Her veil was white like innocence, but the blood on it was red like betrayal. This was what she dreamt the night before her wedding.
Seraphine stood frozen at the altar, caught between outrage and disbelief as Cedric halted the wedding procession. Her breath caught in her chest, brittle and tight. The weight of her gown pressed down on her like a second skin, heavy and suffocating.
Around her, nobles whispered behind perfumed fans, faces sharp with judgment and interest. Even she felt a strange detachment, as if watching a fire consume a familiar house. What could Cedric say that mattered more than their vows?
Her fiancé, Lord Cedric of House Veylor, stood proudly before the crowd, his voice ringing clear through the golden cathedral.
"This woman is cursed," he declared. "Tainted. I, Cedric, heir of Veylor, revoke my union with her. Let the gods witness it."
Seraphine's blood ran cold.
Before her stood the same man who had knelt at her feet a fortnight ago, pressing kisses to her fingers and promising to wait forever. The man who whispered promises into her hair as they lay tangled in the dark, vowing to protect her from anyone, even her own bloodline.
Or had it all been to strip her of innocence?
Her father did not rise. He stood still as stone, lips pressed in grim approval.
Gasps filled the air. Then silence. Then cruel laughter, as sharp and silken as the town's pride, rattling off the vaulted ceiling.
Cedric's face was a masterpiece of conviction at the altar. Not regret. Not sorrow. Conviction. This betrayal had always lived beneath his skin, waiting to claw out before the entire court. His jaw was firm. His hands steady. Not once did he look at her as he spoke words that undid her future.
Her eyes searched the crowd, desperate for a reassuring smile. Her cousin Ava sat in the front row, eyes cast down, shoulders tense. Lady Mirelle smirked faintly, enjoying the spectacle. A few watched with morbid curiosity, like wolves at a feeding.
Laughter came again, low and amused, slithering like snakes. She felt every glance like knives in her back. If this were a performance, she was both villain and fool.
Her eyes stung with tears she refused to shed. She would not give them that, neither nobles, Cedric, nor her parents.
The grand cathedral, gilded and fragrant with white roses, now felt like a cruel joke. Her own cruel joke.
When the Officiator closed the book, he did so with weariness, as if this had happened before. The nobles always ate their own.
She did not cry. Her gloved hands curled tightly at her sides. Her knuckles burned. Her breath stayed locked in her chest, stubborn. Behind her, her father said nothing. Her mother stared at the floor. Not once did she meet Seraphine's eyes, and when she eventually found her staring, her expression remained tight-lipped, unmoved, the way she looked when Seraphine spoke too loudly at court dinners. As if this had always been inevitable. As if she'd always known she raised a girl the world would want to ruin.
Not one soul stood to defend her.
The Officiator cleared his throat once and said what they all expected. "I can't." No apology followed. I'm sorry might have made her feel better. Or not.
The High Court declared her oath void. The body she shared with the bastard was denied. They mocked her, taunted her, named her the slut of Faedin. Even the gods, it seemed, refused to intervene.
Faedin. A town of power and influence, yet they trampled on her like dirt. Had they always hated her that much? She had known whispers of witchcraft, jokes about burning her if she truly were. Seraphine told herself to be grateful they had not burned her. That might have been the cruelest joke.
Her dowry was returned swiftly to her parents' hands, almost gleefully. Her name was erased from the Veylor ledger before she even left the altar.
The bells did not toll. The procession ended in silence.
***
That evening, no one met her eyes. Servants hurried past as if she carried the plague. Her belongings were removed before nightfall. No carriage, no escort awaited.
Just a single bag. A priest's seal. And one message on parchment rolled in wax:
You are to leave the city by nightfall. You are no longer one of us.
The message was not signed. But the wax bore her family's crest, not Cedric's. Her own parents had sealed her fate.
And so Seraphine, the once-promised lady of Veylor, daughter of the Conveyor of Faedin, was cast into the cursed Vale, a place of ruin and fog, of lost things and condemned souls.
Everyone knew the stories of the Vale. No one knew the truth. She would soon find out.
Her people did not walk her there. They threw her into the dark's waiting arms, and the world moved on as if her soul had never shattered.
On the wagon ride to the Vale, the world blurred in dull streaks of grey and green through rain and distance. Seraphine sat with clenched hands, staring through the barred opening. She hadn't spoken since dismissal. The guards avoided her eyes as if shame were contagious.
The wagon jolted over stones. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from cursing. She tasted blood again.
A small, foolish part imagined Cedric galloping behind, face pale with regret, demanding the wagon stop. That he'd say it was a mistake, that he still loved her.
Cedric was not coming. He had never loved her. He used her until she was inconvenient.
By the time the wagon stopped at the Vale edge beneath a sky bruised with dusk, hope had died its final death.
