A Vow of Vengeance and Silk

The deep, resonant peals of the cathedral bells shuddered through the sacred halls, their mournful tones reverberating off the gilded arches and stained glass. These were not the joyous chimes of a wedding, but the heavy, measured toll of a funeral dirge.

Lady Seraphine of House Vaelis stood rigid at the altar, her ivory gown spilling across the marble steps like cream dashed upon stone. The delicate lace bodice, stitched with pearls and silver thread, now felt like a cage. The fragrance of lilies, her chosen bridal flowers, meant to symbolize purity and devotion, clung thick in the air, choking her with their cloying sweetness. What a bitter jest.

Before her, Crown Prince Tristan wore a smirk that cut deeper than any blade.

And beside him stood Yvaine. Her sister's slender fingers, adorned in Seraphine's own wedding lace, curled possessively around Tristan's wrist. The sight alone was a knife to the gut, but the proof of their betrayal dangled shamelessly from Yvaine's other hand, a handkerchief embroidered with the royal stag, its proud antlers now stained pink. The implication was unmistakable. A ripple of murmurs spread through the gathered nobility, swelling into cruel laughter. Faces that had smiled at her mere hours ago now twisted with derision. The High Priest's expression was one of pity, and that, more than anything, stoked the fire in Seraphine's chest. " Did you truly believe I would bind myself to a woman with more poison than charm?" Tristan's voice rang out, rich with mocking amusement. His fingers flicked toward the dagger at Seraphine's hip—the very one he had gifted her during their betrothal, its jeweled hilt engraved with vows of fidelity. Now, it was nothing more than a prop in her public ruin. "The Viper of Vaelis, indeed." The guards moved in, their armor clanking like the chains that would soon encircle her wrists. Seraphine's bridal corset concealed vials of wolfsbane and honeyed wine, but her pride had left her unprepared for this. She had not expected treachery in the house of the gods. She lunged and not for Tristan, but for Yvaine. Her sister's gasp was sweeter than the wedding cake they would never share. A guard's gauntleted fist caught her across the temple. White-hot pain exploded behind her eyes, and the taste of copper flooded her mouth. The world tilted, and she barely registered the cold bite of manacles locking around her wrists before she was dragged away. "Traitor," someone hissed. "Whore," another voice spat. The gaoler's leer followed her into the bowels of the dungeon, his breath reeking of sour ale as he shoved her into a cell. The door clanged shut, sealing her in darkness. The air was thick with the stench of mildew and old blood, the walls whispering with the ghosts of forgotten screams. Seraphine slumped against the damp stone, her pulse a wild, furious drumbeat in her ears. She would not weep. She would not beg. But she would kill them. A shadow shifted in the corner. She had not heard the door open. "They'll hang you at dawn," said a voice like smoke and shattered glass. A man stepped into the thin sliver of moonlight that pierced the cell's high window. Tall and clad in black, his face was half-hidden beneath a hood, but the glint of his eyes was unmistakable, sharp, calculating. His gloved fingers toyed with a scrap of fabric, and Seraphine realized with a jolt that it was her discarded veil. " Unless," he mused, his voice low and deliberate, "you'd prefer to dance on their graves instead."

A blade scraped across the stone floor, coming to rest at her feet. Moonlight caught its edge, silver and lethal. Seraphine seized it without hesitation. The hilt was cold, the weight familiar an assassin's tool, a queen's weapon. "And who are you?" she demanded, her voice raw with fury. The stranger smiled, slow and knowing. "The man who will make you a queen." The words hung between them, a promise and a threat. Beyond the cell, footsteps echoed. Dawn approached.

And Seraphine's vengeance had only just begun.