Cesaalie sat on the floor, below her window. And suddenly the door creaked open, but it wasn't the time for food or bath either. Cessalie was confused. Her spine straightener and she alerted, eyes falling on the whip hung on wall for a second before landing back on door.
She pushed herself more to the wall as if she could dig into wall and hide, her eyes narrowed.
Her mother stood there.
Elysande's silhouette filled the doorway, soft blush-toned hair braided neatly over one shoulder, eyes too bright for the dim room. She looked… exhausted, old than she was supposed to like life in this house had leeched ten years from her in one.
Cessalie thought, What the hell does she want?
Elysande stepped inside quietly, heels barely tapping against the cold floor. In her arms was a bundle of rich silk...pastel blue, embroidered with delicate gold thread. One of those dainty dresses Cessalie despised, the kind that cinched too tight at the waist, the kind made for girls who sat still, smiled pretty and obeyed.
Her mother laid them down at the foot of the bed like she had every right to be here.
"You should get ready," she said. Her voice wasn't cold but it wasn't warm, either. Just… distant and detached like they were strangers sharing a room.
Cessalie's hands curled into fists in her lap, but she stayed quiet.
Elysande's eyes drifted to the bandages wrapping her arms. Her lips tightened for half a second.
"There's a healer in the bath chamber if you want the rest of the wounds treated," she added.
Cessalie didn't ask why she needed to get ready and why even healers were here in the first place. They always left her to rot and heal herself.
Elysande told her anyway.
"Duke Davian is coming to meet you."
Her stomach sank. Her mother threw the brick at her without any warning and care.
No Are you alright? or Do you want to do this?
Just Here's the man you're being sold to, darling. Smile pretty.
She shot to her feet, walking over to Elysande, anger lighting every nerve like fire. "Are you serious?"
Elysande flinched. It was a reflex built from years of bracing for shouts but still her expression stayed the same.
"Your father wants no indiscipline."
Cessalie let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Oh no, can't have that. Wouldn't want the Duke's perfect reputation ruined by his unruly, useless daughter."
Her mother's gaze dropped to the floor.
And then, softer than Cessalie expected, almost fragile, "Be obedient, Cessalie. Keep your wounds covered."
She turned to leave.
Cessalie's control snapped. She gritted her teeth and took a step closer to Elysande.
"Why did you even come here?" Her voice cracked with fury. "To play mother? Or just to make sure I don't embarrass you when the man I didn't ask for shows up?"
Elysande stopped in the doorway. She didn't turn or argue. She didn't even pretend Cessalie was wrong.
She just stood there.
And for one second, Cessalie saw it. The pain buried under that tired, composed blank face. But Cessalie was very angry and agitated that she was not able to comprehend her mother's pain because according to her, Elysande had trapped herself in that trap.
But the next second, Cessalie almost… almost felt bad.
But no.
To her silence was never love. It never had been. Silence was surrender.
Her mother left the door open behind her. Cessalie understood it was a message.
Dress up.
Obey.
Hide the bruises.
And step out the room to thrown into another prison.
Cessalie stared at the pile of dresses like they were chains, not fabric.
She wanted to tear them apart, ripp the delicate silk into ribbons with her bare hands. But what would that change? They'd just send more. Hell, they'd send someone to dress her if she refused, like she was a doll too broken to move on her own.
So she picked the least revolting one. A muted gray-blue gown with tight long sleeves and soft gold embroidery, fitted at the waist and fflowing at the bottom. The kind that made you look elegant and harmless, exactly where you didn't want to belong.
The fabric was soft against her skin. It clung to the healing lashes beneath, dragging over the tender marks on her back like the silk itself was warning her.
Cessalie moved to the mirror above the dresser, the same one with a faint crack splintering the top corner from the last time Cyrion hit her head against it.
The scar on her cheek stared back at her, reminding her not to speak up again.
She grabbed the powder and concealer, pressing them into her skin until the angry pinkness dulled. Then light careful circles with the brush, a little blush to distract. If it waes too much, and they'd think she wanted him.
Her hair came down next. It fell past her shoulders, falling around hips, like a sheet of silk. She put no pins or jewels. She styled her hair swept back from forehead to back in waves.
Cessalie stared at her reflection for a long second. The hollowed-eyed unfamiliar girl in the mirror stared back.
Maybe he won't recognize me, she thought. Maybe neither of them will.
Cessalie sat there for a long time, waiting for someone to come take her.
After sometime, the door creaked open again, slower this time. It wasn't her mother. It was Gini, head bowed, voice soft as ever.
