing down the bitterness clawing its way up her throat. "There’s nothing you should worry about, sister."

Her other siblings weren’t there. Kaelen, Isla, Evelyn. They were too young or irrelevant, at least to Cyrion.

Kaelen was nineteen. The only boy after Rylan, which basically meant a free pass to do whatever he wanted. Isla was fourteen. Evelyn barely six. Pretty little things with big eyes and bigger silences, tucked away from the table like decoration pieces waiting to be unwrapped.

Cessalie straightened her posture, forcing herself to sit taller, eyes avoiding everyone. Their stares always came with knives.

A servant passed by, pouring wine into her goblet. She didn’t touch it.

Across from her, Rylan was still staring, arms folded. His expression were unreadable, except for the faintest twitch in his jaw. That was his tell that he was annoyed. Probably already filing a mental report about how she’d ruined something, and she hadn’t even opened her mouth yet.

Meliora leaned toward him, whispering behind her hand.

Cessalie didn’t care.

The doors creaked open again. Every posture snapped straight, shoulders stiffening like strings pulled tight.

Footsteps echoed across the marble floor.

She didn’t have to look. She knew that sound.

Duke Cyrion Draevin had arrived.

He passed behind her without a word, the air shifting faintly in his wake. He smelled like the same godawful cologne he’d worn for years, strong, musky, suffocating. Just like everything else about him.

He took his place at the head of the table, finally bringing an end to the quiet play they’d all been pretending wasn’t happening.

His eyes scanned the room once. Landed on her.

"You’re late," he said.

She wasn’t. But she didn’t argue.

He didn’t wait for a response anyway. Just looked down at the stack of documents beside his plate, picked one up, and started reading. Like none of them existed. Not even the meal.

Elysande sat frozen, hands clenched tight in her lap, jaw locked like stone. She didn’t look at him.

She never did.

Under the table, Cessalie’s hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palm, just to remind herself she still existed.

Cyrion didn’t spare anyone a glance. Just started speaking.

"Rylan," he said, without looking up from the parchment, "the tariffs on the eastern grain merchants...did you get the new figures from Daemir?"

"Yes, this morning," Rylan replied, already sliding a sealed envelope across the table. "They’re higher than last quarter. They’re getting bold."

"They won’t stay bold if we pull half their ships for inspection," Cyrion muttered, then made a small note with his quill. "Send a message to Councilor Vane. Make it sound diplomatic, but make sure the threat bleeds through."

Rylan nodded once, like this was just another morning ritual. The rest of the table was silent. Of course it was.

No one interrupted when Cyrion spoke business, not the mistresses, not Elysande, definitely not children. They just sat there like expensive furniture. That’s how it always was. The conversations they had were flowers, festivals, what dress would suit the next party and they were not meant to disrupt the "real" matters.

Cessalie focused on eating quietly. Her knife and fork moved slowly. If she pretended hard enough, maybe she could fade into the background.

But then, just as she started to chew the first bite of food she could actually swallow, his voice cut through the air again.

"Cessalie."

She froze.

The meat stuck to the back of her throat like it had turned to sand. She swallowed hard and slowly raised her head. His eyes were already on her, the kind of stare that didn’t ask, didn’t suggest. It just expected.

"Yes, Father?" Her voice came out calm, but her fingers curled tighter around the fork.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her, long enough for the tension to crawl up her spine and sit on her shoulders.

"You’ve turned nineteen."

There was no warmth in it. Just a fact. Like announcing a crop yield. Like she was part of the inventory.

She didn’t respond. She knew better.

Cyrion set the parchment down finally and leaned back slightly, fingers steepled.

"I was beginning to think no man would be willing to take you."

There it was.

No one at the table so much as blinked. Not even Elysande. She just kept her eyes fixed on her plate like she didn't hear a thing.

"You’ve been difficult," he continued, as if he were discussing an animal he was trying to sell. "Disobedient. Unpredictable. But—"

He paused, almost like the next part was hard to process for him.

"There is one."

Her jaw tightened. She didn’t say a word.

"A proposal has been made," he said. "He’s from the northern duchy. Davian Aurelthorn of Alderwyn."

