Asella paused at the threshold of the carriage, one foot suspended on the folding step. She had followed her sister up the stairs with measured calm, certain that years of hearing about Benvito wealth had armored her against surprise.
The carriage mocked that presumptuous confidence.
The interior was not merely luxurious—it was *obscene* in its extravagance. Asella's head spun as she took it in. The sofas lining either side were broad enough to sleep on comfortably, upholstered in rich crimson velvet that seemed to drink in the light. Above, a magnificent crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling's center, its dozens of faceted drops catching and scattering the glow of magical stones embedded in its frame—illumination that would serve passengers even in the dead of night.
The walls and doors were finished in emerald silk, embroidered with thread that could only be pure gold. It caught the light with every subtle movement of the carriage, creating the illusion of living vines climbing toward the ceiling. The floor was covered with hides so soft and exquisitely tanned that Asella wondered if she could even bring herself to walk on them in her worn shoes.
*This is where I'm going,* she realized, the thought striking her like cold water. *The Benvito family. The wealthiest house in the Empire.*
"Sister! Come in, hurry!" Mariel pressed her small palms against the plush sofa, her eyes round with wonder. "It's so soft and fluffy here!"
Only then did Asella force herself to move, entering the carriage so slowly she might have been dragged by an invisible rope. With a soft, trembling sigh, she lowered herself onto the crimson upholstery and stroked its surface. It truly was soft—impossibly so, like sinking into a cloud.
"It's much better than your bed, isn't it?" Mariel bounced slightly, unable to contain her delight. "Viscountess Etman told me that His Highness is *very* rich."
*I know,* Asella thought, but the words wouldn't come.
"She also said that the woman who marries him will be the luckiest in the Empire." Mariel's voice swelled with pride. "And that every other lady will envy her."
Asella didn't know how to respond to the girl sitting across from her, face shining as though she herself had received some great honor. It was the same thing Philip had said, his voice slick with false cheer: *"Marrying the Grand Duke is a tremendous stroke of fortune. Be grateful."*
If only it were true. But it was not. Not at all.
"Mariel..." Asella's mind went blank, the words dissolving before she could form them. After all the shocks of the past day, she felt as though she were being pulled down into some dark, suffocating swamp—sinking slowly, unable to scream.
"And yet," Mariel continued, her voice bright as morning bells, "I think His Highness is much luckier."
Asella looked up, startled.
Her sister smiled radiantly. "Because his wife will be someone as wonderful as you. I've never met anyone smarter or sweeter than you, Sister. You'll see—His Highness will feel the same way soon."
Something cracked inside Asella's chest. She knew better than anyone that the Archduke did not think of her that way. If he truly cared, would he have surrounded his reluctant bride with such overwhelming luxury? This wasn't kindness. It was a display of power—a gilded reminder of how small she was compared to everything he possessed.
*Mariel, he wants our lives. You may not live long.*
Saving her sister was the only thought Asella could hold onto. Everything else had become fog.
She managed a sad smile beneath her veil. "Thank you."
The fabric concealing her face had never felt more like a blessing. Without it, her quick-witted sister would surely have noticed the despair pooling in her eyes.
"Sister." Mariel slid across the space between them and pressed herself against Asella's chest, curling into her warmth. "I feel so good with you." Her cheeks were flushed, her small body radiating contentment. "I love you so much."
Asella's throat constricted. For a long moment, she couldn't speak at all.
"Me too," she finally whispered.
But for Mariel, that was enough. She laughed—a pure, trusting sound—and nestled closer.
---
Soon, a yawn escaped the little girl's lips, her hand rising belatedly to cover her mouth. It was already quite late. The Chartreuse garden glowed under bright lanterns, but normally Mariel would have been asleep hours ago.
"Are you tired?" Asella asked gently.
Even without being the bride, Mariel had endured being dressed in formal attire and paraded before guests. It had been an exhausting day.
"You look sleepy, little one."
"No," Mariel protested weakly, her eyelids already drooping. "I don't want to sleep."
