The chamber was silent, heavy with the fragrance of white lilies placed in tall golden vases. Their sweet scent should have filled the room with joy, but instead it clung to the air like suffocating perfume.

In the center sat a young woman before a gilded mirror. Her hands rested tightly in her lap, fingers trembling against the embroidered silk of her wedding gown.

She was breathtaking. Her beauty was the kind that poets struggled to capture, with long strands of white hair cascading like moonlight down her shoulders, and eyes that shimmered as though they held all the secrets of the night sky. The gown wrapped around her frame in layers of snow-white satin, each fold stitched with pearls. A veil, sheer as mist, lay folded on the vanity beside her.

But her reflection betrayed no joy.

Her lips, soft and pale, refused to curve into a smile. Her eyes carried shadows far older than her years. Tension pulled at the corners of her mouth, and a heaviness pressed into her brow. She looked not like a bride awaiting happiness, but a prisoner awaiting judgment.

Her breath caught, and she whispered faintly, as if to the mirror itself.

“Why… must it be me?”

The silence answered her with cruel indifference.

A sudden knock rattled the door. Before she could speak, it opened with a creak, and a manservant stepped halfway inside. His expression was stiff, formal. He bowed slightly, his voice flat.

“Oh… you are ready. You have to go now.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. His footsteps retreated down the corridor, leaving the door ajar.

The young woman’s fingers clenched tighter around the folds of her gown. For a heartbeat she didn’t move, as though rooted to the chair. Then the sound of softer footsteps approached. A maid entered hurriedly, a girl with auburn hair tied back beneath her linen cap.

“Milady Evelina,” the maid whispered, her tone gentler than the man’s. “It is time. The guests are waiting… and so is the Duke.”

Evelina Duskbane. That was her name. Daughter of Viscount Adrian Duskbane. To the world, she was a lady of noble birth, a bride destined to marry one of the most powerful men in the empire. To herself, she was nothing more than a pawn.

Evelina lifted her gaze once more to the mirror. For a moment, she tried to imagine a smile. The corners of her lips quivered but fell again, unable to carry the weight of false happiness.

“I’m coming,” she murmured.

The maid, Marien, carefully lifted Evelina’s veil and lowered it over her head, letting the sheer fabric settle across her hair. Evelina stood, her movements graceful despite the heavy dress. The long train followed her like a river of white silk as she stepped toward the door.

The corridor stretched before her, lined with torches whose flames flickered restlessly, as though aware of the unease in her heart. Every step echoed against the stone floor, each one heavier than the last.

At the end of the hall, the great doors of the palace banquet hall loomed. From beyond, she could already hear the murmur of voices—nobles gathered to witness the union between the Duke of the North and the Viscount’s daughter. Their words drifted like whispers of judgment.

The maid pushed open the doors.

The hall exploded with brilliance. Chandeliers of crystal blazed above, scattering golden light across walls draped in velvet banners. Rows of nobles stood along the sides, their silks and jewels glimmering. All eyes turned toward Evelina as she entered.

Gasps rippled softly through the crowd.

“She is beautiful,” someone whispered.

“Like a snow maiden,” said another.

But Evelina did not hear them. Her gaze was fixed forward, at the empty space where her groom had yet to appear. She stood alone at the altar, her hands clasped tightly before her, her heart pounding with dread.

The hall grew quiet, expectant. Evelina could feel every pair of eyes piercing her veil, wondering, judging. She forced her chin up, but inside, her soul trembled.

Then, as if to the crowd—or perhaps to herself—her thoughts spoke louder than her lips.

You are all wondering, she thought bitterly, why I am not smiling. Why this bride’s face carries no happiness.

Her chest tightened.

Then let me tell you…

The memory surged unbidden. The hall before her blurred, the chandeliers dimmed, and in her mind, another scene unfolded. The laughter of children, the soft lull of a mother’s voice, the cold cruelty of a father’s hand.

Her voice echoed within, filled with pain.

This is who I am. This is the girl you see before you. And this is why I stand here today, not with joy… but with despair.

Her eyes fell shut, and for a brief moment, she let the past consume her.

The scent of lilies faded into the faint memory of another fragrance—her mother’s perfume. The murmurs of nobles became the shrill voice of her stepmother. The grandeur of the hall dissolved into the cold walls of the viscount’s estate.

There, in her mind’s eye, the story began.

The story of Lady Evelina Duskbane.

A daughter unloved.

A child abandoned to cruelty.

A young woman forced into chains of silk and pearls.

And now—

A bride waiting for a groom she neither knew nor wanted.

Evelina’s fingers curled tightly, nails biting into her palm beneath the veil. Her breath shivered against the silence of the hall.

She opened her eyes. The chandeliers returned, the nobles whispered, and the empty altar waited.

This was the moment her past and present collided.

And it was only the beginning.

The chandeliers of the palace hall faded from Evelina’s vision as memory pulled her away, back into the past she had never escaped.