She blinked. Once.

"He wants to marry you."

Wants? That word didn’t sit right. Nobody "wanted" her unless they wanted something from her.

"He became the Duke of Alderwyn two years ago and he holds great importance in kingdom matter, and more importantly, he’s willing."

He said it like it was a miracle. Like she should fall on her knees with gratitude that someone out there was willing to deal with her.

She didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. But inside, her ribs felt like they were turning inwards, closing in on themselves.

And across the table, Meliora’s smile was practically glowing.

Cessalie didn’t nod. She didn’t even blink this time.

Instead, she set the fork down on the edge of her plate and looked him straight in the eye.

"Meliora is twenty-two."

That shut the table up.

Everyone went still. Even Anwen stopped swirling her wine.

"She’s beautiful. She’s obedient. She’s exactly what a man like Davian Aurelthorn would want, isn’t she?" Cessalie asked, voice calm. "She’s everything I’m not, right? So why not send her?"

Meliora’s chair scraped sharply against the floor as she sat up straighter. "I don’t want to marry him."

Cessalie turned her head slowly to her, lips curling. "And you think I do?"

"You shouldn’t dare speak to Father like that," Meliora hissed across the table, that carefully constructed poise cracking at the seams. "He’s doing what’s best for you, for all of us."

Cessalie tilted her head. "He’s selling me off like cattle. At least be honest about it."

"You ungrateful—!" Meliora started, but—

That’s when he moved.

Rylan.

The sound of Rylan’s chair dragging back cut through the room like a blade. He stood slowly, his towering frame casting a shadow across the table. His hands braced against the polished surface, and those sharp jade-green eyes locked onto Cessalie like she was something feral that needed taming.

Her body reacted before her brain did. She flinched.

She never flinched. But around Rylan, she never felt in control of her spine.

His voice was low, dangerous, almost a growl. "You will not cause a scene at this table."

His gaze didn’t shift. The rest of the room went dead silent. Maids present in the corner of room exchanged nervous knowing glances, guards stiffened. Because they all knew Rylan couldn't bear Cessalie at all.

Cessalie swallowed, fingers curling tight around the edges of her chair, but she didn’t lower her head.

Her fists clenched under the table, nails digging crescents into her palms.

"I will not marry him," she repeated, louder this time.

Cyrion exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his fork down with an audible clink. The kind of sound that came with patience wearing thin.

"You have Meliora," she pressed, voice unshaky despite the pounding in her chest. "She’s older. She’s charming. She’s everything a perfect wife is supposed to be. Why me? Why force me into this when you already have the perfect daughter?"

Meliora scoffed, arms folding over her chest. "Perfect daughter? You really think you know anything about this family?"

Cessalie ignored her. She kept her eyes on Cyrion, the man who decided her fate as easily as he chose what wine to drink with dinner.

"You are not useful to me, Cessalie," Cyrion said finally, voice calm and detached. His deep brown eyes burned with authority. "You have no magic. No skills. You are best wedded off."

The words slammed into her harder than she expected.

Meliora and Rylan had magic. Not rare, not special, but it mattered. In Valkathra, mana was everything. A raw force passed through blood, shaping status and worth. It wasn’t like the powerful magic of witches, fae, or dragons. Mana came last in the hierarchy, common, but still useful.

Some were born with it. Some weren’t.

Cessalie wasn’t. And it wasn’t her fault. Her parents had none, so neither did she.

Across the kingdom, temples taught those with mana to shape it for healing, crafting, protecting the realm.

Cessalie? She had nothing. To Cyrion, that made her barely human, only a pawn to be placed wherever Cyrion saw fit.

Her heart hammered in her chest, loud enough she could feel it in her ears. But she didn’t back down. "That’s not a reason to throw me away like I’m–like I’m w–w–worthless." Her voice cracked slightly at the end, betraying her.

Cyrion leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple like her presence was a burden he couldn’t shake. "You are worthless, Cessalie."

The words landed like a slap across the face.

Meliora held more place in this house than even Elysande, simply because she was born right.

Cessalie wasn’t.

That was the difference.

