The wind howled around the black towers of Velmora, echoing through the jagged peaks that surrounded the kingdom like a wall of teeth. Snow fell in slow, whispering drifts, covering blood-stained stone with a thin sheet of purity. It was a land that knew violence and wore it like a crown.
Inside the throne room, King Aldric sat on his iron seat of power — a dark, jagged structure not meant to comfort, only to remind. The firelight flickered low, casting sharp shadows across the stone pillars that flanked the chamber like silent sentinels. Banners of black and crimson hung from the high ceiling, bearing the wolf sigil of Velmora.
The scent of steel and clove smoke lingered in the air.
At the far end of the room, a solitary messenger stood on trembling legs, snow still clinging to his cloak. He had ridden fast, days without sleep, the seal of Kingdom Elareth gripped tightly in his gloved hand.
The chamber held no music. No chatter. No laughter. Only the sound of crackling flames and the slow, deliberate breathing of the guards who lined the walls — soldiers dressed in black and silver, their faces hidden beneath wolf-etched helms.
Aldric did not speak at first. He read the parchment silently, his gloved fingers relaxed, his cold expression unreadable. His raven-black hair hung loose to his shoulders, and his jaw was set like carved stone. His pale, gray eyes drifted across the page with disinterest, as though the paper bore nothing more than another list of names he would soon erase.
Then… he smirked. A slow, amused curl of the lips. Not a smile of pleasure but the kind one gives before tossing a rabbit into a pit of wolves.
"A bride in return for protection?" He smirked again. "Your king wants his daughter dead so soon." His tone was calm but biting. "How generous."
The messenger blinked, uncertain whether he was meant to respond. He remained frozen in his bow, sweat trickling down his back despite the cold.
Aldric rolled the scroll and handed it to his steward. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the armrests of the throne.
"Your king didn't offer the hand of his main princess," Aldric continued, "but the hand of the one he had with a slave." He smirked again, crueler this time. "The insult."
The messenger trembled so hard his knees nearly buckled. His whole life flashed before his eyes, convinced his dead body would be sent back to Elareth — or worse, thrown to the wolves.
Aldric noticed the fear. And he savored it.
"Tell your king I accept his proposal," Aldric said, voice smooth as frost. "I will take his daughter, this… ghost-girl no one dares name — as my bride. Let them dress her in white, as a proper princess. Let them send her to my gates. I will welcome her."
The messenger bowed even lower, murmuring frantic words of gratitude, then fled with his life intact — a rare gift in Velmora.
Behind Aldric, two women sat, flanking his throne like silent queens.
On his left, Queen Virelda, the first wife — tall, regal, with hair like spilled ink and skin pale as polished ivory. Her gown was wine-red, embroidered with threads of obsidian. She sipped her goblet slowly, every inch of her body composed like a statue carved from desire and danger. Her expression remained unchanged, but her narrowed eyes followed the parchment as it was passed away.
On his right, Queen Selene, the second wife, more tempestuous — golden-haired, dull green-eyed, with lips too red and a temper too thin. Her hand clenched around the armrest of her chair, knuckles whitening beneath her rings. She smiled outwardly, her lips curved with practiced grace, but her heart roared beneath her ribs.
This new girl — this Aurora — would not be welcome.
Selene's thoughts boiled like blood in a cauldron.
Another wife? From that gilded kingdom of cowards? What audacity does she have to think she can share my husband? To walk into Velmora with silk and innocence and think it will protect her? She will suffer. I will make certain of it.
She cast a sideways glance toward Virelda, who had not said a word. Virelda remained poised, unreadable, but Selene sensed the simmer beneath that stillness. Neither of them appreciated surprises — especially ones wearing crowns.
Aldric did not look at either woman. He simply rose to his feet, his tall figure commanding instant silence in the room, though no one had spoken.
"Have her chamber prepared," he ordered. "Cold stone and no fire. Let her feel our welcome. And let's see how long the protection for their kingdom lasts."
The guards bowed and dispersed, armored boots echoing like distant thunder.
Aldric descended the throne steps slowly, his black cloak trailing behind him. As he passed Selene, she tilted her head and asked in a voice light as sugar.
"And what name does this new flower carry, Your Majesty?"
Aldric paused, amusement glinting coldly in his eyes.
"Aurora," he said. "A name for dawn. How poetic."
Selene's smile sharpened. She murmured, "We'll see how long she shines."
As the wind screamed louder and snow lashed at the towers, the servant girls of Velmora prepared a chamber in the far eastern wing — a cold, drafty room where warmth did not linger. Straw was laid. The bedding was rough. No firewood was given.
There were no songs. No feasts. No gifts.
Only cold stone… and the howls of wolves.
******************
Elareth Kingdom...….
The day began like any other and that was the cruelest part of all.
The morning air was cold and damp, seeping through the cracks in the stable walls. Aurora knelt by the back stall, her thoughts a tangled storm. She had barely slept since Mama Gwen's confession. Her eyes were swollen, her mind aching. She scrubbed the stone floor without seeing it, her hands raw from the work, her movements mechanical.
Her gray dress was soaked at the hem, and her white hair — usually tied neatly — had slipped loose from its braid, strands falling into her face with every motion.
