Morning sunlight poured through the high windows of Lord Viremont's study.
The room was quiet until hurried footsteps broke the silence.
A servant rushed in, bowing low.
"My lord—a royal messenger has arrived."
Lord Viremont frowned.
"A royal messenger?"
The servant swallowed.
"He bears the seal of House Beaumont."
Silence instantly swallowed the room.
Even Liora went still.
Elora slowly rose from her chair.
Lord Viremont's expression hardened.
"Bring him in."
Moments later, the messenger entered carrying a sealed black envelope marked with crimson wax.
"A formal message from His Majesty, King Soren Beaumont."
No one moved.
The messenger placed the letter into Lord Viremont's shaking hands before bowing and leaving.
The moment the door shut—
Liora whispered.
"Why would he write to us…?"
Lord Viremont broke the seal.
His eyes skimmed the page—
And all color drained from his face.
Elora stood instantly.
"What is it?"
Wordlessly, he handed her the letter.
Her eyes scanned it.
Then widened.
"No…"
Liora stepped forward anxiously.
"What? What is it?"
Elora slowly lowered the parchment.
"It's a marriage proposal."
Liora's shoulders relaxed instantly.
"Oh thank gods—"
Elora's eyes lifted.
"For Freya."
Liora's face dropped.
"What?"
Lord Viremont's voice was tight.
"Soren Beaumont requests Lady Freya's hand in marriage."
Liora staggered back slightly.
Even she paled.
"No…"
She stared at them.
"No, absolutely not—why would he want her?!"
Lord Viremont's jaw clenched.
"It doesn't matter why."
Elora's voice was sharp.
"What matters is that we cannot refuse."
Liora turned toward them wildly.
"You can't seriously be considering sending her to HIM—"
Lord Viremont slammed his hand on the desk.
"Do you think I wish to anger that man?!"
The room fell deathly still.
Even Liora flinched.
Lord Viremont's voice lowered.
"If we reject him, we insult him."
Elora nodded grimly.
"And if Soren Beaumont feels insulted—"
"He could destroy this house," Liora whispered.
Because everyone knew it was true.
Even Liora—
who mocked everyone—
looked shaken.
Lord Viremont folded the letter carefully.
"We accept."
Liora stared at him in disbelief.
"You're sending her to him?"
Elora crossed her arms coldly.
"She escaped a monster only to be sent to a demon."
Liora let out a bitter laugh.
Then slowly smiled.
She muttered darkly. "Apparently even demons have eyes."
Lord Viremont sighed.
"She remains in the dungeon until the wedding."
Elora nodded.
"She'll try to flee otherwise."
Liora's smile sharpened.
"I'll tell her."
***
The dungeon was dark and cold when footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Freya slowly lifted her head.
And frowned.
Liora approached the bars smiling.
That smile alone told Freya nothing good was coming.
"Well," Liora said sweetly, "you look miserable."
Freya glared.
"What do you want?"
Liora crouched near the bars.
"I came with wonderful news."
Freya's stomach twisted.
Liora's grin widened.
"You have a new husband."
Freya froze.
"What?"
Liora laughed softly.
"Lord Gareth is no longer your future husband."
Freya blinked.
Confused.
Then suspicious.
"Why?"
Liora leaned closer.
"Because someone else requested you."
Freya's stomach dropped.
Liora's eyes gleamed.
"King Soren Beaumont."
Freya stared at her.
Then frowned.
"Oh yes."
Liora's grin widened cruelly.
"Father already accepted."
Freya stood quickly.
"He can't."
"He can." Liora smirked. "And he did."
Freya gripped the bars tightly.
Her mind raced.
Soren Beaumont.
The feared king.
The man nobles whispered about.
The man even her family feared.
Liora studied her face eagerly.
Waiting for terror.
Waiting for panic.
Instead—
Freya's expression hardened.
Her breathing steadied.
Liora blinked.
"…That's it?"
Freya slowly looked up.
"If they think I'm going willingly," she said coldly, "they're stupid."
Liora frowned.
Freya stepped closer to the bars.
"I'll escape before I let another man own me."
Liora's smile faded.
"You think you can outrun a king?"
Freya's eyes narrowed.
"I'll find a way."
Something in her voice made Liora falter.
Because she meant it.
Liora scoffed to cover her unease.
"You're delusional."
Freya's lips curled faintly.
"Maybe."
Then quieter—
"But I'd rather die trying than submit."
Liora stared at her.
Then straightened.
"You won't get far."
Freya didn't answer.
Because in her mind—
Plans were already forming.
If she had to smile through the ceremony…
If she had to play obedient for one night…
Then so be it.
But the moment opportunity came—
She would run.
Even if it killed her.
***
The morning of Freya's wedding arrived cold and gray.
The dungeon door creaked open before sunrise.
Freya didn't move at first.
She sat curled against the stone wall until rough hands grabbed her arm.
"Up."
Her body ached as she slowly rose, stiff from days on stone floors.
Without another word, they dragged her upstairs.
Back into the light.
Back into the prison she hated more than the dungeon itself.
