The cathedral bells rang for a funeral, not a wedding.
Lady Seraphine of House Vaelis stood frozen at the altar, her ivory gown pooling like spilled milk across the marble steps. The scent of lilies choked her— her flowers, chosen for their meaning. Purity. Devotion. A lie, just like the man smirking before her.
Crown Prince Tristan held her sister's hand.
Not discreetly. Not accidentally.
Yvaine's fingers—slim and gloved in Seraphine's own wedding lace—curved possessively around Tristan's wrist. The proof dripped from her other hand: a handkerchief embroidered with the royal stag, its antlers stained pink. Spent passion. The crowd's murmurs curdled into laughter.
"Did you think I'd bind myself to a woman with more poison than charm?" Tristan's voice carried, dark cruelty. He flicked the dagger at Seraphine's hip his betrothal gift, now a prop in her humiliation. "The Viper of Vaelis, indeed."
The guards moved in. Seraphine's bridal corset hid vials of wolfsbane and honeyed wine, but her pride left her vulnerable. She lunged—not for Tristan, but for Yvaine.
Her sister's gasp was way sweeter than the wedding cake.
Then came the shackles. The gaoler's leer. The cell that smells of mold and forgotten screams.
A shadow lurks in the corner
"They'll hang you at dawn," said a voice like smoke and shattered glass. A man emerged, gloved fingers toying with Seraphine's discarded veil. "Unless you'd prefer to dance on their graves instead."
Moonlight caught the edge of a blade slid toward her.
Seraphine seized it. "And who are you?"
The stranger smiled." The man who will
make you a queen"