She had been up before sunrise. The horses stirred restlessly around her, snorting and stamping, hooves echoing against wood and stone. Aurora preferred their company to that of most humans; at least the animals didn't look at her like she was a mistake.
The smell of straw, sweat, and soap clung to her skin — familiar, almost comforting. This was her world. A world that made sense. The palace gardens, the grand corridors, the velvet-draped chambers — those belonged to others, not her.
Suddenly, the stable door creaked open.
She didn't look up. She assumed it was another kitchen boy or the old steward checking feed.
But then she heard it — the sharp, deliberate click of polished boots. Not the heavy clank of a guard, but something official… precise.
A man cleared his throat behind her.
"Aurora."
She froze. He spoke her name as though he owned it.
Slowly, she turned.
Standing in the doorway was Sir Elric, one of the royal stewards. His attire was immaculate — He was neatly dressed, bearing the gold and black sash of palace authority. Two guards stood behind him, still as statues. Their attention wasn't on the horses.
They were watching her.
"The King summons you," Sir Elric said. "Now."
Aurora blinked, confusion sharpening into fear. Her fingers trembled, still wet with soap.
"I… I don't understand."
"Wash. Dress. You are to be brought before the royal council."
The words slammed into her chest.
The council?
Her pulse hammered.
What have I done? Did the queen speak? Did someone accuse me? Is it my turn to die like my mother?
Her breath hitched, "Why? I—I always obey the rules. I haven't done anything wrong."
Sir Elric didn't answer. He simply turned and walked away, leaving the cold door open behind him.
Minutes later, Aurora found herself being led through halls she had only cleaned — never crossed as a guest. Her hair had been tied back hastily, and though she'd changed her dress, the fabric still smelled faintly of lye.
As she passed through the marbled corridors, servants paused to stare. Some looked away quickly. Others whispered behind their hands.
She heard her name — not loudly, but sharply enough to sting.
At the tall double doors of the throne hall, guards pulled them open. Aurora stepped in, feeling the weight of her own heartbeat.
Inside sat King Rael, the Queen, and the entire royal council. Evelyn sat to one side, her beauty ice-cold. Magnus stood behind their father, stiff and expressionless.
Aurora bowed immediately.
"Your Majesty," she whispered, barely managing the words.
The Queen was the first to speak.
"Rise, child."
She rose slowly, her legs trembling beneath her.
King Rael cleared his throat, though he barely met her gaze. "You are here," he said, discomfort thick in his voice, "because your kingdom needs you."
Aurora blinked, confused.
"I… I don't understand, Your Majesty."
The Queen smiled gently — too gently, her sweetness sharp as a blade.
"You are of royal blood, Aurora," she said. "And though your station has not reflected that, destiny now calls you to serve it. There is a king," she paused delicately, "a mighty one. From the North. He has agreed to take you as his bride."
The words struck her harder than any blow.
"Bride?" Aurora whispered, her voice cracking. Her knees nearly buckled beneath her.
"To King Aldric of Velmora," Lord Ronwyn added, voice flat.
Aurora's breath vanished. Everyone knew the name. The king who burned villages. The king who fed prisoners to wolves. The man whose footsteps echoed like death.
"Why… why me?" she whispered.
Evelyn smirked cruelly.
The Queen leaned forward, eyes soft but hollow. "Because you are chosen. This is a great honor, Aurora. You are saving us all."
No—saving you? What about me? she thought bitterly. Being framed and killed would have been kinder than being given to the King of Velmora.
But she said nothing. Her fate had been written before she was old enough to protest it. Tears slipped down her cheeks despite her effort to hold them back.
The King nodded to Ronwyn.
"Prepare the carriage."
Then, to Aurora, softer but not kinder
"You will leave… tomorrow."
The court was dismissed.
—
Mistress Hala, the royal seamstress, tried to be gentle — she truly did. She was an older woman with soft eyes and hands that moved like silk.
Aurora stood silently in a chamber she had never entered, a room filled with gilded mirrors and velvet stools, the kind meant for royal daughters.
Mistress Hala worked with care, measuring her shoulders.
"They requested white," she murmured, "to match your hair. And silver embroidery. Wolves, I believe — Velmoran symbols."
Aurora didn't answer. She stared at herself in the mirror, a pale girl with snow-white hair, barefoot, shoulders trembling under the weight of a half-finished gown.
"You've never worn silk before, have you?" Hala asked softly.
Aurora gave a small, broken shake of her head.
"You'll be beautiful," the seamstress whispered kindly.
"I don't want to be," Aurora whispered back.
Silence settled. Hala didn't push her.
Later, as the woman adjusted the neckline, Aurora spoke again — her voice low, almost afraid of itself.
"What did my mother look like?"
Mistress Hala paused, needle in hand.
"She looked like you," she said softly. "But her eyes… they were gentler."
Aurora swallowed hard, blinking tears away.
Then the door creaked.
Evelyn stepped in — her presence sweeping the warmth from the room like a cold gust. She inspected the gown, then Aurora.
"You'll wear it well," she said. "At least until your husband decides to stain it."
