The dining hall felt like a trap.
The tension was thick enough to suffocate, pressing down on Elysia like a heavy cloak. The clink of silverware against porcelain echoed unnaturally loud, each scrape a sharp reminder of just how surreal this moment was.
She sat rigidly at the table, the polished wood stretching long between the four of them. Across from her, her father sat stiff-backed, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the table.
His eyes normally calm, composed burned with unspoken rage as they locked onto Malvoria.
The Demon Queen, for her part, looked utterly disinterested.
Malvoria lounged in her chair, her expression blank as she slowly swirled the wine in her glass.
The deep crimson liquid caught the light of the enchanted sconces, casting faint glimmers across the table. Her grey eyes were unreadable, her mouth set in a neutral line that revealed nothing of her thoughts.
If she was as miserable as Elysia was, she hid it better.
Beside Elysia, Zera radiated silent fury.
Her posture was rigid, her shoulders tense. Every few moments, her eyes would flick toward Malvoria like she was calculating how best to launch herself across the table and slit her throat.
And then—
Across from them, oblivious to the tension crackling like a storm about to break, sat Veylira.
She was the only one smiling.
She was the only one speaking.
And she had somehow managed to take control of the conversation like a general commanding an army.
"I was thinking," Veylira said, gesturing animatedly with her fork, "that we could go with crimson embroidery on the dress. It would symbolize strength, of course, but also passion."
Elysia nearly choked on her wine.
Crimson embroidery? Passion?
What the fuck was this conversation?
"What?" she managed to say, coughing as she set her glass down. "I—what?"
Veylira smiled patiently. "The dress, dear. White silk, embroidered with crimson thread. It would suit you perfectly."
Elysia's eyes darted toward Malvoria, silently pleading for her to intervene.
The queen met her gaze briefly, then arched a single brow as if to say, You're on your own.
Elysia scowled.
"I..." She struggled for words. "Isn't crimson a bit... much?"
"Oh, nonsense," Veylira said with a dismissive wave. "It's perfect for the occasion."
"The occasion being a forced marriage?" Elysia muttered.
"It's a royal union, dear," Veylira corrected brightly. "Which means we need to make a statement. Red is power. White is purity. The combination of the two will show the world that Arvandor and the Demon Dominion are united."
Across the table, Thalor let out a low, bitter laugh. "United?"
The room went still.
Veylira's smile faltered slightly. "Yes," she said, still pleasant. "United."
"This isn't a union," Thalor said, voice tight with suppressed rage. "This is conquest wrapped in silk."
Malvoria finally spoke. "Careful, King Thalor."
Her voice was soft. Quiet. But the menace beneath it was unmistakable.
Thalor's eyes narrowed. "Or what? You'll kill me?"
"Father—" Elysia began, voice strained.
Malvoria tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint smirk. "No. I promised Elysia I'd keep you alive."
Thalor's jaw clenched. "And you expect me to be grateful?"
"I expect you to eat your damn lunch," Malvoria replied coolly, swirling her wine again. "And to remember that your daughter made a deal to keep you breathing."
Elysia's stomach twisted.
The reminder stung—because it was true.
She had made that deal.
Her father's life in exchange for this sham of a marriage.
And the worst part?
She wasn't even sure if it was the right decision anymore.
"This wedding shouldn't happen," Thalor said, his voice raw. "This is madness."
"Madness or not," Veylira interjected, voice light but sharp, "it is happening."
Thalor shot her a look of pure venom, but Veylira merely smiled, unbothered by his hatred.
"Now," she continued, turning back to Elysia with an air of determined cheerfulness, "we were talking about flowers. I was considering black roses for the centerpieces. They're very striking."
Elysia blinked. "Black... roses."
"Yes! Symbolizing resilience and mystery."
Elysia glanced at Zera, who looked as though she were about two seconds away from hurling her knife across the table.
"You want the dining hall filled with symbols of death," Zera said flatly.
"No, no," Veylira corrected with a patient smile. "Resilience. Survival. And the contrast with the crimson and white will be gorgeous. You'll see."
Elysia wanted to scream.
This entire meal felt like a surreal nightmare.
She was sitting in a demon's castle, discussing her wedding with the woman who had destroyed her kingdom, while her father fumed, Zera seethed, and Malvoria sipped her wine as if this entire event bored her.
How is this my life now?
"And the guest list," Veylira went on, oblivious to Elysia's inner crisis. "Naturally, the noble houses from the Dominion will attend. And we'll extend invitations to the surviving Arvandorian nobility—what's left of them, anyway."
Thalor's jaw visibly tightened.
"You'll make a spectacle of this," he said, voice hollow. "Parade my daughter around to prove you've won."
"Of course we will," Veylira said, her smile razor-sharp. "That's the point."
Elysia wanted to disappear into the floor.
Her skin felt hot, her mind spinning with the rapid pace of the conversation.
This can't be happening.
This can't be real.
The sound of clinking glass brought her back.
Malvoria was setting her empty glass down, her expression unreadable.
"Two weeks," she said.
The words landed like a punch to the chest.
"What?" Elysia whispered.
"The wedding," Malvoria said, voice even. "It'll happen in two weeks."*
The breath left Elysia's lungs.
Two weeks.
Two weeks until I become Malvoria's wife.
The thought hit like a physical blow.
She gripped the edge of the table, her vision swimming as the weight of it settled in.
Zera's hand found hers beneath the table, squeezing tightly.
The warmth of her touch grounded Elysia, but it also reminded her of the stakes.
Two weeks.
Not enough time to plan.
Not enough time to escape.
Malvoria stood without warning, pushing her chair back with a low scrape against the floor.
She adjusted her uniform, her movements deliberate and controlled.
Elysia forced herself to look up, to meet that grey, piercing gaze.
Malvoria studied her for a moment—long enough for the air to grow heavy again.
And then, as she turned to leave, she leaned down just slightly and murmured:
"Two weeks isn't long. I hope you're ready."
The words slithered down Elysia's spine, cold and unforgiving.
She watched Malvoria walk away, her footsteps steady as if she hadn't just rearranged Elysia's entire world with a few words.
The door closed with a soft, ominous click.
Elysia's fingers tightened around Zera's hand.
Two weeks.
And there was no way out.