Her chest tightened, anger crawling up her throat, bitter and sharp. She wanted to scream. To throw her goblet across the room. To do something. But that would only prove his point that she was unruly, useless, nothing more than a daughter who needed to be put in her place.

She forced her voice to remain composed. "I am your legitimate daughter."

"And?" Cyrion’s stare sliced straight through her. "What use do I have for a legitimate child, who is a daughter and cannot do anything?"

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

He’d already decided. In his eyes, she wasn’t even wasted potential. Just wasted breath.

Her nails dug deeper into her palms. Her jaw clenched. "Then why not marry off Isla? She doesn’t have magic either."

"Because she is fourteen," Cyrion replied, as if the answer was obvious. "Do you hear yourself? You sound desperate."

She was desperate. Desperate to claw her way out of this. Desperate to make him listen.

The chair screeched loudly as she shoved back from the table and stood, her body tense with restraint. "You can’t do this to me—"

Rylan moved again.

She flinched.

Rylan pushed back his chair. The sharp scrape of it echoed off the marble, slicing through the room’s silence. Cessalie barely had time to react before he started walking. Not toward Cyrion, not toward Meliora, toward her.

Her stomach twisted.

Rylan never wasted movement. He didn’t pace when he was angry. He didn’t raise his voice. If he was standing, if he was walking toward someone, it only meant one thing.

Punishment.

Her breath came faster, but she didn’t sit back down. She refused. Even as he circled the table, closing the distance, even as her hands trembled faintly at her sides.

She held her ground.

But her body remembered. It always remembered.

The scar on her cheek tingled. That old phantom sting from a wound long closed.

Every step he took made it worse.

"You think I’m just going to smile and nod while you marry me off to some stranger like I’m livestock?" she snapped, her voice loud enough, that made everyone’s spine straighten. Her hands were shaking now, but she didn’t care. "At least pretend like I matter, Rylan. You’re always playing the heir, the perfect son, but you don’t get to decide what I do with my life—"

"You’re being reckless," he said coldly, still walking, closing the space between them like a predator stalking prey. His tone never rose, but the danger in it curled under her skin. "As always."

"I’m being honest." Her voice cracked, raw and bitter. "You all sit here acting like loyalty is earned with obedience. Maybe you like being father's puppet, but I won’t."

He stopped right in front of her. His towering shadow cut across her like a threat, and despite herself, her feet edged back a step.

She hated that.

"You should watch your mouth, Cessalie," he said, voice low, dangerous, not angry but worse. Controlled. "You think throwing tantrums in front of father makes you brave?"

"I think speaking up for myself makes me human," she spat back. "But maybe you forgot what that feels like. Being Father’s lapdog must’ve rotted it out of you."

There was a flicker in his eyes. Barely there. But she saw it.

She went too far.

"You’re out of control," he said, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. "And until you learn how to behave like a Draevin, you don’t deserve a seat at this table."

He turned toward Cyrion. "She should be locked in her chambers until she’s ready to give her answer. A proper one."

"You don’t get to decide that—" she started, but Cyrion raised a hand, silencing her mid-sentence.

"I agree," he said flatly, not even glancing in her direction. "It’s time she learned discipline."

Meliora’s smug smile bloomed like a disease at the edge of the table. Cessalie wanted to claw it off her face.

"I’m not a prisoner," she snapped.

"You are what I say you are," Cyrion replied, his tone void of emotion, carved from stone. "Until you remember your place, you will remain behind locked doors. No visitors. No exceptions."

"You can’t—" Her voice cracked, rage strangling the words.

"I already have."

And just like that, her was decided and sealed as easily as a signed letter. Like she didn’t exist. Like her voice was nothing in a room with power she could never match.

She was still standing, shoulders trembling, heart choking in her throat.

But no one looked at her anymore.

She was invisible.

One of the guards at the door stepped forward.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Her pride refused to let her break.

But inside, she was already screaming.

The moment the maids approached, Cessalie’s breath caught sharp in her throat, her chest tightening like a fist was closing around her ribs. She stumbled a step back, eyes wide, head shaking.

"No," she whispered, barely a sound. Just for herself. A last, quiet plea.

