27: the marriage
Wedding Morning.
The "forgotten princess" was prepared like royalty.
The maids moved lightly, following strict instructions from Queen Elvira, who didn't leave a single detail untouched. It was as if Irene wasn't present at all—her body was being dressed in the finest garments of the palace, but her soul was absent, like a doll draped in luxury.
She wore a pure white dress, with no ornaments or glitter, but carefully chosen. The designers had only added deep crimson gemstones—beautiful, yet reminiscent of an unhealed wound. A heavy royal crown, specially prepared for her by her mother-in-law Isabelle, was placed upon her head, along with an extremely long veil that touched the floor.
Her hair was styled up meticulously. The reflection staring back at her in the mirror was not that of a bride—but of a prisoner walking toward her execution.
She silently climbed into the royal carriage and sat beside Queen Elvira, who hadn't stopped giving her instructions and commands.
Upon arrival, the queen said in a stern voice,
"Remember well what you must do. Once the ceremony ends, we will leave immediately. No room for mistakes. Once I'm gone—"
But Irene wasn't listening. She was only trying to breathe… to not suffocate.
---
The carriage arrived at the grand, ancient cathedral—a sacred hall packed with guards.
Though the wedding location had been kept secret until the last moment, the people found out. They gathered outside, whispering, shouting, protesting in hushed tones.
As Irene stepped down from the carriage with the help of the servants, voices burst from the crowd:
"No to Eiscard!"
"The traitor doesn't deserve the crown!"
"This marriage is a disgrace to Valerian!"
But the guards quickly intervened, silencing everyone with brutal efficiency.
Irene faltered for a moment, her steps unsteady, but she quickly composed herself. She lifted her head, unwavering. Those voices didn't frighten her… they ignited something deeper in her chest.
---
Inside, the great hall was lavishly decorated with royal splendor.
The entire ruling family was present: King Christophe de Valerian, his son the Crown Prince Bastian, his daughter Frida, and several high noble families—including Louis, Lucas' closest friend, from the wealthiest family in Valerian.
Irene stood beside her brother Reinold, his face void of mercy as always.
Just before the doors opened to welcome the groom, he leaned toward her and whispered:
"You understand your situation now, don't you? Don't you dare ruin this marriage. You're not that important… and you know what your fate will be if you disobey. This marriage is to cleanse your blood of treason—you know exactly what I mean."
She didn't respond right away. She only looked at him with burning eyes, then whispered in a steady voice:
"I'll make sure my blood is cleansed. Don't worry… I promise you that."
Then, in her heart, a voice only she could hear said:
"After I destroy you all."
---
The doors opened.
A solemn melody echoed, played by an orchestra in flawless harmony with the gravity of the moment.
The hall was astonishingly vast, filled with eyes that watched and breaths held.
The guests all rose in respect, while hushed murmurs passed through the back rows.
Irene advanced with measured steps, her arm hooked through her brother's. She walked like a princess… or a noble captive.
From afar, Lucas watched her. His eyes never left her cold features.
She ascended the marble stairs slowly, and at the top, Reinold faced Lucas directly.
He took Irene's hand and placed it into the groom's, then said aloud for all to hear, his gaze dripping with hatred:
"Take good care of her… She's my little sister, the spoiled one… Father's favorite."
Lucas didn't reply. He simply lowered his head in silence, as if avoiding a spark that could ignite a fire.
The marriage ceremony proceeded in orderly steps—ring exchange, formal words—then came the time for "the kiss."
Lucas approached her with calculated coldness, and merely kissed her forehead… a soft, distant gesture closer to a courtesy than affection.
Something flared inside Irene. A restrained rage that almost tore her chest open.
She didn't want a kiss of love, but she also didn't want damaging rumors to spread about her from day one.
Still, as always… she hid it all. And smiled.
A small, gentle smile that only stirred more whispers and murmurs among the guests.
Prince Bastian noticed it. He smiled faintly too, and in his eyes, directed toward Irene, lingered a trace of unspoken admiration.
---
A few minutes later, the guests moved to the grand dining hall, where a lavish banquet fitting for the occasion awaited.
The guests took their seats and began offering congratulations to Irene—each word laced with politics or flattery.
Irene replied with carefully measured responses, weighing every word, analyzing every face around her as though she were on a battlefield.
Some noble ladies introduced themselves to Queen Elvira, showering her with exaggerated compliments and artificial charm.
The hall overflowed with politics… and hypocrisy.
When the banquet ended, Queen Elvira departed immediately with her son Reinold and his wife, using the crown prince's packed schedule as an excuse—as had been planned in advance.
---
Irene rode in the wedding carriage with her husband Lucas.
It was ornate, crafted for the occasion… yet to her, it felt like a golden cage.
They didn't speak for a while, until she broke the silence with a cold tone:
"Why didn't you kiss me properly?"
He answered without looking at her:
"Didn't I tell you yesterday not to expect anything from me?"
Then he added:
"Why? Aren't you the one who said you don't believe in love? Did you suddenly change your mind?"
She pressed her lips together and replied:
"I didn't ask for a kiss of love. Yes, I said we're on the same page—but that doesn't mean we should show that coldness to everyone. Things will be hard enough for me already… and you just made it worse."
He turned to look directly into her eyes:
"You're more annoying than I thought."
She didn't respond. She simply turned to stare out the window… as if searching for an escape along the road.
Their first argument had come too soon.