They didn't ask if I wanted to marry him.
They only asked how much I was willing to lose.
The hall was colder than I imagined — and I'd imagined it a thousand times. Its silence wasn't peaceful. It was heavy, watchful, the kind of silence that comes just before something breaks.
They dressed me in silver — not white, not gold. Silver, like moonlight on a blade. The color of surrender. The color of mourning. The color brides wore when they didn't expect to survive the night.
My hands trembled inside the sleeves of the ceremonial robe. I hoped no one noticed. Especially him.
Lucien.
The cursed prince.
The heir they feared more than the gods themselves.
He stood at the altar like a shadow carved from winter — tall, still, and dressed in black formal robes etched with thread the color of old blood. A long cloak draped over one shoulder, held by a wolf-shaped pin. He didn't wear a crown. He didn't need to.
His eyes were the first thing I noticed when I dared to look.
Not silver, as the rumors claimed. Not entirely. They were the color of stormlight — pale, unnatural, and terrifyingly calm. As if nothing in the room could surprise him. As if he had already seen how this would end.
I felt the chill the moment our eyes met.
Not just in the room — in my skin. My bones. My breath.
Like something ancient inside him had looked up… and recognized me.
They say his touch kills slowly.
They say the curse coils through his blood like smoke, waiting to burn the heart of any woman foolish enough to love him.
And here I was — walking toward him like a girl led to her execution.
The priest began the binding rite. I barely heard the words. My thoughts raced, not with doubt — it was too late for doubt — but with grief.
Grief for the girl I had been yesterday. The one who had choices. The one who still believed she might fall in love the way stories promised.
I would never know what Lucien's laughter sounded like.
I didn't know what scared him.
I didn't even know what he looked like when he wasn't trying to look like stone.
I only knew this:
He had buried three wives.
And I was number four.
"Do you, Amara of Thornevale, accept the binding vow?" the priest asked.
Lucien didn't move. Didn't blink.
Didn't even breathe, as far as I could tell.
I tried to find his voice in that silence. Tried to imagine what kind of man agreed to this marriage knowing it might kill her.
He was not cruel.
But I didn't think he was kind, either.
He was… cold. Heavy. Like fate had sculpted him from a tombstone.
Still, I spoke.
Still, I said it.
"I do."
The room reacted instantly. The torches sputtered, burning low with blue fire. A gust of air circled the hall, lifting the hem of my veil like invisible hands.
The curse had heard me.
And in that moment, I understood:
I was no longer a daughter.
No longer a healer.
No longer free.
I was his bride.
And something — in this world or another — had just claimed me.