The wrong bride

The clatter of the carriage wheels against the cobblestone streets should have been a comfort, but something felt off. Marcella could sense it—a shift in the air, an unease that coiled deep in her gut.

Anthony had left to fulfill his unfinished chores while, she's on her way to the Valemont estate.

Marcella kept her gaze trained outside the window, watching the familiar streets of the capital pass by. Until they didn't.

Her brows furrowed. The route had changed. Instead of heading toward the Valemont estate, the carriage veered down an unfamiliar path, leaving behind the bustling heart of the city.

Marcella winced. "Coachman, where are you going?"

No answer.

A chill ran down her spine. "Turn back. That's an order."

Still, no response.

Instead, the carriage lurched forward at a breakneck speed, the horses pushing faster, hooves pounding against the dirt road. The sheer force knocked Marcella back into her seat.

Fear spiked through her veins. She reached for the door handle, twisting it—but it wouldn't budge. Locked. From the outside.

Panic clawed at her chest, but she forced herself to think. Stay calm. There must be a way out.

The windows.

She reached for one, fingers pressing against the cool glass, ready to shove it open— the carriage suddenly jerked to a stop.

Thrown off balance, Marcella barely had time to steady herself before the door creaked open.

A man stood before her. Not the coachman.

The realization hit instantly—the real coachman was missing. This man had taken his place.

Her gaze flickered over him, taking in every detail. Messy, shoulder-length black hair, streaked with strands of silver. Piercing golden eyes, a long scar ran down his left cheek, a cruel line that deepened when he smirked. He was dressed in a dark hooded cloak.

But it was his expression that unsettled her the most. Calm. Controlled. As if he had expected this moment.

"I apologize for the rough handling, Lady Marcella," There was a wistful note in his voice. He took a step back, giving her space. "But I needed to speak with you. Privately."

Marcella didn't move. Her pulse was still racing. She had been taken. Brought here against her will. There was no reason to trust this man.

She narrowed her eyes. "Who are you?"

He tilted his head. "A friend."

"I doubt that." she shot back.

His smirk widened, "I understand your hesitation. But I assure you, I am not your enemy." His voice was stern. "In fact, I might be your only ally in this cursed game you've been forced into."

Marcella clenched her fists. "Then start explaining."

He nodded. "First, step out of the carriage. We are safe here."

Safe? That was a matter of perspective.

Still, Marcella knew she wouldn't get answers while sitting in the confined space. After a tense moment, she cautiously stepped down from the carriage.

She found the place was quiet—too quiet. No passing carriages. No wandering merchants. Nothing but an eerie emptiness.

The man gestured to the open field. "Shall we talk?"

Marcella folded her arms. "Talk."

His golden eyes gleamed. "What Sister Evelyne told you… is only half the truth."

Her brows furrowed. "What does that mean?"

"You think you understand the shape of this world—the war between the Church, the Crown, and the forces beneath. But what you've seen? It's just the surface." His words ran through her mind.

Marcella didn't speak. Couldn't.

The man's gaze didn't waver. "Your engagement to the Duke—it wasn't meant for you. Your sister was meant to be the offering. The bridge. "

Her breath caught. "A—what?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his golden eyes drifted to the treetops, as if expecting them to whisper something back. "It was a seal. An ancient agreement between those who rule above and what waits below."

Marcella could barely keep her voice from cracking. "You're saying… the Duke was to marry Rachel as some kind of pact?"

He nodded. "The Church. The Throne. A marriage bound to old rites. To keep the balance."

Her skin prickled. Cold crept up her spine like fingers.

"And when Rachel was no longer an option…" he added, turning his gaze back to her, "someone made sure you took her place."

Her stomach twisted.

"That scandal?" he heaved an exaggerated sigh before continuing, "You thought you caused it. In your last life, maybe you believed it was your mistake that changed fate. But the truth is—someone wanted you to stand where Rachel was meant to."

Her mind reeled, struggling to make sense of it.

"But I replaced her," she whispered. "I became the Duke's bride."

The man nodded. "And that's when everything started falling apart."

Her chest tightened. She thought back to her past life.

Marcella had interfered. She had caused a scandal that forced Rachel out of the engagement and put herself in her sister's place. At the time, she thought it was just a reckless decision, a selfish choice.

But now…

Now, someone had ensured history repeated itself. Even though she hadn't started a scandal this time, she was still the one engaged to Berith.

Someone wanted her in this position.

If Rachel was meant to be an offering… then what did that make Marcella now?

Thwack!

The sickening sound of an arrow piercing flesh cut through the silence.

Marcella barely had time to register what had happened before the man staggered back, his body jerking unnaturally. His breath hitched, golden eyes widening in shock as blood bloomed across his chest.

A second later, he collapsed.

Her world tilted. Her body refused to move.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn't happening.

Her breath left her in a ragged gasp, her mind struggling to comprehend the gruesome sight in front of her.

That man lay motionless on the ground, the arrow lodged deep in his chest, his cloak staining darker with each second.

A terrible, strangled sound left her lips as she stumbled forward. She fell to her knees beside him, hands trembling as she reached out. "H-Hey…" Her voice cracked. "Wake up."

No response.

She shook his shoulder. "Come on, you— You were just talking!"

Nothing.

His golden eyes, once sharp and knowing, were now unfocused-- staring at nothing.

Dead.

Marcella jerked back. Her fingers curled against the fabric of her dress as reality came crashing down.

Someone had killed him.

Right in front of her.

Goosebumps skittered across her skin violently. She looked around. No footsteps, no movement, nothing. Whoever had done this was either watching… or already gone.

A shudder crawled down her spine.

Is this a warning?

The thought sent her into a spiral.

Marcella wasn't safe. Not here. Not anywhere. She clutched her head, dizziness pressing down on her. Her vision blurred, the world tilting in a nauseating swirl.

This was too much.

Her breathing grew shallow, hands going numb.

Why was this happening?

Why did everything—everything—led back to blood and death?

She couldn't escape it. Her body swayed, her thoughts scattering into an abyss.

And then— Darkness.