The world outside was alive with noise—the clamor of the townspeople, the murmurs of congratulations, the sound of distant laughter. But in the small, dimly lit room, Vania could barely hear any of it. The weight of the moment pressed down on her like a physical force, suffocating her, making it impossible to breathe.
She stood in front of a full-length mirror, staring at her reflection as though it belonged to someone else. The wedding gown—too fine, too beautiful, too much—clung to her frame like a trap. Its delicate fabric shimmered in the soft light, but Vania could feel nothing but the coldness that had settled in her chest.
She was supposed to feel joy. This was supposed to be a day of celebration, a moment she had been taught to dream about. Yet all she felt was a growing emptiness. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt like herself.
Today, she was meant to marry Prince Challierz, a man who had taken everything from her—her freedom, her peace, and now, her future. He was a stranger to her heart, someone who had never seen her as more than an object to be claimed. She had no choice. No say. This was her life now.
The voice came suddenly, creeping in like a shadow, cold and insistent. "What are you waiting for? You're already lost. This life isn't yours to live."
Her breath caught, and the weight of the voice pressed down on her. The words seemed to claw at her, digging into her mind with cruel precision. Her fingers trembled, as if on their own accord, and reached toward the sharp object on the vanity—a small carving knife she had once used to shape her artwork.
The blade felt strangely comforting in her hand, its cold edge a promise of release. "Just end it. No one will care. No one ever has. You're nothing. A shadow. A thing to be used."
The voice rang louder, stronger, each word a lash of bitterness, of hopelessness. Her grip tightened around the handle, and for a brief moment, she thought she might actually do it—might end it all and slip away from the weight of this unbearable life.
But just as her thoughts began to spiral further, a soft knock at the door broke through her mind like a wave crashing against a cliff.
"Miss?" The voice outside was gentle, unaware of the turmoil inside. "The ceremony is about to begin."
Vania's hand faltered, and the carving knife slipped from her grasp, clattering against the vanity. She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself, to push the thoughts away, but the voice still echoed faintly in her mind.
She wiped her face quickly, as if that could erase everything—the suffocating dress, the weight of her own heart, the emptiness that had come to consume her. With a deep breath, she stood up straighter, wiped her eyes, and nodded toward the door.
"I'll be there," she whispered, her voice barely audible, a raw rasp of someone who had already given up.
The door opened, and the maid stepped in, her face bright with excitement, ready to usher Vania toward the life she had no choice but to accept.
Vania forced a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. She turned away from the mirror one last time, the quiet whisper of the voice still clinging to her thoughts.
"You'll never be free."