"It's time, my lady."
There was nothing else to say. Cessalie stood without a word, the silk of her gown whispering against itself as she moved. Two guards hovered outside the door, like they expected her to bolt at any second.
And honestly, if the windows in this wing weren't locked, maybe she would've tried.
They didn't speak, just flanked her as she walked, a prisoner being marched to her trial.
Corridor after corridor passed by. Cold stone, towering arches, heavy velvet curtains, scent of old perfume and dust lingered in the air, like every woman who walked these halls before her had left behind all the words they weren't allowed to speak.
The tapestries, the carved doors, the sparkling chandeliers Cessalie didn't look twice.The rest of the day, she would stare intently at these walls as if she were seeing them for the first time, because she was actually locked in her room more than half the time. Every single potrait, lantern, pattern on the pillar, the blue sky outside the window, the green grass and the palace door beyond which she never went...seeing all this was like a wonderful story for her.
But today, these were just walls leading to another cage.
To Davian.
Duke Davian Aurelthorn was twenty-seven and also a widower. His wife had been dead for barely four months now. Before her death, they were married for four years.
They'd called it illness. That she suffered from some illness that was too severe to be treated, but Cessalie did not believe this because she had met the late Dravein Duchess only a month before her death. And then she was sad, but not sick. There was a dullness on her face that clearly indicated she was suffering from some trouble.
Delicate, my ass, she scoffed internally.
She knew what delicate women looked like in this house and when they broke under the pressure. They were simply called tragic.
Cessalie didn't know Davian beyond whispers. He was a Duke, member of the Royal Court and one of those elites who stood beside the Crown and decided how the Valkathra turned.
Peoe said he wasn't cruel, he was composed, honorable and a man who never raised his voice, even with the power to destroy.
But even quiet men carried knives, they just hid them better.
Still… a small, dangerous part of her hoped he wasn't like the others... he wasn't like Cyrion. But hopeope was stupid, douubt was safer.
The last door finally came into view.
Gini slowed, eyes flicking to Cessalie like she wanted to whisper good luck, but even that felt too dangerous in this house.
Cessalie didn't wait for her to open it. She just nodded once.
Let's get this over with, she took a deep deep breathe.
The door creaked open slowly dragging silence along with it. The kind of silence that pressed against your ears, where even the flicker of candlelight sounded loud.
And there he was.
Duke Davian Aurelthorn. He stood by the window, tall and composed, back to the room like he was painted into some tragic portrait. The afternoon sun spilled in, casting a gold outline along the sharp edge of his cheekbone, highlighting a jawline too clean.. His suit was all black , no embroidery, no fuss , just sharp lines and expensive tailoring that clung to his lean, athletic frame like it belonged there.
Everything about him screamed control. The way he stood, spine straight, hands clasped loosely behind him, not rigid, but not careless. He didn't slouch.
When he turned, it was slow, like nothing and no one rushed him.
His eyes landed on her, and it took every ounce of defiance Cessalie had not to shrink under that stare. Deep brown, nearly black, but not cold not warm either. It was thee kind of gaze that observed a person thoroughly.
He was handsome, devastatingly so, in a way that made people forget how to breathe. But there was something else too, carved into his face like grief that refused to fade, like time had aged him in places the rest of the world couldn't see.
Cessalie didn't bow. She just stood there.
"Lady Cessalie, you're here." He smiled.
Cessalie did not return it. She inclined her head slightly, her gaze on him.
Davian gestured toward the sofa opposite him. "Please, sit."
She obeyed without hesitation and lowered herself onto the edge of the cushion, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. She did not look away from him. He took the seat across from her and poured water from the jug into a glass before sliding it across the table in her direction.
She did not reach for it.
"You have grown, Lady," Davian remarked, settling back, both hands resting on the armrests.
"Is that not ob—" Cessalie stopped herself. The word hovered at the edge of her tongue. She forced it back down. She could not afford to sound sharp with a man who could repeat her words to her father.
She drew a quiet breath. "Yes, Your Grace."
He chuckled.
The sound caught her off guard. Her eyes widened slightly as she looked at him. She had expected displeasure, but not amusement.
Embarrassment pricked at her. "Your Grace," she said carefully, "what is so amusing?"
"You are precisely as you were when I saw you on your eighteenth birthday," he replied, a trace of laughter still in his voice.
Cessalie frowned. She had no recollection of meeting him that night. In fact, her birthday feast had ended early for her. She had struck a man who tried to place his hand where it did not belong, and she had been sent back to her chamber before the evening ended.
