Crowned in Crimson Cinders

Chapter 51: The Wedding

I woke to a mind already consumed by dread. Today, there would be no mourning, no tears, no softness. Only a smile, painted on my lips like a grotesque mask, and a crown, heavy with false promises, shoved onto my head as I walked down an aisle toward a future I never chose. I was expected to celebrate. To marry Darian. To pretend this was the life I wanted. Brock had only died yesterday and I was supposed to pretend as though nothing happened. This should have been a day for mourning, but instead it is being painted over by a false mask of joy.

Perhaps it wouldn't be utter torment—being with Darian. He had shown me kindness, a gentle hand in a world of thorns. He had shown me care, love even, while others—Amora—offered only cruelty cloaked in false smiles. I will see her today. Dressed in pearls and poison, she would pretend to grieve, pretend to be a sister for me. But I knew better now. I saw the truth in her smirks, in the chilling absence of blood on her hands. How was it that all my siblings lay dead—Clifton, Tristan, Sebastian, Breya, Brock—and she remained untouched? Not a scratch. Not a single drop of grief spilled from those cold, calculating eyes.

Today, the pretense would end. Today, I would tear away her mask, exposing the monster beneath. I would tell them about her threats. About the damning note. About every vile thing she'd done. The week before Brock's death, Darian had advised me on withholding the note from my parents as it might seem as though I am trying to frame Amora. His reasoning was that anyone could forge a note like that and it could make me seem incriminating.

I didn't care how disgusted or betrayed my mother and father might feel. Maybe they already knew. Maybe they were part of it. Today wouldn't just be a wedding. It would be a reckoning. Whether I stood at the altar or the coronation stage, Amora would fall.

A sharp knock echoed at my door. Right on cue. Two maids entered, their faces carefully neutral, followed by the monstrosity of a gown my parents had chosen. White. Beaded. Glimmering like a lie. It wasn't just the dress I hated, it was that she had picked it. That they dared to dress me like a doll on the day they traded me away.

This was the first time the two maids had been allowed near me in weeks. Since Father gave the order, they haven't been near me.

"Good morning, Princess," Jonie murmured, her voice unnaturally gentle as she laid the gown on the bed. Filipe followed, brush in hand, a wide, nervous smile plastered on his face.

I gave them nothing in return. They exchanged a glance, taking notice of my unusual appearance.

I remember how different I was only a handful of weeks ago. I had not a single worry in the world and my dresses flowed on my body like the seed heads of a dandelion floating through a flowery field. My hair was casually bound, my braids a loose mess down my back. Then there were the rides I used to sneak with Cintra. Me and Bri would always slip unnoticed through the corridors and escape into the silent woods, taking refuge in the sounds of chirping birds and the still life of nature.

I was not that girl anymore. I was something different. Something darker. Something more. I had a prophecy to fulfill. I made a promise to Brock to never use my powers for malice, but it's because of that promise that he's dead. Maybe by breaking that promise, the cost of a few lives could save many more.

"Are you feeling well, Princess?" Jonie tried again, her concern a fragile thing.

Princess.

The title felt foreign on their tongues, a relic from a life already dead. Everyone who truly knew me used my real name. But this title—this role—they expected me to wear it again, along with the suffocating gown. They never treated me as an equal, but now that I serve as a tactical advantage, they swarm me with praise.