On her wedding day, amid the clamor of celebration and the rustle of silken preparations, Asella stood utterly still. Quiet. Alone. Like pale moonlight falling upon a dead wasteland where not even a breath of wind dared to stir.
The snow-white wedding gown clung to her slender frame as though it had been sewn directly onto her skin. Jewels adorned every curve—diamonds at her throat, pearls woven through her hair, sapphires glinting at her wrists. Her features, already exquisite, had been painted to porcelain perfection. Her long silver hair, cascading past her waist, had been combed dozens of times with fragrant flower oil until it shone like liquid moonlight.
Finally, the crown was placed upon her head: the *"Glory of the Goddess"* tiara.
Madame Epordieu stepped back, pressing a hand to her chest.
"Just as I expected," she breathed. "You are simply *stunning*. Like a pearl—one that would sparkle with perfection even if it fell into mud."
The words were meant as praise. To Asella, they felt like a prophecy.
Madame Epordieu had dressed countless nobles—the most powerful, the most celebrated in all the Empire. She had seen beauty in every form. But she would have staked her life on this: none of them could surpass this girl. Her rare, ethereal loveliness was matched only by an innate aristocratic grace, a restrained elegance that seemed bred into her very bones.
"My God! What a beauty!"
"Like a doll!"
"No—a *statuette*!"
The assistants' admiring exclamations washed over Asella like cold water. She smiled, but the expression was bitter, hollow. _A doll_, she thought. _Yes. Beautifully packaged and placed in a shop window, waiting to be sold._
"My lady, you're so much lovelier when you smile. Come now—smile a little brighter."
Asella turned toward the flat, colorless voice. It belonged to the maid who had pricked her wrist with a needle earlier that morning. The woman's face was pleasant, her tone helpful. But her eyes were empty of warmth.
"You should practice," the maid continued. "So you can greet His Highness with a happier face."
Asella said nothing.
The maid leaned closer, covering her mouth with one hand as she whispered directly into Asella's ear: "After all... it's all for the good of the Charts family. And for your sister."
The words landed like a blade between her ribs.
Asella bit her lip until she tasted copper and nodded automatically. Only then did the woman pull away, satisfaction curling at the corners of her mouth.
---
"By the way," another maid chimed in, her voice light and conversational, "did you hear the news?"
"Oh, *yes*! It's truly wonderful!"
Asella's stomach tightened. The "wonderful news" these servants shared in her presence was always designed to wound her.
"Perhaps the lady will be surprised when she hears?"
"Oh, certainly! It's *remarkable*!"
They spoke as though Asella weren't in the room—or as though she were merely furniture, incapable of understanding. Philip had ensured that her access to information was severely limited. He didn't want her knowing the family's affairs. But when it came to her marriage, every humiliating detail was delivered to her ears with relish.
"His Highness the Grand Duke has decided to send the Marquis of Charts an additional box of gold bars as a wedding gift," one maid finally announced, unable to contain herself. "They say its value equals *three years'* income from all of Charts' holdings."
The words hung in the air like a price tag.
Asella noticed the rehearsed quality of their conversation—the way each line flowed into the next, as though scripted. Yet none of them ever told her what she actually wanted to know. They had no reason to be kind.
"Marielle?" Asella's voice emerged thin and strained. "What news of my sister? Is she well?"
She had asked this question dozens of times over the past few days.
The servants continued as though she hadn't spoken.
"Aren't you happy, my lady?"
"It simply hasn't dawned on her yet."
Asella pressed her lips together, sealing them like the shells of a clam. The room's atmosphere curdled, tension thickening until the air itself seemed difficult to breathe.
"The young lady is simply nervous," Madame Epordieu interjected smoothly, her professional instincts sensing the dangerous shift in mood. "I imagine she didn't sleep well last night. Don't worry, my lady—you'll see, everything will be fine."
The designer knew her craft well. At her words, the servants fell silent, their barbed comments dying on their tongues. Asella felt the pressure ease, if only slightly.
For a moment, something resembling peace settled over the room.
Then came the announcement:
"His Highness, Archduke Calix Benvito. In person."
---
From the moment the marriage proposal had arrived, Asella had never once met this man. She had been forbidden to leave the mansion. And he had never bothered to visit his future wife.
"Finally!" Madame Epordieu whispered excitedly. "The Grand Duke must be eager to see what his bride looks like!"
Asella stared at the door, her mind blank, her body frozen. The moment it swung silently open, she dropped her gaze to the floor. Fear seized her—sudden, total, suffocating. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, to vanish, to be anywhere but here.
Without raising her head, she forced out the words of greeting:
"I am glad to see you, Your Highness."
Around her, everyone present dropped into deep bows and curtsies. But the Grand Duke acknowledged none of them. Instead, Asella heard only the distinct, measured sound of approaching footsteps.
Closer.
*Closer.*
"Asella Charts."
The voice was cold. Dull. Eerie—as though it rose from the grave itself.
"Raise your head."
A suffocating sweetness filled her lungs—wine and dark chocolate, rich and cloying. Her legs weakened beneath her. Breathing became a struggle. Fragments of overheard conversations drifted through her mind:
_"Is there anyone more attractive than this man?"_
_"Oh, that *scent*! Wine and chocolate. What perfume does he wear?"_
_"No one knows."_
The fragrance wrapped around her like a serpent, squeezing tighter with each breath. Asella felt certain she would collapse at his feet.