---

The Memory of Her Mother

She had been four when the world lost its color.

Before then, life had been soft. Evelina remembered the gentle hum of her mother’s voice as she brushed her long, white hair each night. Lady Elira always smelled faintly of roses, her hands warm, her eyes kind.

“My little star,” her mother would whisper, kissing her forehead. “You must grow strong, Evelina. Stronger than me. Promise me.”

The child Evelina would giggle, clutching her doll. “I promise, Mama.”

But promises made by children cannot stop death.

Her mother’s illness came suddenly, stealing her voice, then her smile, and finally her breath. Evelina remembered standing at her bedside, too small to understand, watching the light vanish from the only person who had ever truly loved her.

That day, Evelina’s world turned cold.

---

Seraphina’s Arrival

Her father, Viscount Adrian Duskbane, did not mourn long. Within months, he brought another woman into their home—Lady Seraphina.

Seraphina was beautiful in a sharp, glittering way. Her hair the color of polished bronze, her lips painted red, her gowns cut in the latest fashion. But her eyes, pale and calculating, had never once looked at Evelina with warmth.

She brought with her a child of her own—Lillian. Barely three, with golden curls and wide green eyes, she was paraded around the estate as though she were a precious jewel.

From the moment they arrived, Evelina felt the shift.

One evening, Evelina ran to her father’s study, clutching a drawing she had made of their family—her, her father, and her late mother. She wanted him to hang it above his desk.

But when she entered, she saw him lifting Lillian onto his lap. Seraphina stood beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder.

“Father!” Evelina called happily, holding up the drawing. “I made this for you.”

Adrian glanced at her, then at the paper. His mouth tightened. “This again? How many times must I tell you, Evelina? Do not cling to the past.”

“But Mama—”

“Enough.” His voice cracked like a whip. He waved her away, his arm tightening around Lillian. “Go to your room. Do not disturb us.”

Evelina’s small hands crumpled the paper. She lowered her head, retreating. Behind her, Seraphina’s quiet laugh floated through the door like a knife.

From that day, Evelina understood: she had been replaced.

---

The Growing Cruelty

Years passed, and the cruelty grew.

Meals were served in the grand dining hall. Lillian sat at her father’s right hand, Seraphina at his left. Evelina, though the viscount’s true daughter, was pushed further down the table, sometimes left without so much as a slice of bread.

When Evelina accidentally dropped her fork one evening, Seraphina’s voice snapped across the room.

“Such clumsiness. Truly, Adrian, how long will you tolerate this embarrassment?”

Evelina flinched, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

But her father’s glare silenced her.

Later that night, Lillian crept into Evelina’s chamber, holding Evelina’s favorite porcelain doll. “Mother says I can have this now,” she said sweetly, before dropping it onto the floor. The doll’s head shattered against the stone.

Tears filled Evelina’s eyes. “That’s mine! Give it back!”

But Lillian only laughed and skipped away.

The servants soon followed their mistress’s lead. Orders for Evelina were ignored, her clothes poorly mended, her shoes never polished. Though a viscount’s daughter, she lived with less dignity than the lowest maid.

---

The Banquet

By the time Evelina was fourteen, her beauty had begun to bloom. Her white hair had grown long and silken, her face delicate yet striking.

Her father noticed—and decided to use it.

“You will attend the banquet tonight,” Adrian ordered one afternoon, his eyes glinting with calculation.

Evelina hesitated. “Father, I… I don’t feel well—”

His hand struck her cheek, sharp and stinging.

“You will do as I say,” he snapped. “Lord Ferren will be there. Smile at him. Make him want you. If he invests in our lands, you will have finally proven your worth.”

Evelina’s throat closed, but she nodded.

That evening, she was dressed in a gown too low at the bodice, too thin at the sleeves. She stood beside her father as nobles mingled in the glittering hall.

“Ah, this must be your daughter,” Lord Ferren said, his gaze heavy on her. He leaned close, the smell of wine thick on his breath. “Such rare beauty. White hair, like the moonlight itself.”

Evelina forced a smile, her stomach churning.

“Yes,” her father said proudly, though his tone was cold. “She is… useful.”

Lord Ferren chuckled, his hand brushing Evelina’s arm. “Indeed. Perhaps she might visit my estate sometime. I would enjoy her company.”

Evelina wanted to recoil, but Adrian’s grip tightened on her shoulder.

“She would be honored,” he said smoothly.

That night, when she refused to sneak into Lord Ferren’s chambers as her father ordered, she was locked in her room without food for three days.

---

The Lies

It was Lillian who worsened her torment. Sweet and smiling in public, venomous in private.

When jewels went missing, Lillian whispered, “It was Evelina.”

When a vase broke, she cried, “Sister did it!”

When she wished to be praised, she would mimic Evelina’s handwriting and claim Evelina had insulted her.