The halls buzzed with frantic energy.
Servants rushed past carrying flowers, ribbons, trays of jewelry.
Everyone preparing for a celebration that felt more like an execution.
Freya was shoved into her chambers where maids immediately surrounded her.
"Wash her." "Brush her hair." "Hurry—we're behind schedule."
Freya stood silent as they stripped off her filthy gown and began preparing her.
Warm water was poured over her skin.
Soap lathered into her hair.
And for a moment—
everything moved quickly.
Until one maid froze.
Her hands stilled against Freya's back.
"Oh my—"
The room went silent.
Another maid stepped closer.
And gasped.
Thin pale scars crossed Freya's back in faded lines, some older than others, some fresher than they should have been.
Marks no noblewoman should bear.
The youngest maid whispered before she could stop herself.
"My lady… what happened to you?"
Freya's shoulders tensed instantly.
Before she could answer—
The dressing room doors burst open.
Elora entered sharply.
"What is taking so long—"
She stopped.
Her eyes landed on the staring maids.
Then on Freya's exposed back.
And immediately hardened.
"No one will speak of this," Elora snapped.
The maids jumped.
"O-of course, my lady—"
Elora stepped forward coldly.
"Cover them."
One maid hesitated.
"But the dress—"
"I said cover them."
Her voice cut like ice.
The maids rushed to obey, grabbing powders and creams, dabbing makeup across Freya's skin to conceal what they could.
Though some scars remained too raised to fully hide.
Freya stared silently at her reflection.
Expression unreadable.
Elora leaned down near her ear.
Low enough only Freya could hear.
"If Soren asks, you fell as a child."
Freya's jaw tightened.
"How noble of you," she muttered.
Elora straightened.
"Do not embarrass this family today."
Freya let out a bitter laugh.
That earned a glare.
The maids carefully helped her into the wedding gown after that.
White silk flowed over her figure, fitted beautifully around her waist before falling softly to the floor.
It was breathtaking.
Elegant.
And cruel.
A beautiful dress for an ugly fate.
When Freya turned toward the mirror—
even the room fell quiet.
Because despite everything—
despite the bruises beneath silk and scars beneath powder—
she was stunning.
The door opened.
Liora stepped inside with Elora.
And froze.
Her expression darkened immediately.
Because no matter what happened—
Freya still outshined her.
Liora crossed her arms bitterly.
"She looks too good."
Elora's jaw tightened.
"It doesn't matter. She'll be gone by tonight."
Freya met their eyes in the mirror.
And smiled faintly.
"Yes," she said softly. "I will."
Neither noticed the hidden meaning.
But Freya did.
***
The chapel buzzed with movement around him.
Servants adjusted flowers. Nobles whispered in their seats. Musicians tuned instruments.
But Soren stood motionless.
Eugene approached from behind, leaning slightly closer so only he could hear.
"There is something else you should know."
Soren's gaze remained ahead. "What."
Eugene hesitated.
Then quietly—
"She has not been kept in her chambers, Your Majesty."
That made Soren glance at him.
Eugene lowered his voice further.
"She has been kept in the dungeon for over a week."
The air around them changed instantly.
Even Eugene noticed it.
Soren's expression didn't move.
Didn't betray a single emotion.
But somehow—
he felt colder.
"Why?" Soren asked flatly.
Eugene's jaw tightened.
"They feared she would run."
A pause.
"She resisted the marriage."
"They locked her beneath the estate until today."
Soren stared ahead.
Still perfectly calm.
But Eugene had known him long enough to recognize danger when he saw it.
Because when Soren went quiet—
that was always when people should fear him most.
Finally—
Soren spoke.
"Did they touch her?"
Eugene hesitated.
"I do not know the full extent."
That was enough.
Soren's gaze slowly lifted toward the Viremont family standing across the chapel.
Watching proudly. Smiling. Pretending everything was normal.
He stared at them for a long moment.
Then gave one soft hum.
"Mm."
Eugene swallowed.
Because that sound never meant anything good.
Soren adjusted his cuffs calmly.
"Let them smile today."
Eugene remained silent.
Because he knew.
He knew exactly what that meant.
Soren's red eyes darkened faintly.
"I will deal with them after."
Eugene exhaled slowly.
"And what exactly does 'deal with them' entail?"
Soren smiled faintly.
"By this time next year," he said softly, "House Viremont will be begging in the dirt for mercy they will not receive."
Eugene nearly pitied them.
Soren's gaze never left Freya's family.
"They caged her like an animal."
His voice dropped lower.
"So I think it's only fair…"
A faint cruel smile touched his lips.
"…that I destroy their cage."
At the alter.
Every noble in attendance turned to stare as she began walking down the aisle.
Whispers followed immediately.
Because she was beautiful.
Radiant, even.
Golden hair pinned carefully beneath delicate jewels, white silk trailing behind her like moonlight over marble.
And yet Freya felt none of it.
She felt only the weight of the man waiting for her at the altar.
King Soren Beaumont.
This was the first time she had ever truly seen him.
Not in rumor. Not in whispered stories.
