Edict of Silence
"Tomorrow, we leave for the palace."
His voice was a blade sheathed in silk—smooth, effortless, sharp enough to draw blood without pressure. A decree, not a request.
Law.
Not something to argue. Not something to beg against.
His hand drifted lower, unhurried, deliberate.
It traced the curve of her ribs with the ease of one accustomed to obedience. When it settled at her waist, his palm rested there—not in affection, not in protection, but in ownership.
Aurelia did not speak. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. Muscles coiled like wire. Breath hitched, sharp and shallow. A familiar dread slithered through her limbs, cold and ancient, the kind that lived in bones, not skin.
The air thickened. The very stones of the walls seemed to hold their breath, waiting.
His grip did not tighten. He left no bruises.
Yet it pinned her as effectively as iron.
This was not violence.
It was worse.
Control, perfected through patience.
She shifted—just slightly, a silent protest. Her body leaned back, her hands hovering, fingers twitching like moth wings against the dark. The movement was hesitant, not for fear of pain, but for fear of his disappointment.
His fingers answered with silent pressure. No jerk, no roughness. Just quiet dominance. A wordless reminder:
You do not decide.
"Please." The word escaped before she could stop it, her voice a frayed thread. "Please don't hurt me."
The plea hung in the air, too fragile for the weight of the room. Too human for the creature beside her.
He did not answer.
He only watched.
His mask betrayed nothing, but it was never the mask that frightened her—it was his eyes. Dark, depthless, untouched by empathy. They did not blink. Did not waver.
They simply assessed her, as if she were not a woman, but clay to be reshaped.
When he leaned in, she didn't flinch—but her body went rigid, a bowstring pulled to snapping. He did not touch her face. His breath merely grazed her temple—cold, deliberate. The exhale of a man, yet something else in its precision.
"I don't hurt what's mine." His voice was low, yet it resonated in her bones like an oath spoken across centuries. "Unless it gives me reason."
Not a threat. A fact of who he turely is.
His hand remained on her waist, unmoving. Not caressing. Not demanding. Just there—a brand.
She couldn't look at him. Couldn't look away.
The space between them was narrow, yet infinite. Every breath felt stolen. The silence louder than a scream.
He studied her—not with hunger, not with malice.
With calculation.
As if measuring something unseen. The limits of her submission, perhaps. The contours of her fear.
"You'll learn."The words were almost murmured to himself. "At the palace, you'll understand why I brought you."
Then, as suddenly as he had touched her, he released her.
No flourish. No lingering pressure. His hand lifted, and the weight vanished—but the imprint remained.
She stumbled back, shoulder striking stone. Her legs trembled, but she did not fall. She caught herself against the wall, fingers digging into the rough surface like claws.
He turned away. No glance. No word.
He moved like a shadow detaching from the light—smooth, silent.
As if her pleading had never happened.
As if she were already forgotten.
And just before he disappeared, his voice came again, untouched by emotion:
"Sleep, Aurelia. Tomorrow, the real world begins."
The door closed—not with a slam, but with the quiet finality of a vault sealing.
-----------------
She did not move.
The cellar's cold no longer felt like air—it felt like hands, sliding up her legs, coiling around her wrists where shackles had once been. They were gone now, but her skin remembered.
Her fingers flexed before pressing flat against the wall, as if testing its solidity.
She turned slowly, movements measured, as if haste might summon him back. Her bare feet whispered over damp stone, the chill seeping into her soles like ink.
The corridor above was dim, torchlight flickering against the walls, shadows stretching like reaching fingers.
Her door stood slightly ajar. Just as he'd left it.
She pushed it open. Stepped inside.
Closing it took more strength than it should have.
Her body moved as if detached. She walked to the bed. Sat. Hands folded in her lap. Eyes forward.
She did not look at the mirror.
Not yet.
When she finally turned, her reflection stared back—pale, hollow. The silk dress draped over her like a shroud. Her face seemed foreign, her stillness unnatural. A performance. A role.
She looked away.
She did not cry.
She only sat—straight, silent, listening.
Not for footsteps.
But for the scream trapped inside her ribs.
She understood now.
There would be no escape. No hero. No miracle. No one even knew she was here.
And him?
He wouldn't kill her.
That was the point.
To live. To obey. To be reshaped into whatever he desired.
She was not a person now but a vessel.
And outside these walls?
Death waited.
It was honest. It wore no mask and would save her from this pain.
She sat there for hours, the cold seeping into her marrow.
Her thoughts, when they came, were calm. Methodical.
Not frantic.
Not hopeful.
Clear.
She would leave tonight—not to escape, not to survive, but to end it.
Even if the woods tore her apart. Even if the cliffs claimed her.
At least it would be her hand.
Not his.
She stood.
Her body ached, her skin still humming with the memory of his touch, as if his fingers had left invisible brands beneath the surface.
She crossed to the window. Gripped the bars. The metal bit into her palms, cold as teeth.
She did not close her eyes.
Did not pray.
Only breathed—deep, slow.
And then—
A shift in the air.
Behind her.
Not a sound. Not a breath.
A presence.
Dense. Inescapable.
Her fingers tightened on the bars. Her pulse slowed—not with calm, but with the eerie clarity of a predator's approach.
Then—
A voice.
Low. Certain.
"I told you to sleep, Aurelia."
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To be continued...