Chapter 8 You Can Do This

Neoma stared at it.

And it was her perfect cage.

"For the ceremony," one of the servants said. "The King requires you to wear this."

The King. She did not even know his name, but he knew her dream dress?.

She nodded. Her voice was hollow. "Thank you."

The servants left. The dress hung on a mannequin in the corner of the room, gleaming in the firelight. The jewels caught the light and scattered it across the walls like tiny stars.

Neoma walked toward it. She reached out and touched the fabric. It was soft, delicate, and expensive. She could feel the weight of the silk, the care that had gone into its creation. Someone had spent hours on this dress. Someone had imagined her wearing it.

But they had not imagined her face. They had not imagined her empty eyes.

She was going to marry a stranger in this dress.

She was going to stand beside a man she had never met and vow to love him for the rest of her life.

She was going to become his Queen.

And the only man she had ever loved would never know.

Neoma pressed her palm against the silk. Her reflection stared back at her from the tall mirror across the room. She saw a woman she did not recognize, pale, hollow, her eyes empty, her lips colorless. The crown of Valdris was gone. The girl who had worn it was gone.

She was going to marry a stranger, wear this dress, and become a queen.

But Orion was somewhere out there, hating her.

She wondered if he had found someone else. Someone who could love him freely, without chains. Someone who would not destroy him to save him.

She hoped he was happy. She hoped he had forgotten her.

Neoma stepped back from the dress. Her hands dropped to her sides. She looked at the beautiful, terrible gown and felt nothing.

She was already dead.

The dress would be her shroud.

---

The morning of the wedding arrived too soon.

Neoma had not slept. She had lain in her bed, staring at the canopy above her, watching the shadows shift as the candles burned low and the sky outside her window turned from black to grey to pale gold. She had counted the hours. She had counted the minutes. She had counted the seconds until her life would end.

And now, it was time.

The servants came at dawn. They bathed her in rose-scented water. They brushed her dark chestnut hair until it shone like silk, arranging it in an elaborate crown of braids. They painted her face with powders and creams, coloring her pale cheeks with blush, her colorless lips with rouge. They dusted her shoulders with shimmering powder that caught the light like tiny stars.

Then they dressed her.

The gown of white and silver was heavy against her skin. Layers of silk and lace cascaded down her body, hugging her waist before flowing into a train that stretched for yards behind her. Tiny jewels were sewn into the bodice, catching the candlelight and scattering it across the walls like scattered tears.

It was beautiful. It was perfect.

It was her cage.

Neoma stared at her reflection in the mirror.

The woman staring back was beautiful. Hollow. A porcelain doll dressed for a ceremony she did not want. Her eyes were empty, her smile frozen, her soul already gone.

Mira stood behind her, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "You look beautiful, my lady."

Neoma did not answer. She simply smiled. It was a hollow thing, a ghost of the smile she used to wear. She did not feel beautiful. She felt like a corpse dressed in silk, a dead woman walking toward her own grave.

The servants stepped back. The door opened. Ingrid appeared, her face as cold as ever, her sharp eyes scanning Neoma with clinical detachment.

"It is time," she said.

Neoma rose.

Her legs felt weak. Her heart pounded against her ribs. But she forced herself to move, forced herself to walk, forced herself to become the Queen she was being sold to be.

---

She walked through the corridors of the palace, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Guards lined the walls, their faces impassive, their eyes fixed straight ahead. Servants bowed as she passed, their heads lowered in deference. Nobles watched from doorways, their eyes hungry for a glimpse of the bride who had humiliated a man before leaving her homeland.

She heard the whispers.

"The Valdris princess looks more beautiful than the rumours."

"Yes, she is… the stable hand must be a joke to think such a beautiful princess would belong to him."

"She shouldn't have humiliated him," another voice added, sharp with judgment.

"Such beauty only belongs to our King."

"Beautiful women are devils."

Neoma's face did not change. Her spine remained straight. Her steps did not falter. She had learned long ago how to wear a mask, how to hide the screaming inside her soul.

But inside, she was screaming.

She thought of Orion. She thought of his silver-grey eyes, his gentle hands, the way he had looked at her like she was the only light in the world. She had destroyed that light. She had killed it with her own hands.

And now she was walking toward another man.

---

The great hall of Drakoria was vast and cold.

Thousands of candles burned in chandeliers above, casting golden light across the marble floor. Nobles filled the pews on either side, dressed in their finest silks and jewels. They watched her with hungry eyes, eager for the spectacle of a foreign bride being wed to their King.

Neoma stood at the entrance of the hall. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her hands were trembling beneath the folds of her gown. She could feel the weight of every single eye upon her, judging her, measuring her, waiting for her to fail.

She had to do this.

She looked down the aisle. The altar was at the far end, draped in white and gold. Behind it, a figure stood, tall, commanding, dressed in royal black. His face was obscured by the shadows and the distance.

The King.

She did not know him. She did not want to know him. She would marry him. She would bear his children. She would be his Queen. She would never love him.

Mira squeezed her hand. "You can do this, my lady."

Neoma nodded, but she did not believe her.

The music began.

Neoma took her first step.

The crowd rose. Hundreds of eyes followed her as she walked down the aisle. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, on the white marble tiles, on the petals scattered in her path. She did not look up. She could not.

She did not want to see his face.

She did not want to see the stranger who would be her husband.

She did not want to see the man who would take everything she had left.

The music swelled. Her footsteps echoed through the hall. She felt the weight of the crown that was not yet on her head, the weight of the vows she would soon speak.

She reached the altar.

She stopped.

The priest began to speak. His voice was distant, muffled, as if he were speaking from underwater. Neoma heard the words, "beloved bride," "honor," "love", but they meant nothing. She was not beloved. She was not honored. She was a sacrifice.

She was a prisoner.

The priest paused. "You may look upon your bride, my King."

Neoma's heart stopped.

She had to look up.

She did.

And her world shattered.

Orion stood right in front of her.