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Evening.
Grand Dining Hall, Wyfkeep Castle.
Wyf-fellon, Wyfn-Garde.
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The evening had grown heavy with the approaching dusk, and finally, Lilian, whom Salviana has mentally nicknamed 'Narc-Princess' and Margaretha, the Gaunt-gaudy-quack lady-in-waiting, had left. Salviana felt an overwhelming sense of relief as the door closed behind them.
She desperately craved a moment of solitude, to just breathe and collect her scattered thoughts. But even that was a fleeting hope. Dinner with the Velthornes was fast approaching, and the maids were already bustling around, preparing her for the next phase of royal expectations.
With a small sigh, Salviana decided to take a walk around the chambers, hoping the brief escape would clear her mind. Emma followed closely, though Salviana wasn't sure the maid had any more idea of the layout than she did. At one point, they circled the same corridor twice, and Salviana couldn't help but let out a tiny laugh under her breath. "I think we're lost," she murmured, glancing at Emma, whose eyes widened in silent panic.
But Sarah came to their rescue, and they continued their walk, the walk led them outside, to what Sarah enthusiastically proclaimed as the "flower garden." Though, to Salviana's surprise, there wasn't a single bloom in sight. Instead, the space was barren—only patches of soil and the occasional dry leaf. She raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused. "Are you sure this is the flower garden?" Salviana asked, her voice lined with scepticism.
"Oh yes, my lady," Sarah chirped, her cheerfulness unwavering. "It's just that the flowers haven't bloomed in a while. They say it's because of the weather or... maybe because no one's been taking care of them."
Salviana nodded, offering a faint smile despite her disappointment. "Maybe they just need a little attention," she whispered, unsure if she was talking about the flowers or herself. Still, Sarah's bubbly personality lifted her spirits a little, and for that, Salviana was grateful. After all, this dark part of the castle needed all the light it could get.
Back inside, it was time to prepare her for dinner, but Salviana felt so drained that she requested to be bathed for bed as well. She didn't want to have to endure another round of preparations after dinner.
The maids agreed, working quickly but carefully to ensure she was both refreshed and appropriately dressed for the Velthorne dinner. As she sat before the mirror, Priscilla took over her hair, combing it with deliberate force. Every drag of the brush seemed intentional, like the maid was testing her patience. She had noticed Priscilla's scowls and glares, but this was simply disrespectful.
Then Priscilla started to make Salviana's hair into an updo, and the tightness of the updo she was fashioning already caused a dull ache at her temples, making Salviana's face scrunched in discomfort, though she said nothing. Instead, she stared at her reflection, trying to endure the process.
She was married now, and that thought felt and sounded foreign in her head, She sighed.
The longer she sat, the more she realized that being a princess was not about comfort. It was about appearances, endurance, and silent suffering. And as much as she longed to say something to Priscilla about her overly aggressive handling, she held her tongue. Her face, however, was an open book—eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed tightly together.
Priscilla caught her reflection in the mirror. "Is something the matter, Your Highness?" she asked, though her tone was anything but sympathetic, if allowed, she'd carry a smirk.
Salviana forced a smile, though it barely touched her eyes. "Nothing at all," she replied, her voice strained. The pounding headache told a different story, but she wasn't about to give Priscilla the satisfaction of knowing she'd succeeded in making her uncomfortable.
Just then, an impatient knock sounded at the door. "It's time to join the family for dinner, Your Highness," one of the guards announced, his voice stern.
Salviana glanced at the door, her heart sinking slightly.
Was she really expected to go alone?
Where was Alaric?
He hadn't returned yet, and she wasn't sure if it was appropriate for her to attend dinner without him. She kept hoping, with each passing moment, that he would walk through the door, perhaps delayed by some matter. But as the maids hurriedly finished applying her makeup, the realization set in—Alaric wasn't coming.
Did he not care to dine with the Velthornes?
Or had something important held him up? The thought unsettled her.
She wanted him to be fine, but if he was that meant he intentionally abandoned her to do this alone.
She barely knew these people—her new family—and now, she had to face them alone, with no idea of what awaited her at the dining table. Her stomach twisted, but she stood quickly, smoothing the deep sapphire gown chosen for her. The fabric shimmered slightly as it caught the light.
The guards stood by the door, less patient than before. "It's dinner time," they repeated.
Salviana took a deep breath and stepped out; she met the guard's gaze with an apologetic smile before she noticed something. The guard from yesterday who winked at her was not here. Wasn't he one of their chamber guards?
She wanted to ask about him, but she didn't know how because they didn't talk before. She nodded and simply moved, moving quicker than her thoughts.