Aurora's hands tightened at her sides.
"You know," Evelyn added lightly, "some women dream of marrying kind kings. But I suppose dreaming was never your luxury."
She turned to leave then looked back with a wicked curve of her lips.
"Don't die too quickly. Velmora women like to play first." She chuckled and walked out.
The moment the door shut, Aurora broke. Silent tears streamed down her face as her chest heaved with contained sobs.
⸻
The sun rose slowly over the hills of Elareth the next morning, touching palace rooftops with fleeting gold as though the world itself hesitated to say goodbye.
The palace was quiet. Deathly quiet.
Aurora stood in the courtyard, dressed in the white gown that shimmered like frost. The silver embroidery glinted sharply in the morning light, too beautiful for the fate it symbolized. Her hair cascaded in gentle waves, unbound yet regal, with a silver circlet adorned with a blue crystal resting atop her head.
It felt like a funeral crown.
Around her stood guards, horses, and the covered carriage with the royal seal. No one spoke to her. No one even pretended to care.
Her few possessions — barely enough to fill a small wooden trunk were already loaded. Nothing personal. Nothing precious.
Just the scraps the palace was willing to spare.
At the courtyard steps stood the royal family, watching from a distance as though she carried a disease.
The King did not approach. The Queen wore black — not in mourning, but in mockery. Evelyn watched with a bored expression. Magnus stood stiff, avoiding her eyes completely.
No goodbyes. Not even a whisper of regret.
Only one person broke the silence.
Miri, a servant girl who had grown alongside Aurora — never close enough to call sister, but kind enough to feel like one.
She rushed forward quickly before the guards could stop her and pressed something small and wrapped into Aurora's hand. A soft cloth bundle.
"It's dried herbs," Miri whispered. "For nausea… and sleep. I-I don't know what you'll face there. But please… stay alive, Aurora."
Aurora couldn't speak. She only nodded, clutching the bundle with shaking fingers.
Then she climbed into the carriage.
The doors closed with a dull, final thud.
Outside, the wheels began to turn, hooves striking stone as the procession moved forward.
As soon as the chariot left the palace gates, Queen Isadora ordered music to be played — drums and horns echoing over the walls in celebration of Velmora's protection. Servants raised Velmora's flag alongside Elareth's, proudly displaying their submission.
The King slipped inside. The lords followed. The servants returned to their duties.
Aurora, inside the carriage, heard the distant drums. A twisted parade marking the beginning of her sacrifice.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She didn't even blink hard.
But inside… she was a storm of trembling waves.
Fear coiled in her stomach like a living thing. Every tree they passed, every bend in the road, carried her farther from the only home she'd ever known — and closer to a kingdom that feasted on fear.
The sky turned from gold to gray as they crossed the border of Elareth.
Days passed.
Aurora slept little. She ate even less. When offered food or wine, she took only enough to remain upright. The guards rarely spoke, except for stiff updates;
"We camp here."
"Another day to Velmora."
They looked at her strangely — unsure if she was a princess or a prisoner.
On the third night, they crossed into Velmoran lands.
The air grew darker. The trees thicker. Snow drifted in soft flakes despite the calendar insisting it was spring. Wolves howled in the distance — long, mournful cries that echoed like the kingdom's welcome song.
Aurora sat by the campfire, warming her hands but never her heart. Her gown was stained, her boots caked with mud, yet her posture remained unbroken. She would not falter. Not here. Not yet.
She thought of her mother—what little she had ever heard. A servant. A war slave from another kingdom. A woman who had died unjustly. Tears threatened to spill, but she blinked them back.
The guards would surely report everything about the journey to Queen Isadora, and Aurora would not give her the satisfaction of knowing she had cried or faltered.
On the seventh day, the mountains appeared — jagged and merciless, stabbing the horizon.
Then she saw the gates.
Massive, spiked, and carved from black stone. Towering statues of wolves guarded the entrance, their stone fangs bared in warning.
The carriage slowed. Aurora lifted the curtain… and the breath left her lungs.
Velmora.
A kingdom carved from winter and teeth.
Snow cloaked every surface. Barren trees crouched like wounded soldiers. The castle towered like a living shadow, its spires curled like claws.
And waiting before the gates, surrounded by armored guards, sat a man on horseback.
King Aldric.
He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He simply watched, as though studying a creature brought to him in a cage.
As the carriage stopped, a guard opened the door, and Aurora stepped down into the biting cold.
Wind whipped her hair and dress around her body, making her look like a white flame against the darkness.
Aldric dismounted slowly, boots crunching over snow as he approached her. Close enough for her to feel the cold radiating from him — colder than the wind itself.
"So," he said, voice low and edged, "this is the daughter they tried to bury."
Aurora swallowed hard, unable to speak.
He stepped closer, his eyes scanning her with unsettling calm, "Not what I expected."
She lowered her gaze respectfully — not out of submission, but to hide the fear burning in her eyes.
Her silence was her armor.
Aldric let the silence linger. Then, without another word, he turned and gestured for her to follow.
She hesitated, just for a heartbeat.
Then she stepped after him.
Through the gates. Into the fortress. Into the jaws of fate.