3. Where Girls Don't Cry

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.

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