Chapter Three
"I've made a choice. I'll take her." Prince Arthur's words echoed in Aliya's ears, each repetition a cruel reminder of her fate. A wave of betrayal washed over her. She had hoped—no, prayed—that after saving his life, he would somehow spare her, would let her go home. But instead, he had chosen her.
A sharp voice pierced her thoughts. "Prince Arthur has made his choice. Lady Aliya, please step away from the other maidens and have a seat," the Herald announced.
Aliya lifted her gaze to meet Prince Arthur's. He had already returned to his seat, his eyes no longer the calm blue she had seen earlier. They were now a fiery red, filled with something intense, something dangerous. Her heart skipped a beat as she instinctively bowed her head. She was trapped. Her fate was sealed.
As the ceremony continued, the other princes made their choices. One by one, they stepped down from their thrones, selecting their maidens with a glance, as if choosing which life they would torment for the next year. Prince Philip, Arthur's immediate brother, chose Sophia, who stood trembling beside Aliya. The look of fear on Sophia's face mirrored Aliya's own.
The Herald's voice rang out again, announcing each chosen maiden, while the parents in the crowd cheered, their eyes betraying their sorrow. They knew what awaited their daughters.
"Will all the chosen maidens rise to their feet, come forward, and bow before King Alaric?" The order was clear. The maidens stood, their movements stiff with fear and anticipation. Some were trembling, others seemed to glow with excitement at the thought of belonging to a prince. Aliya could feel her hands shake, but she forced herself to walk forward with as much grace as she could muster.
They knelt before King Alaric, their heads bowed as tradition dictated. The grand hall fell silent, the only sound the crackling of torches on the walls.
The king's voice boomed, low and resonant, filling the room with authority. "Welcome, noble lords and ladies. Today, we honor a tradition as old as our kingdom itself. For centuries, it has been customary that each maiden who turns eighteen be presented before the crown. Every five years, as the cycle renews, six maidens are chosen for my sons, each one marked to signify her place and purpose."
He surveyed the crowd, his gaze sharp and unwavering.
"After one year, two of these maidens will remain in our castle, while the others are released to pursue their paths. But during this time, they shall serve my sons as they see fit, fulfilling their desires and ensuring their well-being and happiness. This practice not only honors our customs but also strengthens the bonds that tie our families together."
The king stepped forward, his voice dropping in intensity, and the crowd fell into a hushed silence.
"Today, we bind the chosen maidens to their new place. Each one shall bear the mark of my sons, branded upon her skin, a symbol that shows who claims her."
Aliya's stomach turned. She had heard the rumors, the stories of the marks—of the pain. But nothing could prepare her for the moment when it would become real.
"The mark is more than a seal; it is a testament of loyalty—of belonging. By the brand of fire, each maiden will carry the initials of her master, forever bound in service to him."
The words felt like a heavy weight pressing down on her chest. She had no choice. It was happening, and nothing could stop it.
The maidens stood as instructed, fear etched on their faces, their bodies stiff as they awaited their turn. Aliya tried to steady her breath, but her heart pounded in her chest, the sound deafening in her ears. The heat of the crowd's gaze on her back made her feel exposed, and vulnerable.
As attendants brought forward the glowing irons, the room held its breath. Aliya couldn't tear her eyes away from the instruments of pain, their heat radiating into the air. The others had already screamed as the irons touched their skin, the sound echoing off the walls like the cries of the damned.
"Lady Aliya, please step forward."
Aliya's legs trembled as she walked, each step heavier than the last. Her gaze flickered toward her mother, sitting among the crowd, her face pale with sorrow. A single tear rolled down her cheek. Aliya's heart clenched. Her mother had always regretted the day she had brought her into this cruel world, a world that had now marked her as property, bound by tradition and fate.
"I want the mark on her back," Prince Arthur's voice cut through the silence.
Aliya froze. The shock hit her like a physical blow. Other maidens were marked on their hands, why had he chosen her back? The crowd murmured, unsure of what to make of his request.
"As you wish, my Prince," the guard replied, bowing his head.
Before Aliya could protest, the guards turned her around with a practiced hand, unzipping her gown halfway. She gasped as the cold air hit her skin. Two other guards gently guided her to her knees, their hands cold against her trembling limbs.
The stone floor beneath her felt like ice. She wanted to scream, to run, but she knew it was futile. She had no choice but to submit.
The heat of the iron was the first thing she noticed, burning against her skin even before it touched her back. A sharp hiss filled the air, and then the searing pain began. Aliya's breath caught in her throat, and a cry escaped her lips, but she clamped her mouth shut, fighting the urge to scream.
The branding iron burned into her back, the heat crawling across her skin in waves. Her vision blurred, her body shaking as the pain spread like wildfire through her veins. The iron lifted, leaving behind the mark of Prince Arthur—the letter "A" burned deep into her skin, forever tying her to him.
The pain lingered, a dull throb that refused to fade. Aliya pushed herself to her feet, her movements shaky, but she held her head high. The crowd's eyes were on her—some curious, some pitying, but most filled with judgment. She had been claimed, and marked, and there was no going back.