Chapter 6 The Beginning of the End
CHAPTER SIX
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
The servants’ hands moved with practiced efficiency around me, a storm of silk and pins that I observed with a detached fascination.
Evening light filtered weakly through the stained-glass windows of my chambers, casting prismatic shadows across the ornate furnishings that had been brought in specifically for this occasion.
My wedding day.
The words felt foreign in my mind, as though they belonged to someone else.
Some other noblewoman who might have spent her life dreaming of this moment.
Yet here I stood, soon to be bound to the Butcher of Realms, a man whose very title made the servants’ hands tremble as they prepared me for my fate.
I studied my reflection in the polished silver mirror, noting the hollow look in my silver-flecked eyes.
The gown they had draped me in was a masterpiece of Nocthari craftsmanship—deep crimson, the color of freshly spilled blood.
Not the traditional golden hues of Vareth brides.
I ran my fingers over the intricate embroidery at the bodice, where tiny garnets caught the light like droplets of crystallized gore.
I loved it.
“It suits you,” said a voice from behind my shoulder. One of my father’s seamstresses, her eyes quickly dropping when I met her gaze in the mirror. “Begging your pardon, Princess.”
I turned slightly, the heavy fabric swirling around my ankles. “No need to apologize for speaking truth, Mathilda.” The gown’s beauty was undeniable, how it complemented my pale skin and dark hair. “Although, the Nocthari seem to have peculiar taste.”
Across the room, perched upon Isolde’s lap, Lysa clapped her hands with innocent delight. “Miri looks like a berry! Will there be dancing after? Can I come?”
Isolde’s arms tightened protectively around my sister, though her smile remained gentle. “Your sister looks like a queen,” she corrected, her eyes meeting mine with a warmth that belied the tension in her shoulders.
I crossed the room, the gown’s weight already familiar, and knelt before my sister, taking her tiny hands in mine.
“The celebration will be far too late for little princesses,” I told her, keeping my voice light. “But I promise to recount every detail. The musicians, the food, the dancing. You shall hear it all.”
“Even the cake?” she asked, eyes wide with solemnity.
“Especially the cake,” I promised, though I wondered when, or if, I would fulfill that vow. The thought left a hollow ache beneath my breastbone.
“There will be cake at your own birthday celebration,” Isolde reminded her, smoothing a wayward golden curl from Lysa’s forehead. “Only a fortnight hence. And you shall be the center of all attention that day.”
This seemed to satisfy Lysa, who promptly launched into an elaborate description of the exact color of the confection she expected.
I listened to her prattle, memorizing every animated gesture, every excited inflection. This was what I would take with me to Nocthar. Not the silk and jewels being packed into ornate trunks, but these stolen moments of ordinary joy, preserved like pressed flowers between the pages of my memory.
“Princess,” one of the handmaidens interrupted softly, “we must finish with your hair before the ceremony.”
I pressed a quick kiss to Lysa’s forehead and rose, the crimson fabric rustling around me like whispered secrets. As I returned to the mirror, I caught Isolde’s gaze. In it, I could see the worry she couldn’t quite conceal, the questions she dared not ask aloud with so many ears present.
The handmaiden began weaving my dark hair into an elaborate style, threading small garnets through the braids to match my gown. Each tug of my scalp was a sharp reminder of my powerlessness, each stone a drop of blood that would no longer be spilled.
“You don’t have to do this,” Isolde murmured as she joined me, leaving Lysa to be entertained with a servant who began weaving ribbons into her golden curls. “There must be another way.”
“Must there?” I asked, not turning. “My father has made the arrangement. King Valen has accepted. The treaties are signed. Would you have me flee into the night like some frightened maiden from a bard’s tale?”
“If necessary.” The steel in Isolde’s voice finally made me turn.
I exhaled slowly. “And where would I go? Who would shelter the bastard daughter of Vareth when Nocthar came seeking their promised bride?” I shook my head. “Besides, there are advantages to this match.”
“Advantages,” she echoed, the word flat with disbelief. “Mireille, the rumors—“
“Are likely exaggerations.” I cut her off, though I wasn’t entirely convinced myself. “And if not, then perhaps a monster is precisely what Vareth needs as an ally.”
Isolde’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And what of you? What does Mireille need?”
