Chapter 7 Dream Wedding Dress
The carriage rolled through the iron gates of Drakoria.
Neoma heard the guards shout. Heard the heavy doors groan open. Heard the crunch of gravel beneath the wheels as they passed into the palace courtyard.
She did not look out the window.
She could not.
She kept her eyes fixed on her folded hands, on the pale skin of her knuckles, on the small tremble she could not stop. She felt the carriage slow. She felt it stop. Felt the weight of a thousand eyes pressing against the thin walls.
Mira reached for her hand. "My lady..."
"I know." Neoma's voice was barely a whisper.
The door opened.
Cold air rushed in. It smelled different here, sharper, cleaner, nothing like the warm earth of Valdris. It smelled like stone and distance and something she could not name.
A hand appeared. Gloved. White. A servant offering to help her down.
Neoma took it.
Her feet touched the ground. She stood in the courtyard of the Drakorian palace and felt the weight of everything pressing down on her.
The palace rose before her, tall, ancient, carved from stone that seemed to absorb the light. Towers reached toward the grey sky. Flags snapped in the wind. And everywhere, people. Nobles. Guards. Servants. All watching.
Neoma lifted her chin. Her face was still. Her spine was straight.
She would not show them her fear.
A woman approached. She was dressed in fine silk, her face carefully blank, her dark hair streaked with silver. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and utterly devoid of warmth. She looked Neoma up and down, a slow, assessing gaze that made Neoma feel like she was being measured and found wanting.
"Lady Neoma of Valdris," she said. Her voice was flat, formal, clipped. "I am Lady Ingrid, Senior Advisor to the King. I will escort you to your chambers."
Neoma inclined her head. "Thank you."
Ingrid did not smile. She turned without another word and began walking. Her heels clicked against the stone, sharp and quick, as if she had no time for pleasantries.
Neoma followed.
The hallways were vast and cold. Tall windows let in pale light, casting long shadows across the marble floors. Tapestries hung on the walls, depicting battles and kings and wolves with gleaming silver eyes. Every corner held a guard in polished armor. Every alcove held a servant who bowed as she passed.
But their eyes were curious. Hungry.
She heard the whispers before she saw the faces.
"Is that her?"
"The Valdris princess?"
"She doesn't look like much."
“To be honest she's beautiful” another replied
"But she humiliated someone. A stable hand. Right before she left."
"Pathetic. A woman who destroys a man to save her reputation is no Queen."
Neoma's stride did not falter. Her face did not change. But she heard every word. She felt them land like small knives, each one finding its mark.
Mira walked close behind her, her presence a small shield against the cruelty. Neoma could feel her maid's tension, the way her steps quickened, the way she wanted to defend her mistress. But Mira said nothing. She knew better than to cause a scene in a hostile court.
They reached a set of heavy wooden doors. Carved into the wood were wolves running through a forest, their silver eyes glinting in the torchlight. Ingrid pushed them open and stepped aside.
"Your chambers," she said. "The ceremony is in three days. You are expected to remain here until then. Servants will bring your meals. Do not wander the palace unescorted."
"May I ask why?" Neoma's voice was quiet, but steady.
Ingrid's eyes flickered with something, surprise, perhaps, that the newcomer had dared to question her. "The King's orders." Her tone made it clear the conversation was over. "Rest, Lady Neoma. You will need your strength for the ceremony."
She turned and walked away, her footsteps fading into the distance.
Neoma stepped inside.
The room was large. Beautiful. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm light across the stone floor. A bed draped in silk and velvet dominated the far wall. Tall windows overlooked the gardens below, where hedges were trimmed into the shape of wolves and flowers bloomed in careful rows.
One thing, this room looked almost identical to her room in Valdris.
The same placement of furniture. The same style of tapestries. The same colors. It was as if someone had studied her home and recreated it, piece by piece, in this foreign land.
But it was cold.
Not in temperature. In feeling.
Everything was perfect. Everything was impersonal.
Neoma stood in the center of the room and felt like a ghost in her own life.
The door clicked shut behind Ingrid. The sound echoed through the silence.
Mira stepped forward, her eyes scanning the room with open wonder. "This looks beautiful, my Lady. Just like your room in Valdris."
Neoma nodded slowly, her gaze drifting across the familiar arrangement. The bed. The wardrobe. The vanity. The window seat overlooking the gardens. It was all so carefully designed, so deliberately planned.
“If they found out how your room is and helped you design it to feel like home…” Mira continued carefully, her voice low and hopeful, "...maybe the King isn't that bad.”
'Home…' Neoma thought. That word felt strange in this unknown land.
"This is not my home," she said quietly. "This is a cage dressed in silk."
Mira's face fell. "My lady..."
Neoma walked to the window. She pressed her palm against the cold glass and stared out at the gardens below. She thought of Valdris. The warm earth. The stables. The horses. The laughter.
Orion.
She closed her eyes.
‘Where are you now? Are you thinking of me? Or have you already started to forget?’
She opened her eyes. The gardens stretched out before her, beautiful and foreign. She felt nothing.
---
Hours passed. Maybe days.
Neoma did not know anymore. She had lost track of time. She sat by the window, staring at the gardens, her mind blank, her heart hollow. The sun rose and fell. The shadows lengthened and shortened. She did not move.
Mira brought her food. She ate little and just looked at the rest like it personally offended her. The sight of the untouched food made Mira's eyes glisten, but she said nothing.
Mira tried to speak to her. She did not answer.
And then the dress came.
Three servants entered carrying a gown of white and silver. It was exquisite, layers of silk and lace, tiny jewels sewn into the bodice, a train that would trail behind her for yards. It was beautiful. It was perfect.
And this is just exactly like her dream wedding dress.