"Can you hear me?" The terrible voice pressed on.
She couldn't answer.
"Or do you pretend not to hear?"
Long fingers seized her chin and jerked it upward.
Asella gasped. Her eyes flew wide—and met a gaze of burning, blood-red crimson.
She tried to turn away, to escape those eyes, but his grip was iron. The fingers tightened, pressing into her jaw until pain bloomed beneath her skin.
"No need to be so nervous," he murmured. The corners of his lips curved upward in a lazy smile—but a heartbeat later, his expression hardened to stone.
Slowly, deliberately, he surveyed the room. His gaze swept across the assembled servants like a scythe through wheat. Those who failed to look away in time felt an involuntary shudder crawl down their spines. They cowered. They bowed. They trembled like prey thrown before a predator.
The tension in the room became unbearable—a physical weight pressing down on every chest.
"Everyone out," Calix commanded.
Less than ten seconds later, the room was empty.
Only Asella remained. And the monster before her.
---
"Look at me."
Silence.
"Open your eyes."
Unable to resist the crushing pressure of his will, Asella slowly raised her lids.
His hair was black as pitch—as though night itself had woven a veil for his head. His eyes blazed crimson, bright and predatory. Her body went rigid. Something lurked in those eyes. Something that looked terrifyingly like madness.
"It suits you," he said.
Asella blinked, confused—then realized he was studying the tiara.
She struggled to form the words she had rehearsed countless times: "Thank you for the gift, Your Highness."
To Calix's evident surprise, her voice—though barely above a whisper—was perfectly steady. Clear. Controlled.
He smiled, just slightly, and ran his thumb along the curve of her chin in a slow, possessive stroke. Asella, still trapped by his grip, had no choice but to endure the unwanted touch. She stood frozen, as though nailed to the floor.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked.
"Yes, Your Highness."
His smile widened with satisfaction at her obedience.
"How much do you know?"
"You are the Grand Duke of the Garmanian Empire."
"And?"
"Heir and head of the Benvito family."
"Continue."
Asella hesitated. But his gaze—relentless, demanding—allowed no silence.
"The only heir of the most ancient bloodline with the right to inherit the throne..."
_A hero of the Garmanian War. The Empire's most eligible bachelor. A devastatingly handsome man._
There were countless ways to describe him.
But there was one description they preferred to keep silent about.
**_The Bloody Prince. The ruthless killer._**
Four years ago, he had appeared on the battlefield when defeat was already certain. He was only eighteen—a young man who had assumed the title of Archduke less than a month prior. By then, the Garmanian Empire had lost most of its southwestern territory. The generals had begun drafting terms of surrender.
Then Calix Benvito arrived.
Wherever he and his men appeared, all living things perished. When he raised his naked blade, cleaving the air in savage arcs, dozens of bodies fell—hacked apart, scattered like broken dolls across blood-soaked earth. Even his own soldiers feared him, following him through battlefields drenched so thoroughly in gore that the ground squelched beneath their boots.
But the most terrifying thing was his face.
It never changed. Not in victory. Not in slaughter. Not as he cut men down by the dozens with the same expression one might wear while reading a particularly dull report.
Horrible rumors circulated among the nobility—whispered in shadows, passed in secret. The aristocrats were particularly haunted by one story: how the previous Grand Duke, healthy and vigorous, had suddenly transferred his title and position to his young son... only to die within days.
Most of these rumors were empty fabrications. Yet they were rooted in very real facts.
When Calix Benvito returned victorious, however, all whispers vanished—drowned out by victory feasts and the glorification of a war hero.
---
"Nothing else to say?"
Calix's smile turned haughty as he noticed her hesitation.
"Do you know why I chose *you*?"
"...I don't know."
"Really?" He curled his beautiful, sensual lips. But unlike his smile, his eyes glittered with cold, calculating sparks—evoking an eerie, bone-deep chill.
"You know," he said softly. "And I know that you know."
"Let me go..." Asella whispered. "Please..."
"*Really?*"
Terror seized her completely. The realization that this killer stood so close—that his fingers held her face, that his breath warmed her skin—paralyzed her mind like a vice crushing her skull.
_Just as Calix said. She knew him._
Outwardly, he was a perfectly respectable young man. Impeccable pedigree. Immense wealth. Legendary fame. His handsome face and extraordinary abilities were captivating. But beneath it all lurked something else entirely: an incredible, calculating cruelty that only revealed itself in war. There, surrounded by death and chaos, he was in his element.
Asella tried once more to shake off his grip. It was useless.
As if reading her thoughts, he squeezed her face harder, his fingers pressing into her cheeks until her teeth ached.
"War is worth it," Calix murmured, leaning close. His lips brushed against the shell of her ear. "Especially when the spoils are *valuable*."
His breath ghosted across the back of her neck, sending a violent shiver down her spine. The ground seemed to tilt beneath her feet. She fought desperately to keep her balance.
"**Asella BENVITO.**"
The name struck her like a death sentence.
He was making it clear: she would never escape. She would live the rest of her life with his family. She would die a Grand Duchess. And even after death, the name *Benvito* would be carved into her tombstone.
The name *Charts* would fade into oblivion—as though it had never existed at all.
"You will bear this name," Calix whispered, "for the rest of your life."
---