You're going to wear it

The moment Malvoria left, Elysia could finally breathe.

She let out a sharp exhale, pressing a hand to her chest, as if trying to steady the wild rhythm of her heart.

The room still carried the faintest traces of Malvoria's presence, like a lingering storm that had passed but left destruction in its wake.

But the feeling in her chest—it wasn't just fear.

It wasn't only intimidation.

No, there had been something else. Something heavier, something suffocating. Something she didn't want to name.

How could someone's presence alone feel like that?

She had been in the same room as powerful warriors before. She had trained with Seraphina, stood before her father when he was at his most enraged, faced down enemies who wished her dead.

And yet, none of them had made her feel what Malvoria had in those few, heated moments.

Elysia forced another breath into her lungs, running a hand through her damp silver hair.

Her skin still tingled, still remembered the weight of Malvoria's gaze, the way she had hovered just close enough to steal the air from Elysia's lips.

And then—the door opened.

Elysia stiffened, half-expecting her to return.

But instead, it was Zera.

She slipped inside, closing the door behind her, her movements tense, precise.

Elysia turned to face her, and their eyes met.

Zera's gaze swept over her quickly, taking in every detail, her expression unreadable. Then, her brow furrowed, and she took a step closer.

"Are you alright?"

Elysia hesitated.

The answer should have been simple.

She should have said yes.

Instead, she found herself struggling for words, the heat of the last few moments still clinging to her like a second skin.

Zera's sharp blue eyes softened, just slightly.

"Did she hurt you?"

Elysia shook her head immediately. "No."

That, at least, was the truth.

Malvoria hadn't hurt her. Hadn't even tried to.

But that was almost worse.

Because she could have.

And Elysia wouldn't have been able to stop her.

Zera watched her carefully, searching her expression for something unsaid.

And Elysia—Elysia knew Zera could see it.

She could feel the tension in the air, the remnants of whatever had just happened.

But she didn't push.

Instead, she let out a slow breath and ran a hand through her hair.

"She's dangerous," Zera muttered, almost to herself.

Elysia let out a humorless laugh. "I know."

A silence settled between them.

Zera exhaled through her nose, then gestured toward the bed where the dress lay.

"You're going to wear it?"

Elysia looked at the fabric, still untouched.

The deep royal blue shimmered in the dim candlelight, the silver embroidery catching the glow like threads of captured moonlight.

It was beautiful.

It was also a symbol.

A silent declaration that she was Malvoria's.

She wanted to refuse again.

She wanted to rip it apart, to burn it if she could.

But what would that accomplish?

Would it stop Malvoria from seeing her as a possession? No.

Would it stop the inevitable? No.

Would it save her father?

No.

But it would make things worse.

Elysia hated that she had to pick her battles like this, that she had to bend, even if only slightly.

She clenched her jaw, then reached for the dress.

She didn't say anything as she slipped it over her head, the fabric falling around her like water.

And Zera—Zera didn't say anything either.

But when Elysia turned to face her, Zera's fingers curled into fists.

And her eyes burned with something dangerously close to grief.

The dress fit Elysia perfectly.

The deep royal blue fabric cascaded around her like liquid silk, the silver embroidery catching the dim candlelight and giving the illusion of shifting patterns along its surface. It was elegant, regal—something she might have worn to a royal gathering back in Arvandor.

But here, in this castle, it felt like chains wrapped around her body.

She despised it.

She despised how soft the material felt against her skin, how well it fit, as if it had been tailored specifically for her. As if Malvoria had known she would end up in it.

As if this had always been inevitable.

Elysia clenched her jaw, adjusting the sleeves slightly, trying to ignore the weight of Zera's gaze on her.

Before either of them could say a word, there was a knock on the door.

A young demon servant stepped inside, her dark eyes carefully lowered.

"The queen has instructed that your hair be done properly before dinner," the servant said, her tone polite but distant. "Would you like me to—"

"No."

The word was not Elysia's.

Zera had answered before she could, her voice sharp, cold as steel.

The servant flinched slightly, her eyes flickering up in hesitation before quickly looking away.

Zera took a step forward, crossing her arms. "Leave."

The demon hesitated only a moment longer before bowing and slipping out of the room without another word.

Silence settled between them again.

Elysia let out a slow breath.

Zera was still tense, her fists clenched so tightly at her sides that her knuckles were white.

"Zera—"

"It's bad enough she's making you wear this," Zera muttered, shaking her head. "You don't need to let them treat you like some doll, too."

Elysia didn't argue.

She wanted to.

She wanted to tell Zera that this was not the time to push, that if she resisted everything, it would only make things harder.

But she didn't have the strength to say it.

Instead, she simply nodded.

After a few moments, another knock came.

When the door opened, a different servant stood waiting in the hallway, his posture stiff, expression unreadable.

"The queen is expecting you," he said.

Zera shot him a glare but said nothing.

Elysia lifted her chin slightly, smoothing down the front of the dress before stepping forward.

They followed the servant through the castle's labyrinthine corridors, moving through the same towering halls of dark obsidian, the same flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows along the walls.

Elysia could hear distant murmurs of conversation from deeper within the fortress, the quiet rustling of servants moving about, the faint sound of armored footsteps in the distance.

She felt eyes on her at every turn.

Guards stood stationed at every major passage, their black and red armor gleaming, their expressions unreadable as they watched her pass.

She was not a guest here.

She was a prize.

She had to remind herself not to let it show—not the anger simmering just beneath her skin, not the unease curling at the base of her spine.

She was still a princess, and she would not let them see her falter.

Finally, the grand double doors of the dining hall loomed ahead.

The servant leading them stopped just before reaching them, bowing slightly before stepping aside.

Two guards pushed the doors open.

The moment she stepped inside, her breath caught.

At the far end of the long dining table, seated in a high-backed chair, was her father.

And he had no injuries.