Each time, Seraphina would sigh dramatically, her hand pressed to her chest.

“Adrian, how much longer must we endure this child? She is nothing but trouble.”

And each time, her father’s hand would fall hard across Evelina’s cheek.

Rumors spread in noble society.

“She is shameless,” the ladies whispered.

“A temptress,” the men murmured.

“A disgrace to her house.”

Evelina’s heart shriveled under their scorn. She avoided mirrors, for she could not bear the sight of the beauty that had brought her nothing but pain.

---

The Bargain

At seventeen, Evelina was summoned to her father’s study once more.

Adrian sat at his desk, Seraphina sipping wine nearby, Lillian perched like a little queen in her chair.

“You will marry the Duke of the North,” Adrian declared.

Evelina froze. “The Duke… Kael Ravenwood?”

Her father smirked. “Yes. He needs reinforcement and food for his barren lands. I offered him both—in exchange for taking you as his wife.”

Evelina’s breath hitched. “But… no one wants to marry him. They say he’s cold… heartless…”

Seraphina’s laugh was sharp. “Do you think you deserve better? The Duke is doing you a favor.”

Lillian leaned forward, her green eyes glittering with malice. “Maybe he’ll finally break you, sister.”

Adrian’s voice was final, cruel.

“You will marry him. And if you refuse, Evelina… then you may rot here. Dead or alive, it makes no difference to me.”

Tears burned her eyes, but Evelina held them back. Crying never softened him—it only made him despise her more.

She lowered her head, whispering, “Yes, Father.”

---

The Present

And now here she stood.

In a hall far grander than the one in which she had been humiliated so many times. In a gown heavier than chains, a veil that suffocated more than it adorned.

Her father had sold her like livestock. And her groom was the Duke of the North—the man society feared as a monster in human skin.

As the nobles whispered and the chandeliers burned above her, Evelina felt her past pressing down on her shoulders, heavy as stone.

She was no bride. She was an offering.

Ashes of a viscount’s daughter, wrapped in silk and pearls.

The massive oak doors groaned open.

Every head turned. Every breath stilled.

The Duke of the North had arrived.

Kael Ravenwood stepped into the hall like a shadow carved from stone. He was tall — taller than any man present — his broad frame filling the doorway. A heavy cloak of midnight trailed behind him, and the steel at his hip gleamed beneath the chandeliers.

His hair, black as raven feathers, fell in unruly waves to his collar. His face was sharply cut, with a jaw built for command, and his eyes — gray, storm-dark, merciless — scanned the hall with a soldier’s precision.

There was no warmth in his gaze. No joy. No welcome.

The hall erupted in hushed whispers.

“He’s wearing a soldier’s uniform.”

“Not even a groom’s coat—does he think this is a battlefield?”

“Look at his face… he doesn’t want this marriage at all.”

“Cold as ice… poor bride.”

Evelina’s throat tightened. Dressed in her gown of white silk, she stood fragile at the altar, a lamb in the shadow of a wolf. Every eye judged her, pitied her. She could feel it, sharp as needles.

Kael advanced slowly, his boots striking against the marble, each step measured and heavy. He stopped at the altar, his storm-gray eyes flicking once toward her before looking away.

The officiant began the vows. Evelina whispered her “I do,” voice trembling like a candle in the wind.

When the time came for Kael, silence stretched long enough for the crowd to shift uneasily. His expression did not soften; his jaw clenched as though even these words cost him dearly.

Finally, he spoke.

“I do.”

Cold. Flat. Nothing more.

The ceremony went on, but the Duke never spoke again. Through the vows, the blessings, even the final declaration of their union, he remained silent, his face carved from ice.

When it was done, the nobles clapped half-heartedly. Some bowed, others turned their faces away, whispering again. Evelina placed her hand in his when he offered it, but his touch was like stone.

Together they walked down the aisle. But the moment they stepped outside the hall, Kael released her hand, turning from her as though she were no more than a shadow.

He left her there. Alone.

Hours later, Evelina was summoned to the court chamber. Kael stood before the viscount — her father — cloak draped over his shoulders, eyes sharp.

“We leave for the North today,” he said. His voice was a blade.

Evelina froze. Today? No chance to breathe, no chance to say farewell to the life she had known, however cruel.

Her father stepped forward quickly, a false smile plastered on his lips.

“Your Grace, forgive me, but you overlook a tradition. It is custom in our house that a new bride must remain one night in her family home before departing. It is the way of blessing a union.”

Evelina’s eyes widened. She had never heard of such a tradition.

Kael’s gaze narrowed. His silence dragged until even Adrian Duskbane shifted uncomfortably beneath it. Finally, Kael inclined his head once, curtly.

“One night. At dawn, we leave.”

Her father bowed, satisfied with his lie. But Evelina felt the truth. Kael had not agreed out of respect. He had agreed because it meant nothing to him. One night or none at all, she was already caged.

And so it was decided