But they grabbed her anyway.

Their rough and unkind hands clamped around her arms, as if she was a prisoner, not the Duke’s daughter. Her body jerked, shock flooding through her as her gaze darted wildly around the room.

"No—!" She yanked one hand free, desperate, but the other was locked too tight. Her heart lurched when the guard stepped in behind her, his palm pressing flat against her back, shoving her like unwanted trash.

All the fight bled out of her, leaving her limbs trembling, skin ice cold.

"I’m not going," her voice cracked, pitiful and raw. "I’m not agreeing to this stupid—this disgusting marriage! Let me go!"

They didn’t.

One maid dug her fingers into Cessalie’s wrist like she was restraining a criminal. The other yanked at her arm, dragging her forward. The guard’s hand stayed at her back, steering her toward the doors like she was nothing but a stain they couldn’t wait to scrub out of sight.

She looked at the other women in the room. Ladies in their polished gowns, delicate jewelry glittering at their throats. Maybe they’d help. Maybe they understood what it was to be paraded off like property, to be told their life didn’t belong to them.

But they just watched with empty eyes and detached look.

Her chest caved in tighter. She turned her head, eyes landing on her mother.

"Mama," her voice wobbled, breaking apart.

But Elysande wouldn’t even meet her eyes. Her gaze flickered to the floor, to the wall, anywhere but her daughter, the girl being dragged away like livestock at auction.

"This isn’t fair!" Cessalie’s voice cracked, thick with hurt, as they pulled her toward the hall. "You never let me be anything! All I ever wanted was to read books, to learn! But no, that was dangerous for a girl—"

No one moved. No one cared.

"You wouldn’t even let me hold a sword because girls shouldn’t protect themselves," her voice broke completely now, barely words between the sobs clawing up her throat. "You called me difficult for wanting to be something other than this…"

The dining hall faded behind them. The grand corridor stretched ahead. It was long, cold, empty. Her shoes scraped uselessly across the floor as she tried to resist, but they kept dragging her like a corpse that refused to lie still.

"I don’t want to be a wife," she cried, throat raw. "I don’t want to belong to anyone. I belong to myself!"

But no one listened. Not the maids. Not the guards, not even her own mother.

Cyrion didn’t even glance in her direction. Rylan sat back down like nothing happened.

The doors slammed shut behind her.

And just like that… she was alone again.

They shoved her inside her chambers like she was some creature that needed to be caged.

The heavy door slammed behind her with a dull clang, the lock clicking into place before she even caught her balance.

She stumbled forward and caught herself on the edge of the bed, then spun around, pounding her fists against the door.

"Let me out!" Her fists slammed into the wood, the sting jolting up her arms. "You can’t keep me in here! You can’t!"

No response came from outside.

"I didn’t do anything wrong!" she screamed, slamming her palm so hard against the door that the skin burned. "I’m not a criminal—I just… I just don’t want to marry a stranger!"

Her fists hit the door again. Again. Until her knuckles throbbed with every strike.

"I didn’t ask to be born here," she whispered, voice cracking, eyes stinging. "I didn’t ask for any of this."

The silence that followed was louder than her screams. It was suffocating.

Cessalie slumped against the door, breathing hard, her heart pounding against her ribs like it was trying to escape too.

It wasn’t about marriage entirely. It was the fact that she was always the problem, always the disappointment.

Because she didn’t have magic, because she didn’t sit still like a proper girl, because she dared to want more than being someone’s beautiful little puppet.

She pressed her forehead against the cold wood, her hands still trembling.

"I just wanted a choice," she whispered, voice cracking. "Why is that too much?"

It wasn’t long before footsteps approached from outside, heavier than a maid’s.

Her body stiffened. She pushed herself upright fast, wiping at her eyes even though she wasn’t crying anymore.

She knew those footsteps.

The door unlocked with a heavy click, swinging open slowly. Two guards stepped inside first, eyes avoiding hers. One of them looked… regretful, maybe. The other didn’t.

Behind them came Cyrion.

He didn’t speak right away. He never did. Just stared at her, those sharp, unreadable brown eyes pinning her in place. That silence always made her skin crawl more than his words ever could.

