Velastra stood before the mirror again, but this time she did not see herself.
She saw a throne.
She saw her father's hand resting possessively on her shoulder.
And beside her, not Cael, but General Aldren—a man carved from war, ambition, and the insatiable hunger of men who believed they deserved everything they helped destroy. Her lawful husband in the past, the man who destroyed her meridian to her mortality, making her weak and powerless.
My "legal husband," Father had called him son once, she thought, lips curling faintly. "A man who earned me by conquering with blood what Cael offered in silence."
A dog of war. Loyal to betrayal. Eager to bend her body to his power.
Velastra's hands clenched at her sides.
Over my corpse.
She had died once. She would not die again—not as a wife to a butcher who smelled of sweat and steel.
But she could not refuse him directly. That was not how Irithiel worked.
She took a deep breath and make her steps toward the royal court.
The court was restless that morning. A recent skirmish along the northern border had nobles whispering of another war, and that always meant a tightening of power.
Velastra entered the grand council chamber in her full regalia. Its black velvet lined in crimson silk and jewels shimmered her braided hair of obsidian petals resting above her brow. She walked not as a daughter but as a monarch.
Every head turned. Even her father— King Vorelin —paused his conversation with General Aldren to take her in.
He smiled. It was the kind of smile of a man who had once sold his daughter's body in exchange for political gain and called it strategy.
She bowed, hiding her disgust.
"Your majesty," she said. "You look well. Victory seems to suit your bones."
The room chuckled, but King Vorelin only narrowed his eyes.
"And you, daughter. I hear your consort finally wakes."
Velastra let her smile sharpen.
"Yes. I was pleased to find that he still has the strength to kneel."
A few lords smirked.
General Aldren did not. He stepped forward, all armor and masculine presence.
"If he falters again, perhaps it's time Irithiel gave you a real husband," he said. "One who can fight beside you."
"You mean one who doesn't bleed as prettily?" Velastra asked flatly.
The silence that followed cut through the air like glass.
Her father gave a low, warning hum. "Velastra…"
Silence followed.
Then, with measured grace, the Edict Bearer unfurled the decree, its parchment heavy with the weight of unchangeable fate. His voice rang clear— woven with authority yet devoid of needless force. Each word carried its own gravity, settling into the air like unyielding law, shaping destiny with every syllable spoken.
"General Aldren is known for his unwavering loyalty and unparalleled bravery. This king, in his wisdom and favor, bestows upon him the highest honor. His request is granted—he shall wed the Crown Princess Velastra, my daughter."
Velastra is aware and had been prepared.
She kneeled, the weight of her choice pressing into her bones. The hall held its breath, the decree still ringing in the air, unchallenged—until now.
"Father, this daughter understands your decree and is willing to obey. However, there had been a hundred-year tradition that the royal family follows. Are we going to defy heavens?"
Her voice rose, steady yet unyielding, shaping the silence into defiance. She uttered her rejection, each syllable a fracture against obedience, a blade against fate.
The grand council chamber crackled with tension as Velastra said her words.
Her father, King Vorelin, leaning lazily on his lion-engraved throne, his armored fingers tapping the gilded edge, suddenly stood.
Velastra bowed just enough to honor the setting. Not the man.
Vorelin raised a brow. "Continue to speak, daughter."
She glanced at Aldren, then turned to the throne.
Her voice was steady, but beneath it lay the weight of defiance—of a truth that could not be ignored.
"You want me to marry General Aldren. But tradition demands that before a second husband can be crowned, the first must be proven unworthy."
The words landed like a challenge, cutting through the silence with the precision of a blade. She did not waver, did not plead. She simply spoke what had always been law, daring them.
A few nobles murmured. Everyone in Irithiel knew the rite.
"The Fire-Walk," Vorelin said.
She remembered the past—not just the trial, not just the marriage, but the terror that gripped her heart at the thought of Cael being burned. The fear of seeing his life had hung in the balance, when fear had clawed at her that she decided to betray tradition and obey the decree. She had made the desperate choice that ensured his survival. And yet, even fate had questioned her—a violent earthquake splitting the sky on the day of their wedding.
And her husband, General Aldren taking Cael away from her and making him deaf.
Had she not witnessed Cael's strength on the battlefield, had she not seen with her own eyes the way he carved through fate like a blade through flesh, she would have chosen safety once more. She would have defied everything again to keep him breathing. But this time, time had gifted her certainty. She more feared the dangerous years ahead them if Aldren will be her legal husband.
She knew Cael would win.
And the trial will be enough reason for her desire to strengthen his meridian--- The meridian she had severed. Its ruin woven into his very essence. Powerless. Weak. His strength bled from him like water slipping through fractured stone, his body betraying the might that once made him untouchable. And she had done it on their wedding night. She had wielded precision like a blade, breaking him at his core, ensuring that he would never rise as he once had.
Velastra gazing back to the present had nodded. "Let Cael face it. If he cannot walk across the blessed coals by the solstice, the gods themselves declare him unfit, and I will wed General Aldren the next day."
The general grinned, smirking like his already the king, while the king chuckled, low and pleased.
"The consort can barely stand," Vorelin said. "You'd let him crawl into fire?"
"Why not?" Velastra's voice was soft, cruel. "He was a prince once. Let him burn like one."
There were laughs. Cruel ones.
The court saw a cold-hearted woman sealing her husband's doom under the guise of sacred law. The general believed he'd already won. And the king—blinded by pride—nodded in approval.
"Agreed," said Vorelin. "On solstice eve, he walks. Or he dies forgotten."
Velastra bowed again, her smile razor-thin.
But in her chest, her heartbeat like a war drum.
---
That night, Velastra returned to her chambers. She poured wine. Stared into the fire.
The lash was burned, reduced to nothing but embers—but not forgotten. Never forgotten. The mark it had left was not just on his skin but somewhere deeper, somewhere no fire could reach.
And yet, in the quiet depths of her heart, she is hoping. A fragile, flickering thing—that one day, she will be able to fire his heart, not for pain, but with something undeniable. That he would wake longing her presence.
But now… she needed more reasons to change. Plausible, slow-burning shifts in her character that could convince even the cleverest spy.
If she was to live the life she desires…
She would have to deceive the world more perfectly than she had ever deceived herself.