"I do not remember meeting you," she said.
"I am aware," Davian answered. He lifted a hand to his chin, resting his index finger beneath it, his elbow against the armrest. "I was observing you from afar."
The statement unsettled her. At that time, his duchess was still alive. Why would he have watched her so closely? The question rose in her mind, but she did not voice it. She only inclined her head once more.
"You are aware of the arrangement between our families," he continued.
At the word arrangement, her breath faltered. She raised her eyes to meet his fully. He was undeniably handsome, features sharp without harshness.
It did not change what he was.
A widower of four months. Eight years her senior and a man already seeking another bride.
Her gaze lowered to the untouched glass of water, its surface perfectly still.
"Your Grace," she said quietly, her fingers tightening slightly against her gown, "would you consider cancelling this marriage?"
He did not react at once. His gaze lowered, and he exhaled slowly. His tongue passed briefly over his lower lip as his fingers tapped once against the armrest.
"That is a rather hurtful thing to hear from my fiancée," he said evenly.
"I am not your fiancée."
He lifted his eyes to her. "Yes, you are." He paused.".... Cessalie. This marriage has been decided. It is not negotiable. You cannot cancel it, and neither can I."
"I do not wish to be married."
"So you would prefer to remain in this house?" He leaned back against the headrest, studying her. "In this hellhole?"
The word caught her off guard.
She stared at him, momentarily unsettled. How did he know? Cyrion never allowed private matters to leave these walls. To the outside world, the Draevin household was disciplined, dignified, and content.
Davian's lips curved faintly. "Your father's cruelty is no secret. It is merely ignored. People prefer comfort over truth." His gaze shifted, settling briefly on the faint mark visible near her left shoulder where the fabric had slipped with her posture.
She straightened at once, drawing her sleeve higher.
"And I imagine," he continued quietly, "that you wish to escape it every day."
"I do," she replied, her voice unwavered. "But I have no desire to step into another prison."
The implication was clear.
He inclined his head once. "So marrying me would be another form of torture."
She did not confirm or deny it. Her silence was the answer.
Davian fell quiet, his expression were unreadable now. It was evident he had not expected such directness from her, not when she stood so visibly constrained within her own household.
Cessalie had grown accustomed to resisting in small, quiet ways. She avoided what she could, endured what she could not, and trusted little beyond her own restraint. Whether it was marriage or a simple invitation beyond the palace gates, she kept her distance from all of it.
Her gaze drifted toward the window behind him. Beyond the glass lay open sky and distant gardens she rarely walked. She stared without focus, her thoughts not racing, not forming, simply lost in a blank stillness.
"Even so, there is nothing you can do," he said.
Her gaze remained fixed on the window. She did not hear him.
He leaned forward slightly and reached out, placing his hand over hers where it rested in her lap. "Lady?"
She flinched and drew back at once, pulling her hand away. Davian withdrew his own immediately and straightened.
She composed herself within seconds. "Yes, Your Grace?"
"I am not here to persuade you," he said calmly. "This marriage will proceed regardless. You will become the Duchess of Alderwyn."
Cessalie said nothing.
"But I speak because of your circumstances here." His voice lowered slightly. "You are not treated as you should be. In Alderwyn, you will not be harmed. You will not be burdened with duties you cannot bear."
Her eyes shifted to him at that.
"I wish to know you," he continued. "And to remove you from this place."
Her confusion deepened. Why would he involve himself so deliberately? Why would he offer protection without demand?
"I like you, Cessalie," he said, his tone softer. "I do not ask for your trust today. I will earn it."
The words unsettled her more than anger would have. Coming from a man of his position, they felt almost unreal. She did not believe him. Yet something in her chest stirred despite herself.
Davian rose from his seat. "I must return to the Royal Court. There is a session I cannot miss."
She did not stand. He did not expect her to.
Instead, he stepped closer, bowed slightly, and lifted her hand with measured care. He pressed a brief kiss to the back of it before releasing her.
Then he left.
Cessalie remained seated, staring at her hand as though it no longer belonged to her. Her thoughts were tangled and unsettled but her doubt intact.
It was not that she did not want to leave this hell-like house, but she did not trust a person who wanted to give her the moon and stars after meeting her for the first time.
And marriage here was just a deal between two powerful families so that they could become more powerful and oppress the weaker ones.
After a moment, she wiped the back of her hand against the fabric of her gown and stood, leaving the room without looking back. The still surface was water disrupted due to her motion.