"I would never marry you. Not even if I were blind, deaf, or diseased. Not you, Simon Thorne!"
Alana spat the words out, her engagement robe trailing behind her like a set of royal shackles.
The great halls of House Valenson fell silent. The crowd let out a wave of gasps, like something had just blown through them.
Servants froze mid-step, trays of fruit and wine suspended in their grasp, unsure whether to retreat or continue.
One of them dropped to his knees near a pillar, pretending to fix a fallen velvet sash that had slipped from its hook. His hands trembled as he worked, more out of fear than duty, stealing glances toward the unfolding storm at the center of the hall.
Even the musicians in the gallery had stopped playing, their instruments hanging uselessly at their sides.
Somewhere near the back, a silver goblet slipped from trembling fingers and shattered on the marble floor, the sound sharp and final.
It was one of Alana's maidens. The very one her uncle had sent to keep an eye on her, to convince her that this marriage was their only hope.
The union of House Thorne and House Valenson was forged to protect Cylla, a mystical artifact of unimaginable power, passed down through generations of the Valenson family, Cylla was stolen years ago, only to be reclaimed after a long and perilous struggle.
This ancient relic was more than just a treasure. It was said to grant long life to its bearer, preserving vitality beyond natural limits.
Yet its power was twofold. A dark force lay hidden within it, capable of exchanging or even stealing lives if wielded by those with cruel intent.
To ensure Cylla never fell into the wrong hands, the Valensons needed the strength and influence of House Thorne. Known for their unmatched power and unyielding resolve, the Thornes stood as the kingdom's ultimate protectors.
Thus, the marriage alliance was more than politics. It was a pact to safeguard Cylla's magic, the future of their families, and the fate of the realm itself.
But Alana Valenson wasn't going to be used as her family's scapegoat when she wasn't the only female of marital age in the family.
Raised by her vicious uncle Zarek Valenson, the coldest man in the realm, feared for his sharp mind and cruel methods, Alana never knew what it meant to be held with love.
Her father had abandoned her as a baby. The same man who was supposed to protect her, to guide her hand through life without a mother, never once looked into her eyes. Never once held her. Never once called her his daughter.
He couldn't.
Because every time he looked at her, all he saw was the woman he lost. His beloved wife, who died bringing Alana into the world. And though he never said it aloud, his silence screamed louder than words.
She was the reason.
He blamed her. As if she had chosen to be born that way. As if it was her fault her mother had died.
He walked away before she even took her first steps, leaving her in the hands of her Uncle Zarek. A man known not for love, but for strategy and survival. A man who ruled with manipulation, not mercy.
So Alana grew up not with bedtime stories or soft kisses on her forehead, but with cold stares, strict lessons, and eyes always watching. Not to care, but to control.
And that was the beginning of the girl they now dared to treat like a pawn.
But not this time. She had already been raised without warmth. She didn't need to be married into more darkness. Especially not to Simon Thorne, whose name came with rumors just as cruel as her uncle's.
Simon was the first son of House Thorne, known for feeding anyone who crossed him to the wild beasts he kept locked in his dungeon.
But that was just part of his cruelty. Those who angered him were thrown into dark tunnels under his estate, places full of hungry, diseased rats that bit and tore at flesh.
People whispered that Simon liked to watch his victims scratch at cold stone walls, their screams drowned out by the rats' squeaks and bites.
Some even said he had cages of rats trained to attack when he gave the order, using them to slowly drive people mad.
And to think, he was only in his twenties. What would he become when he was her uncle's age? Now he stood before her with his feared army, seeking her hand in marriage. Alana knew one thing for sure. She would never be food for his rats.
Simon took a slow, deliberate step forward. The echo of his boots rang against the marble floor like a death knell. His black cloak trailed behind him, whispering with each movement like smoke curling from fire.
He stopped just inches from Alana, towering over her in the hush of the stunned hall. His voice was cold, almost amused.
"Do they work?" he asked.
Alana's brow furrowed. "What?"
Simon's eyes dropped. A slow, deliberate drag of his gaze down her body before meeting her eyes again with a smirk that chilled the blood.
"The thing between your legs," he said, voice low and cruel. "Does it work?"
Gasps rippled again through the hall, louder this time, more shocked than before. Alana recoiled slightly, her hand instinctively gripping the folds of her robe.
Simon's tone sharpened. No longer mocking. Just matter-of-fact brutality.
"Because that's all that's needed from you. Whether you marry me or some fat old man with one foot in the grave. I promise you, that's all you'll have left to choose from if Cylla gets taken."
He paused, letting the venom of his words sink in. The great hall seemed to shrink. The air itself thickened around Alana. Faces blurred at the edges of her vision, but Simon's gaze was razor-sharp, unblinking. A man raised in shadows, sharpened by cruelty, and utterly without remorse.
The torches lining the high stone walls flickered against the sudden stillness, casting uneasy shadows over faces now turned toward the center of the room.
