Bells tolled.
Not the sharp clang of campus clock towers, but deep, ceremonial chimes that echoed through stone walls like the heartbeat of something ancient.
Rhea's breath caught as she realized, she wasn't dreaming.
She was standing in a cathedral, grander than any building she had ever stepped into. Pillars of white marble stretched toward a ceiling painted with moons and myth.Candles floated midair, flickering with a quiet, otherworldly grace.
And everyone was looking at her.
Rows of nobles in silver-trimmed uniforms, ladies with jeweled veils, guards with blades strapped to their hips. A holy man stood between them, robed in layered silk, holding a gilded book.
And across from her, stood the man she now knew as Cyrien Valehart. He looked like the portrait of every cold prince ever written.
Broad-shouldered. Expression unreadable. His silver ceremonial armor caught the light in sharp angles, like ice sculpted into human form. His jet-black hair was brushed back in effortless perfection beneath a thin, silver circlet. And his eyes —
God, his eyes.
They were the same ones from the library. Pale gray. Glacial. Like they saw straight through her.
The cursed prince, her mind whispered.
Firstborn of the late Queen. Destined to die unloved. Rumored to have killed for less than a misplaced glance.
And she Rhea Valencia, sleep-deprived college student and part-time library grunt, was apparently marrying him.
The priest's voice broke through the silence again, louder this time:
"Lady Rhea of House Valencia… do you swear, under the moon's gaze, to take this oath of unity—of alliance and loyalty—as the bride of His Highness, Crown Prince Cyrien Valehart?"
She stared at him.
Was this how it had happened in the book?
In the original story, Rhea — the original Rhea — had been handpicked by the Queen to marry Cyrien and keep him on a leash. A spy in bridal lace. A poisoned rose sent to root out rebellion and keep him from ever ascending the throne.
But Rhea hadn't read that far.
She hadn't finished the book. She didn't know how this went. Or how to survive it.
Cyrien's gaze flicked down to her, unreadable.
There was no kindness there. No expectation, just silence. Stillness.
He's waiting to see if I know my part…
Rhea's mouth was dry. Her heart slammed against her ribs like it wanted to bolt down the aisle and out of the cathedral.
But there was no door behind her.
Only hundreds of eyes and him.
And some part of her, the part that whispered this is fate and you're already in it — moved her lips before her panic could.
"I… do."
The words trembled, but they left her mouth all the same.
A murmur rippled through the audience. The priest gave a satisfied nod and lifted the ceremonial blade between them. Just a nick on the finger — a blood seal to bind the vow — and it was done.
Bound by moonlight.
Bride to a man who might want her dead.
Tied to a fate she couldn't rewrite.
Rhea barely heard the rest of the rites. The moment Cyrien's cold hand took hers and they turned to face the crowd, she only saw one person who wasn't smiling in the sea of applause.
The Queen.
Her expression was pristine. Regal. Perfect.
But her eyes…
Her eyes glittered like a predator who believed she still had full control.
She doesn't know, Rhea realized. She thinks I'm her Rhea. The one who serves her.
And that — maybe — was the only advantage she had.
For now.