Two star crossed lovers.
Nations divided by blood and power.
A war to end all others.
She is heir to the brutal Darkling kingdom and daughter to the most vicious king ever known, Vlad the impaler.
He's the Demon prince ru...
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In the mirror, I look like a glimmering statuette. With rising bile, I realize the design is supposed to imitate ice - a daughter of the night, no longer, but a bride of winter. When they finish painting my face, I actually look the part. With my newly tinted skin, curled and twisted hair, along with the blue painted eyes and lips, I look like an eerie and cruel snow storm. I look Lycan. I look beautiful.
And I abhor it.
When the Northan attendants pinch and pull me into the cursed gown, I feel like a corpse being dressed for her final Resting. I know it's not far from the truth. I will forever be a consort, not a queen in my own right, but a beautiful accessory to a crown either kept by force or protected by loyalty. I will never wear my own crown again or sit on a throne that is my birthright.
A war rose me up, and one day, perhaps, another will tear me down.
~•~•~
I truly hated my wedding gown the most. It is a ridiculous sort of creation, pallid and thin layered, the shade of glacier rock netting against the sky spattered with silver, made of silk and sheer lace. Wholly different from the usual tastefully crafted dresses I adored to wear: It adheres to my body, dipping and rising in every curve and arch — rendering me almost bare, until it cascades into a wave of fabric; yards and yards of it gliding behind me. Over it, I haul an equally long, sleeveless coat, the color of dusk.
I might have dealt with it all if it weren't for the diadem seated on top my head. It's huge and looks like jutting ice shards, a cerulean stone, hanging from its lower peak, rested on my forehead. When I raged against it, in favor of my star-themed crown, the Lycan attendants just countered that it was the Alpha King's request I wear the icy tiara instead.
It mattered not that it had been my father's last gift to me, the crown of Night Court queens; That is was my inherentence; My last piece of home to adhere to. Iskra had consoled me as she curled my inky hair, half up, half down, entwined with pearls and jewels and the Mother knew what else. It had taken all my self-control to keep from cringing at the mirror before descending the sweeping stairs into the main hall.
My dress hissed and swished with each step.
"Pity more of your family could not be here to attend, Your Highness." The nimble voice of Tala Lycanous reaches me, her hair strikingly arranged to nest an ice crown of her own.
The Luna Queen's dress is silver so iridescent it could be made of the metal itself, with pure white velvet and grey inlay throughout. Her Ladies flutter about, Lady Inerys at the head as usual, but I note the absence of one particular vixen Lady-In-Waiting.
