Chapter 19 Velvet Dread
Velvet Dread
Iwake on Sunday braced for war. For footsteps outside my door. For a summons. For a command delivered with a voice that doesn’t care whether I’m ready.
I dress slowly, deliberately, like someone bracing for impact.
So when the announcement comes that the king has chosen Mariel as his companion, I don’t understand it at first.
Not me. Not Seraphina.
I don’t know which of us is most surprised, especially given the way Seraphina paraded through the halls yesterday afternoon, her laughter loud and laced with wine, her hand looped through the king’s arm like a queen who already won her crown.
The relief hits a heartbeat later. Sharp. Disorienting. Almost painful.
He didn’t force me.
And that frightens me more than anything else.
At lunch, Seraphina holds court with all the smugness of a conquering monarch.
“He took me to the hot springs,” she announces wistfully, swirling her glass like it’s laced with liquid diamonds. “Said the heat reminded him of my spirit.”
Her smile turns sharp. Deliberate. “And yes,” she adds smugly, “we did. Multiple times. And he still wanted more.”
Her meaning is unmistakable. It isn’t the first boast I’ve heard from her this week, and I know it won’t be the last.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then Vivian breaks the silence. “Then why’d he choose Mariel for Sunday?”
Her voice is soft, almost careless, but the question lands like a blade on porcelain.
Seraphina stiffens. “Excuse you?”
Vivian lifts her gaze slowly, calm as still water. “If you and the king had such an unforgettable time, I just figured he wouldn’t have asked you to leave.”
The snicker escapes my throat before I can stop it, making me almost choke on my tea.
Seraphina’s gaze snaps to me—sharp, assessing. Dangerous.
I meet it without flinching, then look back down at my plate, uninterested in the outcome.
If she wants to brag about sleeping with the king, what do I care?
All I want is to survive these trials, break this wretched curse, and go home.
That evening, I find Mariel sitting by the firelight in her room, brushing her hair in long, careful strokes. The flames catch on the strands, turning her dark curls to living embers. She looks up when I enter, her face unreadable.
“Well?” I ask.
“‘Well’ what?” she responds, looking confused for a split second before bursting into laughter.
I roll my eyes and take a seat in the chair beside her. She offers me some tea, which I politely refuse, remembering my near-death experience this morning.
“We drank jasmine tea,” she says after a while, “and walked the garden paths. He asked me about my village. My family. My dreams.”
A long pause.
“And you.”
I blink. “Me?”
Mariel nods, her voice quieter now. “He wanted to know how you saved us during the first Trial. Asked what books we had been getting lately from the library, and if there was anything we might need to further our research.” She hesitates, then adds, “He explained that while the curse prevents him from helping directly, he can aid us in other ways.”
I wrap my arms around myself, unsure whether to feel flattered or unsettled.
Maybe he’s gathering information. Maybe I’m a puzzle he intends to solve. Or maybe he just wants to understand me.
And I hate that part of me wants to be understood.
On Tuesday morning, Elena floats into the dining hall like a goddess from a fever dream—her hair tousled, her lips freshly painted, the collar of her silk robe slipping suggestively off one shoulder.
“He called me his temptation,” she purrs, letting the words roll slowly off her tongue. “He said I taste like pomegranate wine. And before you ask—yes. He couldn’t get enough.”
Cassy nearly chokes on her stew. Mariel lifts her cup pointedly.
I stare at my bowl. The stew’s gone cold, and so has my appetite.
Elena preens herself, thriving under the attention. But her eyes keep darting to Seraphina, like she’s trying to one-up her. Like all of this is a game.
And maybe it is.
Maybe that’s all it’s ever meant to be.
That evening, Cassy returns with pink cheeks and a tray of leftover pastries wrapped in a handkerchief embroidered with the royal crest.
“We played cards,” she says with a shy smile. “He let me win the last hand. I think.” She starts nibbling on a cherry tart like she’s not quite sure she’s allowed to enjoy it.
Cassy swallows, a shy smile tugging at her lips.
“He was kind,” she continues, then hesitates, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the handkerchief. “He asked me about my home. About my family.”
Her voice softens. “When I told him about the shortages in the West—the failed harvests, the children going without—he said he’d speak to Arther. That if there was a way to send aid, he would. Then, he gave me some pastries and said our day was up.”
Her words echo in my mind like a note from another song entirely.