"I gave you every chance, Cessalie," he finally said, voice calm, collected, as if this was all a tedious chore. "Every chance to act with dignity. And yet, you screamed at your brother. At me. At this family."

Her mouth opened, ready to argue, but his finger lifted.

"Not another word."

Like she meant nothing.

"Hold her."

Cessalie bolted. Or tried to.

She barely made it a step before one of the guards grabbed her by the arm and threw her back down. Her knees slammed into the marble floor with a sickening crack, pain shooting up her legs. Before she could recover, another guard knelt in front of her, yanking both her wrists down onto her lap, locking them in place with bruising force.

She fought, uselessly. Her body twisted, legs kicking out, her voice hoarse with screams, curses tumbling from her lips. But it didn’t matter.

They were used to this.

And disgustingly… so was she.

Cyrion’s footsteps echoed across the room as he crossed to the wall, the sound of the hook creaking as he pulled the leather strap down made her stomach twist in knots.

The same strap that had hung on her bedroom wall like a threat for years.

She could’ve thrown it out. She could’ve hidden it. But the twisted, paralyzing fear always kept her fingers frozen.

"I thought," Cyrion's voice sliced through the room, quiet, venomous, winding the strap around his hand, "you might’ve grown out of this pitiful rebllion."

He stopped in front of her, towering, his eyes dead and sharp as glass.

"But clearly," he sneered, "you still need reminding."

Cessalie thrashed harder, panic rising like acid in her throat. "Father, no—please—don’t—" Her voice cracked, scrambled, broken beyond pride now. "Please—!"

The first strike landed across her back, the crack of leather splitting through the air. Pain exploded through her spine, sharp and immediate. Her breath collapsed, her body jerking in pain. The guard let go of her hand now.

Before she could recover, the strap lashed across her ribs, then her side, the edges biting into her clothes tearing fabric, skin, dignity... everything.

She screamed,ñ not just from the burning pain but from the humiliation. Her vision blurred, hot tears spilling over as the next blow came down, snapping across her thigh. Her dress ripped, blood blooming through the torn fabric, trailing down her leg in thin, sticky lines.

Cyrion didn’t stop. He reached down, fist curling into her hair, yanking her head back so her tear-streaked face tilted up to him.

"Look at me," he commanded.

Her scalp burned under the grip, her neck straining, every muscle trembling as her blurred eyes met his.

"Maybe next time," he hissed, "you’ll remember your place before shouting like a filthy market whore."

The strap came down again across her chest, her arm, anywhere the leather could find skin. Her clothes shredded under it. Blood mingled with fabric, staining her torn dress as her body folded in on itself, shaking, her breath hitching with every ragged sob.

She bit down on the next scream, but it didn’t matter. The sound got swallowed into her lungs, choking her from the inside out.

By the time he stopped, her skin burned in angry welts, blood trickling down her side and thigh, her limbs too weak to hold herself upright. Her knees throbbed against the marble. Her wrists, still pinned by the guards, trembled.

Cyrion tossed the blood-streaked strap to one of them, his face empty, unbothered. Like she wasn’t even human.

Like she wasn’t his daughter, just another creature to be broken.

He turned and walked out.

Rylan passed him in the doorway.

He didn’t stop and glance at Cyrion. But he looked at her, just once..

And then he walked away.

The second the guards let go, Cessalie crumpled to the floor, her body shaking, her breath broken and uneven.

She wasn’t crying.

The hallway was silent as they dragged her out of the room. One guard held her upright, the other close behind, ready to catch her if she collapsed.

Her back burned with every step. The wounds throbbed deeper.

How stupid.

When they reached the bathing chamber, the warm, perfumed air hit Cessalie’s skin like a mockery. Too soft. Too gentle. For someone who wasn’t her.

The guards didn’t even bother to look away as Rena, her personal maid, started untying her robe, their eyes were fixed greedily on her, making no attempt to hide it.

But Rena, maybe the only person in this house with a shred of decency left, turned toward them with sharp eyes. "Out," she snapped. "This is not entertainment."