"Walk," said the guard. He would not meet her eyes.
Seraphine sat frozen for a moment, then stepped down onto wet, uneven earth. Her veil dragged in the dirt like a burial shroud. Satin shoes bled at the soles. Her skin was raw. Her voice, once trained for song, was hoarse from screaming into silence.
They did not watch her go. Of course, they would not want to see what evil had become known as Seraphine.
No prayer. No blessing. No warning. Just fog curling like fingers ready to take her.
She crossed the old boundary marker, an ancient stone etched with faded sigils and dried moss. No priest had dared step beyond in generations. Once she passed it, the air changed. The world grew quieter. The sun seemed to abandon her.
The woods opened like a throat, and she stepped inside willingly.
***
She collapsed beneath a gnarled tree. Her gown was sodden with rain, veil clinging like a shroud. Her arms trembled. Her mouth tasted of tears that had been chewed and spat out by grief, and her throat burned from shouting names; her father's, mother's, Cedric's, until they meant nothing.
She had nothing left. No magic. No allies. Not even her name.
"They called me nothing," she whispered to the earth. "Then let me be nothing."
The ground trembled beneath her palms. The trees stilled. The mist recoiled.
A branch cracked to her left.
She froze, heart pounding.
Beast? Scavenger? Worse?
She turned slowly, breath catching. The fog shifted. Something moved inside.
Skin prickled as if watched by hundreds of unseen eyes. The tree above groaned like old bones.
Something was coming.
Her fists clenched, but she had no weapon. No spell. No magic.
Something was watching her.
Not an animal. Not a man. Something else.
A shape peeled from shadows, darker than night, smoother than silk. Not quite man. Not quite beast. Moving with a will of its own.
"But I see you," came a voice deep as a grave and smooth as sin.
Then the voice emerged.
The 'being' glided, each step soundless. His presence filled the clearing like smoke. Her lungs caught fire.
He stepped forward where the mist curled away from his boots, and stopped a few feet away, letting her drink him in. Now, Seraphine could see him clearly. A tall man cloaked in shadow. Horns spiraled from his brow like polished ivory. His eyes burned like dying coals. His cold smile was ruin made flesh.
This being looked like a horror tale come alive.
"You weep," he said, kneeling beside her. "Shall I offer you something better?"
Seraphine should have screamed.
Should have run.
Should have begged the gods.
But there were no gods here. Only him.
"Who are you?" she breathed. Fear replaced the tears in her eyes. Surely the gods could not be so cruel to grant her death.
"I'm called many names," he said, tilting his head. "But you may call me Lucien, if you like. Or you may call me nothing. I like that, too."
There was something ancient in his voice. Something cruel and careful. She should have been afraid, but instead felt seen, invaded all at once.
"What do you want from me?"
Even before Lucien revealed himself, the air had changed. The silence became intentional. Leaves held their breath, and the wind went quiet.
His clothes were dark, regal and… clean. Horns gleamed in fading light as they retracted and replaced with thick brows. His eyes studied her not with pity, but fascination, as if she were a painting he waited centuries to unveil. Or that was what she thought.
"Want?" He said, his laughter devoid of humor. "No, woman. This is about what you want."
He reached out, fingers cool, strange, familiar. The air around him hummed, dark as night. His monstrous face had changed to that of a gorgeous man.
"I like broken things," he said. "They make loyal companions."
She flinched but did not pull away.
She had nothing. Nothing but fury.
Her mind spun with images: Cedric's smug face. Her mother's downturned gaze. The cold ceremony of erasure. The silence condemning her. The fan snapping shut. Her name erased. Her life rewritten.
"I have nothing left to lose," she whispered.
Lucien's eyes glinted. "Good," he murmured. "That means you're ready."
His hand brushed her cheek. Cold. Familiar. Sinful. Her skin burned where he touched her, not with pain but with purpose.
"Why do you want to help me?" She asked again.
"I know what they did to you," he said softly, like a lover's confession. "I know what they took."
She said nothing.
He crouched, gaze level. "What they don't know," he whispered, "is what you could become."
She looked at him then, really looked. He was beautiful like storms, terrifying, breathtaking, full of danger.
"I don't know who I am anymore," she said, voice barely audible.
Lucien leaned closer. "You are whoever you choose to be. I've been waiting for you to choose."
"Let me make you a bride again," he said. His words wrapped like a spell, sharp, soft, binding. "But this time, to power."
She did not answer at first. Something about him felt like an answer. Her lips trembled. Her veil shifted in the wind like an omen. She looked up at this devil, this shadow, this impossible thing, and saw not a monster, but a doorway. An ending to a new beginning. So when he offered his hand, she did not hesitate. This time, the vow was hers.
Power.
Not protection.
Not pity.
Just power.
"Yes," she said.
The woods closed in behind her.