Kind.
It doesn’t match the king I met in the garden, nor the one who kissed my cheek like it meant something. The one who nearly stole my breath with a crumb and a gaze and a voice that made my bones forget how to hold me up.
It doesn’t match Seraphina’s version, either. None of it does.
That night, curled up with a book by the fire in my chamber, Vivian speaks for the first time in days.
“He visited me, you know,” she says quietly, not looking up. “When I was recovering. He brought me some tea and a stack of books. He gave me a blanket he said belonged to his mother.”
Mariel arches a brow. “That’s… oddly personal.”
Vivian shrugs. “He didn’t stay long. Just… sat beside me while I read. Didn’t touch me, didn’t even sit on the bed. It was gentle, like an old friend. I didn’t expect that.”
None of us did, especially not after Seraphina’s parade. The king is either playing a very long, very clever game…
Or he’s not who we thought he was.
Each of us seems to have met a different man, a different shade of him. Mariel’s king is quiet and curious. Cassy’s, kind and unassuming. Vivian’s is soft-spoken and strangely tender. Seraphina’s king is indulgent. Elena’s, ravenous.
And mine? I don’t know yet. But I feel him in the walls. In the magic. In the silence he leaves behind when I reach for one of those muffins and realize I’m no longer alone in the kitchen.
And each day that passes peels back another layer of him—and of me.
I don’t know what to believe anymore. But I know one thing.
Tomorrow is Wednesday. My day.
My night.
And despite everything I said—despite the way I looked him in the eye and claimed I didn’t want any of it—I don’t think he’ll force me. Not now.
He waited. He gave me space and honored my refusal. And that frightens me more than anything.
Because I was braced for battle, braced to be claimed, cornered, and conquered. But I wasn’t braced for kindness. For restraint. For the taste of something real.
And now, in the absence of force… I want to go.
I want to know which version of the king I’ll meet. I want to know if he’ll touch me the same way he looked at me in the kitchen.
I want. And I hate that I want.
The last few days have passed like ghosts, each wandering the keep, cloaked in velvet dread.
Soft, slow, tense beneath the surface. A courtship stretched over broken bones.
We pretend it’s normal, this strange new rhythm.
One girl per day. One night to make an impression.
As if we’re part of a love story instead of a curse.
“Find the truth and unlock the past before the crimson glow has passed,” I whisper into the dark.
And then I see it lying across my bed.
A gown.
Crimson silk, cut to catch the firelight. Its bodice is boned and sculpted, trimmed in jet-black beading that glints like stars. The sleeves are sheer and whisper-soft. The silver-threaded embroidery that lines the hem is shaped like thorns and wings.
A dragon.
Beside it, a note written in an embellished hand:
Wear this tomorrow.
—K
It’s beautiful. Too beautiful. And that’s exactly why I won’t wear it.
Because he’s trying to understand me. He’s trying to see me. And if I let him—if I wear this—I think he just might succeed.
So instead… I fold it carefully and leave it right where I found it.
Let him wonder.
After Cassy falls asleep, the rest of us retire to our chambers.
But I can’t sleep. Eventually, I slip out and wander the endless halls cloaked in darkness.
I’m not afraid; I’ve faced death too many times already, and even if I win the Bloodmoon Trials, even if I break the curse, it seems unlikely the dragon will let me escape this place alive.
I long for a hall that leads to the gardens, but lately the keep seems to have shifted to keep us all trapped inside. Even a few moments of fresh air would be enough to ease my mind.
I walk quietly for a while longer, reminiscing about the ranch.
The night here, deep in the keep, is too quiet, too empty of the braying of livestock, the drone of insects, the soft hooting of hunting owls.
But when I turn back toward my room, a breeze kisses the exposed skin of my collarbone.
I stop in my tracks, searching for the source of the draft.
To my right hangs a red-and-black tapestry depicting a dragon mid-flight, breathing fire—the royal crest. I step closer, my fingers brushing the threads along the dragon’s underbelly. It’s cold. Too cold.
And… moving.
I push my hand into the tapestry and find nothing solid behind it. Pulling it aside, I unveil a hidden archway leading to a corridor I’ve never seen before.
I should go back to my room. Sleep. Prepare for tomorrow.
But the darkness beckons.
I step through the passage and emerge onto a ledge carved high into the mountainside.
Below, the valley stretches out before me.