But standing before her.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dressed entirely in black among a sea of pale ceremonial colors, like even at his own wedding he refused to soften what he was.
And his eyes—
Red.
Not bright or unnatural.
Just deep.
Unsettling.
Freya understood immediately why people feared him.
He looked less like a king and more like something dangerous pretending to wear a crown.
But even so—
she wasn't terrified.
Uneasy, yes.
Wary, absolutely.
But not trembling the way everyone else seemed to whenever his name was spoken.
And that alone made Soren's interest sharpen the moment she approached.
Because she looked at him—
carefully, cautiously—
but not fearfully.
Just quiet caution.
How strange.
His red eyes followed her every step toward him.
Most people couldn't even hold his stare.
Yet here she was—
walking toward him like a woman approaching a storm she respected…
but did not fear enough.
And Soren found himself fascinated.
Freya reached the altar.
Her father released her arm and stepped back.
She turned to face Soren fully now.
Up close—
he felt larger somehow.
His presence pressed against the air itself.
Still, Freya forced herself to meet his gaze.
And Soren almost smiled.
Because despite the tension in her shoulders—
despite the clear nervousness in her breathing—
she was holding herself together remarkably well.
Not once did she look away.
Not once did she cower.
Soren tilted his head faintly.
Then leaned down just enough that only she could hear.
"You clean up well for someone dragged from a cell this morning."
Freya froze.
Her breath caught.
Her eyes snapped toward him.
He knew.
Her pulse thundered.
Soren's gaze remained forward, unreadable, as if he hadn't just shattered her composure in a single sentence.
But there was something cold in his expression now.
Something lethal.
Freya stared at him in shock.
How much did he know?
Why did he know?
Why did he sound—
angry?
The ceremony continued around them in muffled noise.
Freya barely heard any of it.
Her thoughts spun violently.
And beside her—
Soren stood like death itself.
But his gaze drifted briefly toward the pews where her family sat.
And for the first time in her life—
Freya saw fear flicker in her father's eyes.
As if somehow—
he knew.
He knew that look was meant for him.
Soren turned back toward the priest.
Then quietly, without looking at her, he murmured—
"You are calmer than most."
Freya blinked softly, startled he had spoken.
Then after a beat she answered quietly—
"Should I be screaming?"
And for the first time—
Soren smiled.
"No," he murmured. "But most do."
Freya stared at him.
Because no one spoke to him that way.
No one met his eyes without trembling. No one answered him without fear dripping from every word.
But she did.
His gaze darkened as he studied her.
Beautiful. Braver than she should be.
His little bride was far more interesting than he expected.
And suddenly—
this marriage promised to be far more entertaining than he'd planned.
The officiant began speaking.
Freya barely heard him.
Her focus stayed fixed on the man before her.
And unfortunately—
his seemed entirely fixed on her.
Soren's gaze had not left her once.
Not since she reached the altar.
It wasn't nervousness in his stare. Nor judgment.
And Freya hated how aware it made her feel.
The ceremony blurred around them in soft, meaningless noise until the officiant lifted the ceremonial rings.
Soren took it.
And without breaking eye contact—
slowly slid it onto her finger.
But the way his fingers lingered afterward—
the slight tightening of his hand around hers—
made heat crawl uneasily up Freya's spine.
Then he leaned closer.
Voice low enough for only her to hear.
"You wear my name now."
Freya's pulse jumped.
His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles.
"And my ring."
Her throat tightened.
Something about the way he said it—
quiet. Certain. Possessive—
made the gold band suddenly feel heavier than before.
Then the officiant turned to her.
"Lady Freya, the ring."
She swallowed and took the second band with slightly unsteady fingers.
Then reached for Soren's hand.
The contrast startled her.
Her hand looked tiny against his.
She slid the ring onto his finger.
And as soon as she did—
Soren's lips curved faintly.
Like he enjoyed watching her mark him in return.
The officiant smiled.
"By the laws of crown and kingdom, I now declare you husband and wife."
The room stirred.
Then came the words Freya dreaded most.
"You may kiss your bride."
Her stomach dropped.
Soren stepped closer immediately.
Freya's breath hitched as one hand slid gently—but firmly—to her waist.
Just enough to remind her how easily he could control where she stood.
His red eyes locked onto hers.
"You look nervous now," he murmured.
Freya glared lightly.
"I liked you better when you were silent."
A low chuckle escaped him.
God—
he looked amused.
Then his face lowered closer.
"Liar," he whispered.
And before she could respond—
he kissed her.
Thorough enough to make her breath catch from sheer shock.
It lasted only seconds.
Yet somehow felt far longer.
When he pulled away—
Freya was breathless.
And Soren looked entirely too pleased with himself.
The chapel erupted into applause around them.
But Soren never looked away from her.
His eyes dark with amusement.
And satisfaction.
Like he had just claimed something precious.
And enjoyed the fact she hated it.
He leaned down one last time.
Voice velvet-soft against her ear.
"You'll get used to me, little bride."
Freya stared at him.
And immediately thought—
No. Absolutely not.
But something told her—
Soren Beaumont would enjoy making her try.