The guards exchanged a look, reluctant, their eyes lingering far longer than they should, especially one of them, his gaze tracing Cessalie’s bare shoulders, the angry red welts across her back, with disgusting interest.

But even they weren’t stupid enough to disobey completely. With thinly veiled frustration, they stepped out, the door clicking shut behind them.

Cessalie let her dress fall to the floor and sat on the cold stone bench, naked and still, arms loose at her sides.

Rena knelt behind her with a basin of warm water. The woman didn’t speak as she soaked the cloth and started cleaning the broken skin along Cessalie’s back.

Cessalie didn’t flinch when the cloth touched the raw welts. Didn’t hiss when water trickled into the lashes. Didn’t cry.

She couldn’t.

Her tears had dried out years ago. Somewhere between the second punishment and the hundredth silence, somewhere between learning how to speak and being taught never to raise her voice.

The bath steamed next to her.

They wanted her to soak, to clean off the blood, to look like nothing happened. That was the way of this house.

Once the wounds were clean, Rena set the cloth aside and nodded slightly. "Get in," she said softly, not asking, just stating.

Cessalie pushed to her feet, her body heavy and sore, and stepped into the bath.

The water was too hot. It stung every open wound, biting into her skin like punishment all over again. But she didn’t wince.

She sank down, knees pulled up to her chest, the steam curling around her like a lie.

This was her life.

Not because she chose it.

Because they decided she was only useful when silent, when pretty, when married off like cattle to someone who’d treat her like an investment.

She rested her chin on her knees, breathing slow, empty, eyes blank.

The door creaked.

She didn’t lift her head. She already knew it wasn’t Cyrion. He never checked. He punished and forgot. Left the cleaning to the servants.

The boots were too light for a guard. Too heavy for a maid.

Rylan.

She could feel his presence before she even turned. Like a blade pressed to her throat.

Cessalie turned her head slightly, just enough to see him standing there at the edge of the chamber. His eyes were on her back, the angry red marks crossing her skin, the ones he hadn’t put there, but never stopped either.

"Come to make sure I learned my lesson?" Her voice cracked, not from sadness, from rage.

He stared at her for a long, heavy moment.

And then… he turned and walked away.

Coward.

She glared at the empty space he left behind, her heart pounding like a scream trapped in her chest. And finally, she pushed herself up, stepping out of the bath.

Her skin burned, hot water making every welt sting sharper. But still, she didn’t make a sound.

Rena was ready with the salve now, her hands gentle as she dabbed the cool ointment over the raw skin, bandaging the worst of the lashes.

Cessalie didn’t thank her. Rena didn’t expect it. They both knew the script.

When it was done, Rena helped her into a long robe, loose and soft, covering the bandages, covering the bruises. Covering what was left of her.

After the bath, they sent Cessalie back to her chambers. The door locked behind her with a soft click, like it always did.

That’s how they handled her. Punish. Patch up. Lock away. Not to keep her safe.

To hide and control her, to give the bruises time to fade before the guests showed up again.

She sat on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in nothing but the long robe Rena had thrown over her before they marched her back here. Her skin itched where the bandages pressed too tight, but she didn’t move to fix them.

What was the point?

Her eyes drifted around the room. Every wall the same dull beige. Every shelf lined with the same damn books she’d already read a hundred times. Some of them she could probably quote word for word by now.

She used to love them.

Now they felt like cages made of paper and ink.

Days passed. She couldn’t tell how many.

They brought food in, left it on the tray near the door. Sometimes it was Rena, sometimes someone else. None of them talked to her. They just slid the tray in and left before she could say anything.

Not that she tried.

She didn’t have the energy anymore.

The room had a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf. A wardrobe, a fireplace, and a single window.

Most of the time, she lay on the bed, a book open beside her. Her eyes skimmed the same paragraph over and over, retaining nothing.

Sleep came and went, slipping in and out without rhythm. She’d wake without knowing if it was morning or night. She’d eat half of what they gave her. Some days, not even that.

Her body ached constantly, not just from the wounds, but from the stillness. From the quiet. From the emptiness of being forgotten.

No… not forgotten.

They noticed. They just didn’t care.