2. A Marriage Sentence

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.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***