The morning sun spilled gold across the high windows of the Valente estate, illuminating the polished marble floors and gilded tapestries. Lady Seraphina Valente stood in front of her mirror, her reflection framed by soft curls of chestnut hair. She fastened the delicate clasp of her gown, a silken creation of pale blue that mirrored the sky outside. Today was no ordinary day—it was the first day she would meet Prince Alistair as his promised bride, and Seraphina’s heart swelled with a naïve hope that he might see her, truly see her, and love her as she imagined love to be.
The world outside her chamber was alive with preparation. Servants whispered behind curtained doorways, polishing silver, laying out fragrant flowers, and arranging delicate pastries in perfect rows. Yet none of it touched Seraphina’s mind, for her thoughts were consumed entirely by him—the prince she was bound to marry, whose name had been repeated like a spell in her family for generations. In her dreams, he smiled at her, his eyes soft and warm, and he spoke words that made her heart flutter. But reality, she told herself, would either confirm her illusions or shatter them entirely.
Her mother’s voice, sweet but firm, broke through her reverie.
“Seraphina, my dear, composure. You must be perfect today. Remember, a princess is more than beauty; she is grace, poise… patience.”
Seraphina nodded, gripping the folds of her gown. She did not tell her mother the secret that had taken root in her heart—a foolish, tender love for a prince she barely knew.
The carriage ride to the palace was slow, each turn of the wheels amplifying the nervous excitement coiling in her chest. She gazed at the passing countryside, the rolling hills and ancient forests, and wondered if Prince Alistair had ever walked these paths as a child. Did he know the scent of wildflowers in spring? Did he care for the simple things that made life sweet, like she did?
When the grand gates of the palace came into view, her breath caught. The palace was larger than any building she had ever seen, its towers piercing the sky like frozen flames, its walls a tapestry of cold stone and intricate carvings. Servants and guards alike watched silently as she was led through the grand hallways. Tapestries depicted kings and queens long dead, their eyes seeming to follow her as she passed. She felt both awe and a faint, unplaceable chill.
And then she saw him.
Prince Alistair stood at the far end of the great hall, tall and commanding, his posture flawless, yet his expression unreadable. His dark eyes swept over her like a silent judgment, and for a moment, her heart stumbled. He did not smile. He did not even nod. He simply looked, and the weight of his gaze made her feel exposed, small, fragile.
Yet Seraphina’s hope did not falter. She bowed, lowering herself in a gesture taught to her since childhood. “Your Highness,” she said softly, her voice trembling despite her efforts to sound steady. “It is an honor…”
Alistair’s lips moved, forming words that were polite but detached. “Lady Seraphina. Welcome to the palace.”
Her heart sank slightly. There was no warmth in his voice. But she told herself it was nerves. Perhaps he had never been married before. Perhaps he had never known the gentle feeling of love she carried in her chest.
Days passed. Each encounter with him was a dance of politeness and careful distance. He spoke rarely, his words sharp, yet precise, cutting through the air like a cold blade. Yet Seraphina held on to her illusion, interpreting every small glance or gesture as a hidden kindness. She smiled at him, always, and in return, he looked at her with the same calculating detachment.
Lady Marienne, the prince’s mistress even before their union was official, did not hide her disdain. Seraphina noticed the way she lingered too close to him, the whispered laughter in shadowed corners, the pointed glances when Seraphina entered a room. And still, Seraphina’s heart clung to hope. Perhaps Marienne’s cruelty was merely jealousy, and Prince Alistair’s coldness was but a test of her endurance.
Nights were the hardest. Alone in her gilded chamber, Seraphina stared at the moonlight spilling across her bed, tracing the silver patterns on her walls, and whispered promises to herself. I will endure. I will be patient. I will make him see me.
Yet, even in her innocence, a faint shadow whispered through her veins—a strange shiver that came unbidden when she walked alone in the corridors, or when she glimpsed the dark corners behind the grand chandeliers. She shook it off, calling it imagination. Shadows, she told herself, were only shadows.
And so she lived those first weeks in the palace, a careful, obedient bride-to-be. She practiced her smiles, softened her voice, and endured subtle slights that cut sharper than any blade. She clung to the one belief that kept her heart alive: that love, no matter how distant, could bloom even in the coldest of halls.
But the palace had other plans. The seeds of cruelty had been planted, and the darkness that had stirred within her blood, waiting for the moment of fracture, began to stir… faintly, quietly, like a storm brewing behind a calm sky.