“I need...” The words stuck in my throat. Control. Choice. Power over my own fate. Things that had always eluded me in my father’s court. “I need to matter, Isolde. As more than the king’s shame, hidden in shadows.”
Her eyes softened with understanding. “You have always mattered. To me. To Lysa.”
“I know.” I reached over and clasped her hand, a feeling I would miss more than I dared admit. “But as Queen of Nocthar, perhaps I will finally have a voice that cannot be ignored.”
A servant approached with a silver tray bearing goblets of spiced wine. I took one, just as Isolde’s lips parted as though to argue further—but she held her tongue. She knew me well enough to recognize when my mind was set.
The servant bowed and moved away, leaving the tray within easy reach. I took another sip, savoring the wine’s spice on my tongue.
Isolde touched my arm gently. “If anything goes amiss—“
“I will manage,” I assured her.
Her smile was fleeting but real, an expression so concerned that it warmed me more than the wine ever could. She left my side with reluctance, returning to Lysa, who now sat bedecked with more ribbons than hair.
I would manage. I always had.
The sun had slipped further toward the horizon, the servants moving about the chamber lighting candles in silver sconces.
I examined my reflection, the light making the crimson of my gown look almost black in places, like congealed blood.
Lysa looked to be drifting asleep in her cushioned chair, her small face peaceful in repose.
I envied her that peace, that ability to surrender so completely to dreams.
My own sleep had been fractured since agreeing to this marriage, haunted by visions of a throne built from human bones and a crown that wept tears of blood.
Yet, beneath the fear lurked an anticipation, a hunger to fully face the architect of such terrible rumors and measure myself against him.
I knew he hadn’t yet shown his true form, and when that time came, I would not be a cowering sacrifice but a worthy adversary.
I sipped my wine and watched the servants prepare the final touches of my bridal ensemble. The veil, nearly translucent but dyed the same deep red as the gown, waited on a cushion of black velvet. Beside it lay jeweled combs to secure it, their metal worked into the shape of thorned roses.
How fitting.
My gaze drifted to the door of my chambers, just as it swung open with a force to silence all conversation.
The sudden vacuum of sound made every heartbeat audible as my father, King Aeldrin of Vareth, strode into the room with the commanding presence that had held a kingdom in check for decades.
His dark amber eyes surveyed the scene with the same detached scrutiny he might give a battlefield report.
The servants froze mid-motion before dropping into synchronized curtsies so deep their foreheads nearly touched the floor.
I alone remained upright, though years of conditioned response made my spine stiffen as his gaze settled on me, taking in the Blood King’s crimson offering with an unreadable expression.
In his hands, he carried a small, ornately carved wooden box—something I had never seen before among the royal treasures.
“Leave us,” he commanded. No one dared question him. Servants gathered their supplies with hurried, silent movements, eyes fixed firmly on the floor as they retreated.
Isolde hesitated, her hand protectively on Lysa’s shoulder. The child had stirred at the commotion, her drowsy eyes widening at the sight of her father. “Papa!” she exclaimed with unguarded delight.
Something in my father’s severe expression softened, if only slightly, as he took in his youngest child. “Lady Isolde will take you to prepare for the ceremony,” he said, his voice gentler than I had ever heard it directed toward me. “Your attendants have a special ribbon for your hair.”
This simple statement, delivered with all the gravity of a royal decree, seemed to satisfy Lysa. She slipped her small hand into Isolde’s and allowed herself to be led toward the door, pausing only to look back at me with solemn eyes. “Remember about the cake,” she reminded me seriously.
“I will,” I replied, forcing warmth into my voice despite the tension coiling within me at being left alone with my father.
Isolde met my eyes before stepping past the threshold. “I’ll return shortly to help with the final preparations,” she said, the words carrying a weight beyond their surface meaning. A promise that she would not abandon me to whatever was to come.
The door closed behind them with a finality that echoed in the sudden silence.
My father and I stood like strangers at opposite ends of the room, the crimson fabric of my gown a pool of blood between us.
The crown of Vareth seemed to weigh heavier on his brow—or perhaps it was the burden of whatever had brought him here, on this of all days.
“Nocthar’s choice of bridal colors is... unconventional,” he finally said, stepping further into the room. His steps were measured, deliberate, as though approaching something volatile.