With every step, the weight of her new life pressed on her—the constant need to present herself, to endure, to prove she was worthy of the title "princess."
As she descended the grand staircase toward the dining hall, her nerves spiked. She barely knew the layout of this castle. Though she kept her head high, her heart pounded. The echo of her heels against the stone floors was a constant reminder of how exposed she felt. She kept glancing back, still half-expecting Alaric to appear, to walk beside her. But each time, she was met only with shadows.
She was running late.
'Do not run.' Salviana chanted to herself. She knew she was late, but she couldn't afford to forget the lessons she'd learned from home.
'Home.' A place she didn't know how to feel about—neither entirely sad nor longing, but filled with regret and confusion. She missed it, yet couldn't imagine going back.
As she reached the grand doors of the dining hall, her mind raced.
What would they talk about?
Would the Velthornes be kind or cruel?
Would they judge her, this outsider, as unworthy of their noble blood?
The guards pushed open the doors, and the warm glow of candlelight greeted her, accompanied by the quiet clinking of silverware against plates.
Entering, Salviana maintained a calm face, her expression carefully neutral, though her heart still thundered in her chest. The Velthornes were already seated—her new in-laws—speaking in hushed voices. The conversation fell silent as all eyes turned toward her.
Princess Lilian, seated near the head of the table, was the first to speak. "Ah, Third Princess!," she said, her voice dripping with false warmth. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd lost your way."
Salviana forced a smile, her voice steady despite the unease inside. "I just had a few things to finish before joining you," she explained.
"Could you be any later?" A woman who bore a strong resemblance to the queen said loudly as Salviana approached the table. Salviana didn't know her, though she wished she did—it might have helped her gauge how to react. The woman was Lady Diana Reed, not a Velthorne but close enough to the royal family as she was the queen's sister.
"Some people don't seem to know anything about first impressions," Christiana, the second princess, muttered without even glancing at Salviana.
'This wasn't the first meeting though,' Salviana's face said.
"Or how to behave royally," added Princess Jollene, the fourth princess. These two were close, their vindictive nature evident even in the dining hall. Separated by only one seat, they exchanged insults under their breath like a sport.
Meanwhile, Princess Abigail, seated between them, eyed Salviana with quiet curiosity. Her short, light brown hair framed her face like a man's, and her narrowed grey eyes seemed to study every inch of the newcomer.
"Your Majesties," Salviana curtsied to the king and queen, ignoring the stares and comments. She acknowledged everyone at the table, even though the children were absent, as they dined separately at their own table in the evenings.
Lilian's gaze swept over her, appraising every detail—her gown, her hair, her very presence. "Well, you're here now. Please, have a seat." Her smile was tight, almost predatory, though she likely considered it polite.
Salviana nodded, moving toward the empty chair left for her. Her movements were graceful, but her heart raced.
"Wait," Audrey Velthorne, the First Concubine, interrupted. Audrey, with her light brown wavy hair, stood only to Salviana's breast line but carried an air of authority that couldn't be ignored. She was short and curvy, known for her beauty and sharp mind.
"We sit hierarchically here," Audrey added, locking eyes with Salviana.
Salviana nodded, recalling the morning's seating arrangement and grateful she hadn't embarrassed herself. But before she could find her seat, Lilian stood up abruptly.
"Oh, let me help," Lilian said, her voice sing-song and condescending. "Come along, Serviette!"
'Serviette.' The nickname hit Salviana like a punch. She groaned inwardly, dreading the moment the rest of the family might pick it up and make it stick. She wished the woman would stop; she couldn't tell her here or anytime soon, maybe.
"So," Lilian continued, her hand firm on Salviana's arm as she led her to her seat, "you'll sit next to the sixth princess, Beatrice."
The eighth princess, Jennifer, threw a sharp look at Lilian when they reached her. "Move over. A real princess would've known to switch places before we reached this point," Lilian hissed.
Jennifer bit her lip, embarrassed, shooting a glance at Salviana.
"The movement should continue like this," Lilian said, still directing things as if orchestrating a royal play. Her husband, Benjamin, seated to the king's right, rolled his eyes.
Salviana felt a strong gaze on her, and when she turned to it, and she was met with Jarons intense gaze, she quickly looked away.
Finally, Salviana lowered herself into the chair, feeling the weight of the Velthornes' gaze heavy on her shoulders. The maids began serving the first course, but she barely noticed. Without Alaric by her side, she felt truly alone at this table of strangers. Yet, despite the pressure, she kept her expression calm, determined to survive the meal with her dignity intact.
But then, a voice broke the silence.
"Where is the Dark Prince?"