Members of both houses sat wide-eyed, rigid in their chairs. A noblewoman from House Valenson clutched her pearls so tightly her knuckles turned pale.
Beside her, a younger cousin covered her mouth in horror, eyes darting between Alana and the figure standing before her.
Then Simon's voice dropped. Calm and cutting. "So you can stomp your feet and spit your curses, but the gods don't care. And neither do I."
Alana's lips parted in disbelief, but before she could find her voice, a voice boomed from behind.
"That's enough." Her uncle, Zarek Valenson descended the stone steps, his robes sweeping behind him, voice stiff with barely restrained fury. "You do not speak to my niece like that."
Simon turned slowly, lazily, like a lion inconvenienced by a barking dog.
"Then perhaps you should do more speaking, Lord Valenson," he said, not bothering to hide his disdain. "Because if you truly had your house in order, my time wouldn't be wasted on temper tantrums and fairytale delusions."
The room held its breath. Simon's eyes darted once more to Alana.
"Decide quickly, little dove," he murmured. "I've seen duller blades show sharper sense than you."
He turned his back and walked toward the towering doors. His red-lined cloak dragged across the shiny floor. The doors creaked open, and the torchlight outside lit up his figure, making him look like death itself walking away.
Alana stood frozen. Her heart raced. Her breath caught somewhere between rage and fear.
The heavy doors shut behind Simon with a thunderous finality, sealing the silence in his wake. Alana still stood rooted in place, her body tense, her jaw locked. It wasn't until she heard the click of her uncle's boots against the stone floor that she blinked.
"Are you done embarrassing this family?" Zarek Valenson's voice cut through the air like a blade.
His eyes, cold and calculating, landed on her with the weight of a lifetime of control. "He is the finest man in the kingdom, Alana. He has status. He has strength. And by the gods, he even has the looks. What more could you possibly want?"
Alana's gaze snapped to him. Her chest rose and fell with every breath she fought to contain.
"I've done everything you've asked of me," she said, her voice shaking, but not with fear. With rage.
"I've walked ten thousand steps every day to keep fit. I've eaten the skin of chickens because you said lean meat is better for a wife-to-be. I've drunk only water, not wine, because a lady must remain sharp." She added, then took a step forward.
"But I will not marry a man whose heart is as dark as the tunnels he throws people into." Alana added.
Zarek's eyes narrowed. "This isn't about darkness, girl. This is about legacy. Protection. Power."
"This is about control," she snapped. "Your position as the most powerful and feared regent. Be whatever you want, Uncle Zarek, but I will marry for love. For family—"
"Love is expensive," he replied, voice flat. "And our family cannot afford it."
He turned and left her standing there, her hands clenched into fists.
That night, Alana sat in her chambers. The firelight flickered against the soft blue velvet of the room. Her cousin Daliah lay sprawled across the bed, eyes dreamy and wide.
"Honestly, I don't see what the fuss is about," Daliah sighed. "Simon Thorne is everything. He's tall, he's powerful, and have you seen the way he talks? It's like he was born to be obeyed. If he told me to kneel, I wouldn't even ask why."
Alana slowly turned toward her, one brow arching as she folded her arms.
"Then marry him."
Daliah blinked, caught mid-giggle. "What?"
"You like him so much," Alana said, stepping forward. "Then marry him. I'll sign the papers myself."
Alana and Daliah were cousins by blood, but in every other way, they were sisters. Born weeks apart, raised side by side in the cold halls of Valenson Keep, they had clung to each other like roots to stone. When Zarek's punishments grew too sharp, it was Daliah who snuck bread into Alana's room.
They shared secrets, dresses, even dreams, though Alana's were always cautious while Daliah's were dipped in wild hope. Where one was silence, the other was song. Where one held back, the other leapt first.
Despite the shadows that raised them, they had found light in each other.
Now, as Daliah giggled across the bed, hugging a pillow to her chest, Alana watched her with that same fierce affection.
"Marry him, Daliah," Alana repeated, not bothering to look up as she reached for the comb on her dresser.
The laughter died on Daliah's lips. She stared, unsure if it was a joke or a promise.
But before she could respond, the chamber door burst open. A breathless guard stumbled in, eyes wide, face pale.
"My lady," he said, voice quaking. "There's been an attack. The vault where Cylla is kept, it's been breached."
Alana's heart dropped, a sudden, crushing weight slamming into her chest.
For a moment, the world tilted. The firelight in her chamber blurred, flickering like the edges of a dream just before waking. Her fingers, still loosely wrapped around her silver comb, went limp. It clattered to the floor, forgotten.
"No," she breathed.
Daliah sat up slowly, the pillow falling from her hands, her expression shifting from curiosity to concern.
Alana's mind raced. The vault. Cylla. Everything, the marriage, the manipulation, the cruel negotiations, it had all been for this. And now it might be gone ?
"They're saying… someone let them in."