Chapter 23 Ilyra
ILYRA
The knock rattles through the house around midday—sharp, authoritative, belonging to someone who doesn't wait for permission.
Bram sweeps inside before Vaelra even reaches the door.
"The announcements have been posted for a week." He doesn't greet anyone, just states facts like he's reading inventory. "Time to show the settlement a united front."
My stomach twists.
Vaelra straightens immediately, smoothing her skirts. "Of course. Mariselle and I should join you—make it clear this is a union, not just a transaction. Strengthen your connection with our kind and yours."
"But it is a transaction."
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Three heads turn toward me in unison.
Vaelra's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Ilyra, go put on something appropriate."
Bram's gaze slides over me, assessing. "Yes. Something that shows you understand your position."
Mariselle smirks from behind her mother's shoulder.
No one acknowledges what I actually said.
I turn and climb the stairs, jaw tight, fingers curling into fists against my thighs. In my room, I yank open the wardrobe and reach past the wedding dress hanging like a shroud.
My hand closes on dark blue fabric instead—one of the dresses Azrathiel brought me. Simple but well-made, the kind of thing a merchant's daughter might wear. Not ostentatious enough to draw questions, but far nicer than anything I owned before.
I dress quickly, braiding my hair with more care than usual. The silver pendant settles cold against my collarbone.
Azrathiel.
I close my eyes briefly, reaching for the connection between us. Just his name, silent in my mind, more plea than summons.
No answer comes. He's probably watching from shadow anyway.
Downstairs, Vaelra circles me once, adjusting my collar and smoothing invisible wrinkles. "Better. Remember to smile."
"And stand close to Bram," Mariselle adds sweetly. "People need to see you're willing."
Bram offers his arm like he's already claimed ownership.
I take it because refusal would cause a scene Vaelra can't afford.
The four of us step outside into harsh daylight, beginning our slow procession through the settlement. Neighbors pause mid-conversation to stare. Children whisper behind their hands.
Bram's grip tightens on my arm.
"Wave," he murmurs against my ear. "Show them you're grateful."
I bite back a scoff, forcing my expression neutral as we continue through the settlement.
We stop every few meters. Bram exchanges pleasantries with merchants, nods at laborers, plays the benevolent overseer with practiced ease. Each time, his hand remains possessive on my arm.
A cluster of younger girls watches from beside the well. Their eyes track me with something that makes my chest ache.
Awe. Envy.
One whispers to another, giggling behind her hand while staring at Bram's fine clothes and controlled elegance.
They shouldn't want this.
They shouldn't look at me like I've achieved something worth celebrating.
Like being sold off to some ancient elven man who sees them as decorative livestock is an aspiration.
They should want independence—real partnerships built on choice, not necessity.
The kind of love my parents had before my mother died.
Bram stops again, this time speaking with an elder about trade quotas.
I stand silent, smiling when expected, nodding when prompted.
But beneath the performance, certainty anchors me.
This marriage isn't happening.
Azrathiel will help me dismantle it piece by piece until public opinion shifts and Bram loses interest or leverage. And if somehow everything fails—if the contract isn't enough—I can order Azrathiel to kill him outright and disappear somewhere new.
The thought steadies my breathing.
Except... starting over means abandoning what my parents built. What every human family here fought to secure. Life in Protheka isn't kind to our kind—we're outnumbered, controlled, vulnerable to dark elf whims. What exists in this settlement is rare. Hard-won.
My father worked himself into an early grave to maintain it.
I won't throw that away unless there's no other option.
Here, at least, I have a foundation. A house with my name still attached to it. Neighbors who remember my family with respect. If I can outlast Vaelra and Mariselle, if I can make Bram leave without burning every bridge behind him, I'll still have something.
Somewhere new is unpredictable. Unknown.
Here I have a shot.
Bram's grip shifts, drawing me closer as we approach another cluster of onlookers.
"Smile wider," he whispers.
I do.
But I picture Azrathiel's ember-veined hands instead—steady, possessive in an entirely different way.
Soon.
Bram stops in the market square where a pair of merchants lean against stacked crates, discussing shipment delays. He releases my arm just long enough to gesture broadly at the settlement around us.
"The ceremony will be held here," he announces, voice carrying. "Open air. Public witness. A proper union between our peoples."
The merchants nod respectfully, offering congratulations that sound rehearsed.
Bram continues, detailing arrangements—imported wine, musicians from the Undercity, seating for settlement leaders and dark elf dignitaries alike. Each word drips with self-satisfaction.
I stand silent, hands folded.
Movement catches my peripheral vision. Mariselle sidles closer, that saccharine smile plastered across her face—the one she wears when Vaelra's watching but venom's already on her tongue.
"Trying to impress someone?" Her gaze drops to the pendant resting against my collarbone, then flicks to my carefully woven braids. "New jewelry. Fancy hairstyle. You think dressing up makes you less pathetic?"
I turn my head slowly, meeting her eyes. "Wealth changes one's taste. I'll have plenty soon."
Her smile fractures. "You'll always be inferior. Doesn't matter what you wear or who you marry. You're just livestock with delusions."
I hold her gaze, unbothered. "And you'll be living in this house long after I leave. Enjoy that."
Her face flushes, mouth opening for another strike—
"Ilyra."
Vaelra's tone cuts sharp across the space between us. She approaches with measured steps, expression neutral but eyes warning.
"Behave," she says quietly. "We're in public."
I shrug, the motion easy. "I am behaving."
Vaelra's jaw tightens.
I turn and walk away before she can respond, leaving Mariselle fuming and Vaelra struggling to maintain composure. My steps carry me toward the edge of the square where fewer eyes follow.
Bram's voice continues behind me, still boasting to the merchants about imported silks and ceremonial contracts.
Let him talk.
Let them all think this wedding's inevitable.
The pendant pulses faintly warm against my skin—or maybe I'm imagining it. Either way, the reminder steadies me.
Soon, none of this performance will matter.
Soon, I'll dismantle every carefully laid plan Vaelra and Bram constructed without my consent.
And I'll do it smiling.