The room was cold—the kind that settled in your lungs and refused to leave. Still, I didn't shiver. Stone walls loomed around me, bare and unyielding, and beneath my feet, the raised platform felt like ice. Pale light filtered through a narrow arched window to my left, catching in the dust motes suspended in the still air. There was no fire in the hearth, no warmth to ease the chill. Only silence and the looming weight of what was to come.
This was no bridal chamber. It was a battlefield dressed in silk.
Maids moved like shadows, silent and efficient. My mother—no, the Queen—stood nearby, her voice sharp and precise as she issued instructions. Once, that voice had sung lullabies to soothe my nightmares. Now, it cut through the air with the precision of a blade. She didn't look at me. Didn't see me. She needed to see Nyra.
"Stand straight," one of the older women murmured, tugging the gown's bodice sharply. I gasped but obeyed, spine stiffening.
I stood still as they laced up the gown meant for my sister. The silk clung to my curves, cool against my skin, too fine for someone marching into war disguised as peace. It was a green and silver masterpiece—House Velthorne's colors—with delicate embroidery trailing like vines across the bodice and skirts. The neckline dipped modestly, but the fabric left little to the imagination. Every tug of the laces cinched me tighter into a future not meant for me, a future I had claimed anyway.
The mirror reflected a stranger. My hair was twisted into intricate whorls, each pin a sharp reminder of duty. A delicate diadem rested atop my head—a bride's crown or a liar's. I wore it without hesitation. Blue eyes locked with mine, wide and unblinking, fringed with lashes that refused to blink. My pale skin contrasted the rich material, shining with a veneer of calm.
Nyra, taller and slighter than I, would have looked different in this dress—less filled out, less confident. But it was me they dressed. Me they sent. And Nyra stood behind me, silent, her face pale and dry. Her eyes never left mine.
She hadn't spoken since dawn—not one word.
She didn't need to.
No one had argued. Not Nyra, who bore the weight of guilt in her silence. Not Mother, who wore grief-like armor. Father had died weeks ago. Without his guidance, duty passed to us like a torch too heavy to carry. And in that silence, I had made the choice.
Now I stood there, heart a war drum in my chest, cloaked in silk and secrets, about to marry a man who expected someone else. He would never know the truth.
Unless I told him.
The door creaked open. A herald entered, his voice solemn. "The carriage is ready, my lady. The court awaits."
I nodded once. "Leave us. I would speak with my siblings alone."
The maids filed out without protest. The door shut behind them with a final thud. Then Nyra stepped forward, her hand trembling as it found mine.
"Vireya... please, there must be another way."
I held her hand tightly, willing her to feel my certainty. "There isn't. I chose this, Nyra. No one forced me. I saw what was coming. This is the only path that saves us. You deserve to live freely. Let me carry this burden."
She pulled me into a desperate embrace, and I closed my eyes. We used to sneak into each other's rooms to chase away nightmares, tracing constellations on the ceiling and whispering dreams. Now, I would become her shield.
Behind her, Liora and Mireille stood side by side, grief and fear etched into their twin features. Mireille stepped forward first, eyes shining.
"You shouldn't have to go," she whispered fiercely. "We need you."
I pressed my forehead to hers. "And that's why I must. Velthorne needs a shield. I will be that."
Liora wrapped her arms around me next. "You're stronger than us, but that doesn't mean you must do it alone."
"There is no other way," I said, unwavering. "Kael Drevak would have executed Nyra. War would have followed. I have seen it. You know my gift. I chose this path because I won't let Velthorne fall."
Then Caelan and Thane entered. Caelan's fists clenched, flickers of flame dancing across his fingers.
"I'll never forgive them if they hurt you," he growled. "I'll burn Drevak to the ground."
I gripped his wrist. "You'll guard Velthorne. That's how you protect me."
Thane hovered quietly beside him, pale and shaken. I placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.
Then came Thalen—Crown Prince of Varyndor and Nyra's love. When we were younger, he used to sneak me honey cakes at feasts, pretending not to notice when I slipped away from lessons. He had always been more brother than guest.
"You shouldn't be the one going," he said, voice thick. "Kael commands death. Promise me you'll survive this."
Magic stirred in my blood. "I promise. I won't disappear. Drevak won't break me."
Last came Alaric. Our eldest brother. The future king. The one whose gaze had never wavered until now.
"You don't have to go," he said, voice rough. "As your future king, I could command you to stay. I could march our forces to Drevak. Say the word."
I stepped toward him and laid a hand on his clenched fist. "But you won't. Because you know I'm right."
He nodded slowly, grief written in the lines of his face. "Make him respect you. As yourself. They will try to break you—don't let them."
"I won't," I said. "I chose this. And I will endure it. For Velthorne."
Around me, magic shimmered. Nyra's mind brushed against mine. Caelan's hands glowed faintly. Alaric vanished and reappeared beside me—a silent offer of escape. Liora shimmered. Mireille trembled. Thane gripped my hand. Thalen stood steady.
They all begged me not to go—not with words, but with power, presence, and love. Caelan's flames trembled at his fingertips, Thane's hand refused to let go, and Mireille's silent tears etched into my soul like a promise I could never break.
But I had power, too. And I would wield it in sacrifice. I was Vireya Velthorne. For my sister. For my kingdom. For every soul that would live because I dared to step forward. And I would not break.