Wedding Bells

The wedding day came in a blink of an eye, a whirlwind of preparations and whispered rumors about the match between the Duke and the king's daughter. And now here I am, standing before a grand mirror in a room suffused with golden light, the soft rustle of silk and the whisper of servants moving around me. My reflection stared back, almost foreign in its elegance. The dress, made of the finest Eternian silk, was a marvel of craftsmanship, every inch embroidered with tiny, glittering gems. They caught the light, sparkling like stars trapped in fabric.

I took a breath, my chest tight beneath the heavy fabric. I was beautiful, I thought with a strange detachment. Beautiful, and about to be wed to the Duke of Wilshire, a man I barely knew and certainly did not love. But then again, love was not the currency of this arrangement.

My father's dream was at stake - the uniting of all the kingdoms of Eternia under one banner, one rule. His rule. And for that, he needed me to marry the Duke, the most powerful man in the west, whose influence stretched beyond even the church's reach. The church, too, would benefit from this union, gaining the means to convert the "rebels of the truth," the so-called heretics and non-mortals who defied their doctrine.

It was all for a good purpose, or so they told me. A purpose bigger than my happiness, my desires.

"Arabelle, you look so beautiful," came a voice behind me, breaking into my thoughts.

I turned to see Jennifer, my old nanny, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You're the most beautiful damsel in the whole of Eternia and beyond," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

I smiled at her, a small, tight smile. Not for her sake, but for mine. I wanted to believe her, to feel the joy she felt. I wanted to believe that this day was worth celebrating, that I wasn't just a pawn in a game of power and politics. But what about my happiness? What did I gain from such a loveless political marriage?

"It's just for a year, Arabelle," I whispered to myself, almost like a mantra. "Just act like a wife for a year, and then you'll have your freedom."

The thought gave me some comfort. A year was a long time, but it wasn't forever. I could endure anything for a year.

The door opened with a soft creak, and a servant appeared, bowing low. "Your Grace, it is time," he announced.

I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest. I took a final look at myself in the mirror. My long dark hair fell in loose waves down my back, and my eyes were bright, not with happiness, but with determination. I would see this through. I would do what was expected of me.

The ballroom was stunning, the high vaulted ceilings draped in golden banners, the floors polished to a mirror-like shine. Every corner was adorned with flowers, their sweet scent filling the air, mingling with the aroma of fresh candles. The soft strains of a harp played somewhere in the background, a melody both melancholic and beautiful.

I took a deep breath as I began to walk down the aisle, my heart pounding with every step. All eyes were on me, but I felt as if I were moving through a dream, a haze of colors and sounds that didn't quite reach me. I focused on my steps, the feel of the fabric brushing against my skin, the steady rhythm of my breathing.

And then, there he was, standing at the end of the aisle. The Duke. My soon-to-be husband.

He was dressed in a fine dark suit, his blond hair combed back neatly, his green eyes watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. When our eyes met, he smiled, a small, almost amused smile that made something inside me twist.

I returned his smile, just a small curve of my lips, polite and reserved.

"I actually thought you would've run away with a palace guard or a servant boy," he murmured as I reached him, his voice low and teasing.

I couldn't help but let out a small laugh at the thought. "That surely would have made the gossip of the town, my Lord," I replied, my voice equally soft.

"Thank you for walking down this aisle," he said, his voice suddenly serious as he reached for my hand. His touch was cool, his grip firm but not unkind. We turned to face the priest together, our hands still joined.

In the presence of my father, the king, the church, and the people of Wilshire and my father's kingdom, we said our vows to each other. Vows we both knew we did not mean.

"I, Arabelle of House Corbin, take you, Damien of Wilshire, to be my lawfully wedded husband..." The words tasted strange on my tongue, foreign and heavy, like a language I did not know. I felt a tightness in my chest, a sharp pain that spread through me as I spoke.

Damien repeated his vows with the same practiced ease, his voice steady, his expression calm. There was no trace of emotion on his face, just the cool, composed look of a man who was used to getting what he wanted.

The priest smiled, his eyes bright with satisfaction, as he declared us husband and wife. The crowd erupted into applause, a wave of sound that crashed over me, drowning out everything else.

Damien leaned in, his lips brushing against my cheek in a chaste kiss. "Welcome to Wilshire, my lady," he whispered, his breath warm against my skin.

I nodded, my face a mask of calm. "Thank you, my lord," I replied, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur of faces and voices, of congratulations and polite smiles. I felt like a puppet, moving through the motions, my mind detached from my body.

When it was finally over, when the last guest had been greeted and the last glass of wine had been poured, I found myself alone in a small room off the main hall. I sank down onto a chair, my head in my hands, my heart pounding in my chest.

A year, I reminded myself. Just one year.

The door creaked open, and I looked up to see Damien standing there, his expression unreadable. He closed the door behind him, his movements slow and deliberate.

"You played your part well," he said, his voice calm and even.

I met his gaze, my chin tilted up defiantly. "I could say the same for you," I replied, my voice steady.

He smiled, a small, amused smile. "I suppose we're both good at playing roles, then," he said.

I nodded, not sure what to say. There was a tension in the air, a strange, charged silence that stretched between us.

"So, what now?" I asked finally, breaking the silence.

"Now," he said, his smile fading, "we pretend to be the perfect couple for a year. After that, you're free to do as you please."

I nodded, relief flooding through me at his words. "And you?" I asked, curious despite myself. "What do you gain from all this?"

He shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Power. Influence. The usual."

I laughed, a short, bitter laugh. "And here I thought it was all for love," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Damien chuckled, a low, deep sound that sent a shiver down my spine. "Love is a luxury we cannot afford, my lady," he said, his tone light but his eyes serious.

I nodded, understanding what he meant. In this world, love was indeed a luxury, one I could not afford. Not now, not ever.

He turned to leave, but then paused, looking back at me over his shoulder. "Goodnight, Arabelle," he said softly.

"Goodnight, Damien," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

As the door closed behind him, I felt a strange mix of emotions - relief, fear, hope, despair. I was married now, bound to a man I did not love, for a cause I did not believe in.

But I was also free, in a way. Free to be myself, free to find my own path, free to dream of a f

uture beyond this marriage, beyond this life.

A year, I reminded myself again. Just one year.

I could do this. I had to.