Wings of Ambition Shackled by Fate

After a few minutes, Valeria heard a knock on her door. Hope flared within her—maybe it was her mother, maybe she'd changed her mind and come to help her escape. But when the door opened, disappointment crashed over her. Two maids entered, faces blank and businesslike.

"Excuse us, my lady. We were sent to prepare you for the wedding," one of them said, moving into the room before Valeria could respond. Valeria's heart sank. She didn't want this, but as reality pressed down on her, she realized that she had no choice left. Just that morning, she'd thought she would inherit her father's title and become the Lady of Elsass. Now, all she had worked so hard for—all her ambitions—were destroyed, and fate forced her into a marriage she did not want.

The maids guided her to a stool before the mirror. Valeria sat numbly, letting them fuss over her. She felt hollow, trapped in a fog of despair. The maids asked her questions—how she wanted her hair styled, what look she preferred—but she barely heard them. She sat silently as they brushed her hair, painted her face, and fussed over every detail. An hour later, they finally stepped back, admiring their work. Valeria stared into the mirror. Some might call her beautiful with her light makeup, her eyes lined with kohl, her cheeks brushed with a soft pink, and her lips a delicate red. Her hair was half-up, half-down, with small braids adorned with white flowers.

But her eyes were empty, devoid of light. She looked like a ghost of herself. All she wanted was to wipe off the makeup, tear down her hair, and disappear.

Before she could act on the impulse, another knock came. A third maid entered, carrying a grand wedding gown. Valeria's heart pounded as she took in the extravagant garment, its fabric layered and embroidered with flowers, its train dragging like chains behind it. It felt suffocating just to look at it.

The maids lifted the dress, guiding her into it and fastening layer upon layer around her. The gown's corset squeezed her waist, making it hard to breathe. The puffy shoulders, the endless tulle, the heavy embroidery—it was too much. She felt weighed down, imprisoned in finery.

Everything that followed blurred together. She was dimly aware of being led from the room, of the pinch of uncomfortable shoes, of guards flanking her as she walked through the palace halls. She felt like a prisoner, dragged to her doom. They stopped in front of the grand doors to the throne room, two guards pulling them open. Gold gleamed on the doors, excessive and gaudy, a testament to the king's wealth. She thought bitterly of how the people of the empire starved, while the king surrounded himself in luxury.

And then she saw him. King Antonius Castell III stood by the priest, his icy blue eyes meeting hers with a cruel, predatory gaze. The throne room was empty save for the three of them; her family wasn't even there. She lowered her head, taking heavy, reluctant steps toward the altar. Each step felt like a march to the gallows.

Finally, she stopped before the king, refusing to meet his gaze. Many noblewomen would envy her position, but to her, it was a curse. Antonius might have a handsome face, but his soul was twisted and cold. She shut out the priest's words, not wanting to hear the binding vows that would tether her to this tyrant.

"…Do you, Antonius Castell III, take Valeria Elsass as your lawfully wedded wife?"

"Yes, I do," Antonius answered with a chilling smile, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.

The priest turned to her. "And do you, Valeria Elsass, take Antonius Castell III as your lawfully wedded husband?"

Valeria's chest tightened, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps. The corset bit into her ribs, the gown weighed down her limbs, and the king's eyes bored into her. Was there any way out? Could she run? But the guards would catch her in seconds. She couldn't say the words. She felt trapped, the walls closing in on her—

"Yes, she does." Antonius spoke for her, his voice dripping with disdain and impatience, cutting off her last shred of autonomy.

"With this, I declare you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride," the priest said solemnly.

Dread crawled up Valeria's spine. Her hands clutched the gown's heavy fabric, knuckles turning white. She felt the king's hand on her chin, forcing her head up. His face was close—too close. Before she could recoil, his lips pressed against hers in a quick, possessive kiss. When he pulled back, he smirked, his expression filled with mockery and amusement.

"I look forward to tonight, my beautiful wife," he sneered, then turned and strode away, leaving her standing there, alone.

Tears pricked her eyes as she stared up at the ceiling, struggling to hold back her sobs. What had she done to deserve this?