I sit at the edge, feet dangling, letting the wind tousle my hair.
I’ve never feared heights. In my dreams, I always imagined jumping rather than falling—diving down and flying, arms stretched wide like wings.
Then comes the growl, rattling and ancient. I turn to see a great shadow soaring toward me.
The dragon.
I leap to my feet and bolt for the passage, but a blast of wind from his wings sends me sprawling. The beast lands with terrifying grace, blocking the archway, his massive form blotting out the stars.
I back away slowly, heart hammering, as he stalks forward like a predator toying with its prey. I’d be a fool to think that saving me from the lake monster means he won’t devour me now.
My nightdress catches on the heel of my boot, and I fall onto my backside—hard.
The dragon lets out a sound—half-growl, half… chuckle. He dips his head low, golden eyes burning into mine, his maw parting just enough to reveal razor-sharp teeth and a faint red glow deep in his throat.
“Come to finish me off yourself, have you?” I accuse, forcing myself to meet his gaze defiantly.
As if in reply, he roars. The reverberations rattle the ground. My eardrums throb as I scramble back to my feet and dig my heels into the stone, refusing to back down.
Bracing myself, I roar back. If this is my end, I’ll meet it with fire.
The great beast only tilts his head, golden eyes narrowing.
“Well?” I scream. “What are you waiting for? Go on—get it over with! Kill me!”
The dragon steps forward again, the sheer force of his weight shaking the ledge and knocking me clean off my feet. I hit the ground with a gasp, pain blooming across my back.
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. In four. Hold four. Out four. Kat taught me that.
Kat.
Will I never see her again? A tear slips from my eye and darkens the stone beneath me.
Then comes a huff of smoke, followed by a rumble that sounds almost like a laugh. His foul breath smacks me in the face, making me cough and sputter.
“If I wanted you dead, mortal,” the beast rumbles, “I would have let the kraken eat you.”
My eyes fly open. “You can speak?” I breathe. “How?”
He snorts. “Dragons were creating languages and composing songs long before humans ever walked this earth. Now get away from that ledge.”
Everything in my body aches, but I push myself to my feet.
“And wipe that stunned look off your face,” he hisses. “A mortal clever enough to win the first Trial should already know dragons are capable of speech.”
I obey. “Why did you save me from the lake monster?”
“Kraken,” he corrects me.
“Sorry,” I say, still stunned. “Kraken.”
The dragon takes a deep breath and lets out a sigh of steam and ash.
“Never has the Trial spat a bride out beyond the palace gardens,” he says. “After the human king told me you’d won but hadn’t emerged, he sent me looking for you.”
So, the king sent him. But why? This is the same beast that murdered countless girls, girls from my home. This isn’t just a mindless animal; it’s a thinking, speaking killer. A true monster.
“You’re going to burn a hole through my scales with that stare.” Another burst of smoke. “What have I done to earn such ire, little flame?”
“You killed a girl seven years ago.”
“I’ve killed many,” he says evenly, unfazed. “I remember few.”
“She was my cousin.”
He flicks his tail in agitation.
“Why not just kill us all? Why bring anyone back alive?” I demand. “I remember how you tore Taryn apart. How you crushed Awnya and let her fall to her death.”
“They were weak. Their screams… annoying. They would not have survived the first Trial. It was an act of mercy.”
My hands clench at my sides. “And my cousin Liora? She was strong. Brave. Kind. She should have lived. But you burned her to ash.”
His growl deepens. “Careful, human. You’ve proven… entertaining. But apart from my ties to the human king, I care little whether you live or die.”
“I would expect nothing less from a monster who enjoys murdering innocent girls.” I fire back.
“I take no pleasure in killing the truly innocent,” he says, flicking his tail in agitation.
“Then why?”
He regards me for a long moment. “Strange little human,” he finally muses. “So unlike the others. I’ve enjoyed our conversation. But it’s time for you to return to your room. You’ll want to be well-rested for your day with the king.”
“I don’t care. Tell me the truth. You at least owe me that.”
“I owe you nothing, mortal!” he snaps, his golden eyes flaring like an inferno. “Now, return to your room before I make you my midnight snack.”
The edge in his voice is enough to send a chill crawling down my spine. I hurry past the archway, feeling the dragon’s amber, catlike eyes burning holes into my back as I climb the steps and disappear back into the darkness of the keep.