Berith stepped forward, the sound of his polished boots echoing against the marble floor. The air was heavy with solemnity. The stained-glass windows casted vibrant patterns of red, blue, and gold onto the pews where nobles sat, their faces turned toward the altar.
Marcella sat on one of the side benches with Anthony. Her fan dangling lazily from her fingers as she watched him ascend the steps to stand before the High Priest. She leaned back slightly, crossing her legs with calculated poise. Her purple eyes narrowing as they followed his every movement.
Who could've thought, she mused. Her lips curling into a faint, bitter smile, that this flawless, noble Duke would one day ruin this land?
Berith knelt before the altar, his dark coat catching the light from the flickering candles. Behind him, the nobles shifted in their seats. The royal family sat in the front row, their expressions calm and dignified.
High Priest Alistair Valemont stood tall in his ceremonial robes of gold and white. In his hands, he held a silver chalice, the sacred artifact used in oaths of allegiance.
"Duke Berith Montclair of Ashenholt," Alistair intoned, his voice resonating through the hall, "you kneel here today to swear your loyalty to the crown, the Church, and the people of this land. Do you understand the weight of this vow?"
"I do," Berith replied, his deep voice steady and unwavering.
Marcella squinted her eyes further, studying his posture, the controlled cadence of his voice, and the way his hands rested loosely on his knees. He seems too perfect, she thought. No hesitation, no flaw, no tell.
Her fingers tightened slightly around her fan. How could no one else see it?
Her father raised the chalice high. "Do you swear, before God and the heavens, to uphold justice, protect the Church, and defend this empire with your life?"
"I swear," Berith said, his voice smooth, like the blade of a knife cutting through silk.
Her lips twitched. He sounds convincing enough to fool the heavens themselves, she thought.
"Do you swear to serve the crown with unwavering loyalty, to act with honor, and to carry the burden of your title with dignity?"
"I swear," Berith repeated, inclining his head slightly.
Honor? Dignity? Marcella thought, her gaze sharpening. You'll destroy them all before they even realize it.
"And do you swear, Duke Berith," Alistair continued, "to shield this land from darkness, to act as a ray of light for the people, and to uphold the virtues that bind us together as one?"
For a brief moment, Berith was silent, his dark eyes fixed on the chalice as if contemplating the question.
Marcella felt her breath hitch, her grip on the fan tightening. Was this hesitation? Doubt?
But then he spoke.
"I swear," he said, his tone measured, almost reverent.
Marcella exhaled softly, the tension leaving her shoulders. No hesitation, then. If there was any doubt in his heart, he hid it well—too well.
He knelt before the High Priest—her father—as the final rites of his oath-taking ceremony concluded. The murmurs of the assembled nobles and clergy filled the grand hall.
Alistair dipped his fingers into the sacred oil, drawing a small cross on Berith's forehead. "Then rise, Duke Berith of Ashenholt, as a sworn protector of this empire, bound by the will of God and the faith of the people."
Berith rose smoothly. His dark eyes swept across the room briefly before he offered a polite bow toward the altar. The hall erupted into polite applause.
Marcella didn't move. She remained seated, her fan resting lightly against her fingers. Her expression was calm, neutral, but her gaze never left him.
Her thoughts, however, were far from calm. "You stand there, taking oaths to protect this land, but I know what's coming, she thought bitterly. Ten years from now, you'll plunge this empire into ruin, and none of these fools will see it coming."
To the untrained eye, he was the perfect nobleman—flawless manners, effortless charm. But Marcella wasn't a fool. She saw the cracks others couldn't. The coldness in his gaze that no smile could warm. He was a predator, every bit the devil she knew him to be.
As the applause died down, the royal family rose to approach the Duke.
The King Thomas Cassivane, led the way. His tall and imposing frame was draped in regal crimson and gold. His graying hair and sharp features gave him the air of a man who had seen decades of rule and worn its weight with dignity. His cold blue eyes, however, betrayed little emotion as he clasped Berith's hand.
Queen Isolde Cassivane followed, her golden gown shimmering like sunlight as her crown caught the light. Her beauty, though fading with age, was still striking. She offered Berith a gracious smile.
Last was the Crown Prince, Lucian Cassivane a younger reflection of his father, though far less severe. His blonde hair was neatly combed, and his green eyes were brimming with youth. Oh, Lucian. He looked so young, carefree and innocent.
He shook Berith's hand firmly, leaning in to say something that made the Duke smirk faintly—though Marcella couldn't hear the words.
"I must say," Anthony's voice startled her, and she turned her head slightly to see him standing beside her. His grin was as lazy as ever. "You're staring awfully hard for someone who isn't interested."
Marcella arched a brow, flicking her fan open to hide her smirk. "Oh, don't flatter yourself, Anthony. I'm not staring at you."
"Obviously not," he replied with mock indignation, crossing his arms. "But if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to set the Duke on fire with your eyes alone."
Marcella snorted softly, lowering her fan to glance at him. "Wouldn't that be convenient?" she said dryly. "Unfortunately, it would also ruin the carpets, and I'm sure the Church doesn't have the budget for new ones."
Anthony chuckled, leaning against the column beside her. "So, what is it about him that's caught your attention, hmm? His flawless manners? His perfectly polished boots? Or is it his devilishly handsome face?"
Marcella shot him a sharp look, her purple eyes narrowing. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, though her voice was unusually clipped.
"Oh, you're blushing," Anthony teased, grinning wickedly. "Is that fear or fascination, I wonder?"
"Neither," Marcella snapped, her fan snapping shut with a soft click. "I'm simply wondering how much longer I have to endure this charade before I can leave."
~~~~~~
"May I have your attention?" At the far end of the room, her father stood beside the King. His deep voice cut through the murmur of the crowd, silencing it instantly.
All eyes turned toward him.
Marcella's chest tightened, her grip on her fan growing faintly tense. She knew what was coming. She had lived it before.
Her father raised a goblet, his voice warm and proud. "It is with great joy," he began, "that I formally announce the engagement of my eldest daughter, Lady Rachel Valemont, to His Grace, Duke Berith Montclair."
The words echoed through the hall, and Marcella felt as though the air had been punched from her lungs.
Polite applause rippled through the crowd, though subdued by the setting. Marcella barely registered it. Her gaze darted toward Rachel, who stood a short distance from her father. She smiled demurely. Rachel looked every bit the image of a perfect bride-to-be, glowing with happiness as she stepped forward to stand beside Berith.
Her stomach twisted when she saw Berith turn toward Rachel, offering her his arm. He bent his head slightly, his lips curving into a polite smile.
And yet, Marcella saw it—the faint flicker of something cold in his dark eyes, the way his smile didn't reach them.
You're fooling them all, she thought, her nails digging into her palm. Every single one of them.
The applause began to fade and the nobles stepped forward to offer their congratulations once again. Marcella barely heard them. Her mind was consumed by the memories clawing their way to the surface.
The same room. The same people. The same announcement.
In her first life, she had stood in that very church, glaring daggers at Rachel as the engagement was announced. She had burned with jealousy, her envy a fire that fed on her soul. Rachel had been chosen as Berith's bride—the title of Duchess slipping through Marcella's fingers, along with the power and prestige she had craved so desperately.
She had hated Rachel for it. Her perfect sister, always doted on, always admired.
That jealousy had driven Marcella to the brink of madness. She had schemed, plotted, and ultimately created the very scandal that had destroyed Rachel's engagement.
And for what?
To claim Berith for myself? she thought bitterly. How foolish I was.
Her jealousy had blinded her to the truth. Berith was no savior, no prize. He was a monster, a devil in disguise, and she had willingly walked into his trap.