Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
(The dress Y/N is wearing in this chapter. A/N! This is my dress opinion, you can pretend that it's whatever. Just remember it has to be a dress since it's royalty, and it has to be blue)
✡✡✡ FEW DAYS LATER ✡✡✡
TWO WEEKS. TWO WEEKS you've been forced to live inside this frozen palace with all these strangers.
You're still getting used to the bitter chill in this specific area of Hell--where you're from, the cold never even existed. You could only dream of snow.
Now that you live here, you miss the boiling heat you grew so accustomed to.
The servants and maids treat you all with a level of respect you never received when you were simply Y/N Morde. They all call you Your Majesty even though the wedding hasn't even been held.
Perhaps they're planning ahead of time and trying to use muscle memory to call a demon like yourself Her Majesty.
Still, the title feels wrong...it doesn't feel like you. But just like everyone else in this castle and mess of an arrangement, you have to get used to it.
Just like you're trying to get used to the cold. And just like you're trying to get used to the itchy, heavy dresses you're forced to wear everyday.
Silence falls over the large table in the main living room of the castle, the sound of forks and knives clinking against one another, a few inhales and exhales, and wine being drank breaking the silence every now and then.
You keep your gaze down, staring at the untouched meal that was carefully prepared to perfection.
It looks delicious, yet at the same time, very unappetizing.
Goodness have you really grown to miss the bland-card-burned-flavorless meals prepared at the Hazbin Hotel?
Though maybe it isn't the meal...but rather the company that could make this experience more enjoyable.
Food tastes better when it is shared with those you love--like family and friends. But you don't see any of them in sight. Only a stranger you're forced to call family and a friend.
When the silence stretches on to five minutes, Andrealphus finally takes his focus off his dinner to look at you. He raises an eyebrow, his fork in mid air holding the final bite of his meal.
"You've barely touched dinner," he points out while searching for the truth behind your behavior in your emerald green eyes. Are you perhaps sick? Homesick?
Purely for show, you take the gold plated knife and cut into the marinated, wine-soaked steak, stabbing the cut off piece with your fork and raising it to your lips.
The smell lingers in your nose, nearly making your mouth water at the combination of perfectly balanced spices and herbs.
But despite the sudden rubble in your stomach, you force yourself to chew and swallow, a little bit of blood lingering on the corner of your lip due to the rare steak.
