The tension in the air was palpable as Emily stood before a tall, ornate mirror, her fingers clutching the fabric of her white gown. Lady Moragona and a few maids busied themselves around her, fastening clasps and adjusting her dress, while Emily's heart raced in anticipation of the night ahead.
The gown they had chosen for her was beautiful in its simplicity, yet heavy with meaning. Made from fine silk, it was a pristine white, the symbol of purity, innocence, and a fresh start—though none of those things felt like they applied to her now. The gown flowed elegantly from her shoulders, with delicate lace patterns embroidered along the neckline and sleeves, adding a touch of intricacy. It clung to her in all the right places, hugging her waist before cascading down to the floor in a waterfall of shimmering fabric. The maids had taken their time ensuring that every fold and pleat fell perfectly, as if the slightest imperfection would be unacceptable.
The tiara that now adorned her head was more than a piece of jewelry; it was a crown of responsibility. Made from silver and encrusted with small diamonds, it gleamed against her blonde hair, which had been swept up into an elegant knot. The tiara shimmered in the dim candlelight, a small but stark reminder of the life she was now bound to—a queen, married to a king she did not love.
"You look exquisite, Your Majesty," Lady Moragona said softly as she placed a necklace around Emily's neck. The necklace was a delicate silver chain, with a single pearl hanging from the center, simple yet elegant—perfect for a queen.
Emily swallowed hard. "Thank you, Lady Moragona," she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.
The older woman, ever perceptive, caught the unease in Emily's tone. "I know this is not easy, my lady," Moragona said, stepping back to assess her handiwork. "But you are strong. You have faced much already, and you will face this, too."
Emily's eyes met Moragona's in the mirror. "It's not the wedding that frightens me," she admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's the night. What will happen when I'm alone with him…"
Moragona's face softened, and she stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on Emily's shoulder. "King Niklaus is... intense, yes," she said cautiously, choosing her words carefully. "But you must remember, my queen, that you hold more power than you realize. He may be the king, but you are his match. You are no ordinary woman."
Emily's chest tightened at the words. She wanted to believe them, but the thought of being alone with Niklaus, in his chambers, sent chills down her spine.
"They say he will not be gentle," Emily whispered, her voice trembling.
Moragona hesitated, her eyes clouding with worry. "The king is not a gentle man by nature, but... there is more to him than what people see. He is not without honor, nor without restraint." She paused, her gaze softening. "Do not forget your own strength, my queen. You have already proven your courage."
Emily nodded, though her heart still fluttered with fear.
After the final touches were made—dark kohl lining her eyes, making her blue gaze appear even more striking, and a soft dab of rose-colored balm on her lips—the maids stepped back, admiring their work. Emily's gown shimmered in the flickering candlelight, her tiara glinting like a crown of ice. Her perfume, light and floral, filled the air around her, though it did little to soothe her frayed nerves.
The maids led her down the dark corridors toward the king's chambers, and with each step, Emily's heart pounded harder in her chest. The castle was vast and looming, its walls made from dark stone, towering over her like a fortress of shadow. Large, ornate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting eerie, flickering light across the stone floors. Tapestries depicting old battles and conquests adorned the walls, their colors muted in the dim light.
As they approached the king's chambers, the atmosphere grew heavier, darker. The air was thick with anticipation and an ominous sense of finality. The doors to Niklaus's chambers were massive—heavy wooden doors reinforced with iron, standing like a gate to some dark, forbidden realm.
One of the maids opened the door slowly, and Emily stepped inside.
The king's room was vast and shadowed, as dark as the man himself. The stone walls were bare except for the few tapestries, which depicted brutal, fiery scenes of war. A single large chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting dim light that did little to push back the shadows. Heavy velvet curtains framed tall, narrow windows, but they were drawn, allowing no light to enter. The fireplace crackled softly in the corner, its flames casting a low, flickering glow over the room, but the heat from the fire did nothing to warm the cold atmosphere.
At the center of the room was a massive bed, draped in rich, deep red velvet and black silks. The bedposts were carved from dark wood, intricately designed with images of coiling serpents and flames, making it feel like the heart of a dark, ancient ritual. The bed, though luxurious, felt more like an altar—a place where she was meant to be claimed, not loved.
The maids had decorated the room for the occasion, but the dark decor only heightened her dread. Flowers, rich in color, adorned the table near the window, but their beauty felt suffocated in the darkness of the room.
She swallowed hard as the door behind her closed with a soft click. The room was deathly silent, save for the low crackling of the fire.
Emily's breath hitched as she slowly moved toward the bed, her hands trembling slightly. Her thoughts raced wildly, fear gnawing at her insides. She removed her tiara and placed it on the nightstand. She climbed onto the bed, feeling the heavy velvet beneath her fingers, and laid back, pulling the thick blankets over herself. Her body was tense, her breath shallow.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pretending to sleep, her heart racing as she waited for the moment when Niklaus would come to claim her.
Her breath hitched as the door creaked softly open. Every muscle in her body froze as she heard the sound of footsteps—the unmistakable sound of boots on the stone floor, moving slowly, purposefully, toward her. Niklaus had arrived.