"But your eyes say otherwise." Asella stroked the silver hair, soft as silk beneath her fingers. "Rest now, so you can wake early tomorrow."
"But I want to talk to you more..." Mariel's voice was threaded with regret. Another sweet yawn interrupted her, and she rubbed at her eyes with small fists.
Asella reached for the shelf beside her and withdrew a warm blanket, draping it carefully over the girl's small form.
"From now on, we'll talk every day."
"Truly?" Mariel's voice was already fading.
"We'll have breakfast together. Lunch together. Then we'll walk in the gardens, and at night—"
"That's impossible!" Mariel's eyes flew open with sudden alarm. "You can't sleep with *me*. You have to sleep with His Highness."
Heat flooded Asella's face, crimson spreading from her cheeks to the tips of her ears.
"W-who told you that?" she stammered.
"Viscountess Etman." Mariel's tone was matter-of-fact, as though reciting a lesson. "She said that when a man and woman marry, they sleep in the same bed. And that's how children are born. That's what Mother and Father did. That's why you and I exist."
"That's enough, Mariel." Asella's voice came out strangled. She had never been more grateful for her veil. Her face was *burning*. "Go to sleep."
"Yes... yes... the Viscountess said..." But Mariel could no longer fight the pull of exhaustion. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and within moments, soft snores rose from her small form, her head resting in her sister's lap.
Asella touched her forehead gently—so smooth, so trusting—then carefully disengaged herself, settling Mariel more comfortably on the sofa. She moved to the seat opposite and turned her gaze to the window.
There were no curtains. The glass must have been enchanted with magical stones—allowing those inside to see out while remaining invisible from without. *How many stones?* she wondered distantly. *What else might they do?*
Through the spelled glass, she could see the broad back of Calix Benvito. He had changed from his wedding attire and now wore black from collar to boot. Earlier, his white ceremonial robe had contrasted starkly with his dark hair, highlighting an almost unearthly beauty. But this black uniform was different—it confirmed the severity of his presence, lending him an air that was less beautiful than *dangerous*.
*What am I thinking about?* Asella caught herself, alarm flashing through her. *In a situation where my life isn't worth a copper coin—what does it matter how he looks in black?*
She straightened, forcing her attention outward. Philip was approaching the Archduke, his movements hesitant and fawning.
*What are they discussing?*
Even at this distance, she could read her stepfather's performance. He wore his theatrical face—the one that shifted between expressions like masks being exchanged. Servility melted into satisfaction, and Asella recognized that particular gleam in his eyes. It was the look he wore when he got exactly what he wanted.
*What now? What has he gained this time?*
Watching them, she swallowed against the anxiety climbing her throat.
At that moment, Calix turned.
Asella flinched, jerking back from the window.
Those bright crimson eyes stared directly at the spot where she stood. The glass was enchanted—*nothing* could be seen from outside. She knew this. And yet she felt utterly exposed, as though his gaze had pierced straight through the magic and found her cowering within.
Her heart stuttered, a trapped fish thrashing on a hook.
She forced herself still. Drew a breath. Then, with deliberate slowness, she leaned toward the window again.
He had already turned away. Now he was issuing orders to Raizen, his voice too distant to hear, his expression cold and commanding. The steward nodded, and one of the guards led forward an enormous black stallion—a beast as dark and imposing as its master.
*So he intends to ride.*
Asella blinked in confusion. There were no other carriages in sight, and this one had more than enough room. She had spent hours dreading the journey ahead, imagining what it would be like to sit across from this man for an entire week, trapped in velvet and silk with nowhere to escape his presence.
Relief washed through her as she watched him swing into the saddle with fluid grace, gathering the reins in gloved hands. Several mounted guards fell into formation beside him.
"Move out!" The Archduke's command cut through the evening air.
Then he wheeled his horse and rode in the opposite direction.
Asella stared after him, bewildered. She had assumed they would travel together. But the horses surged forward, hooves churning up clouds of dust, and within moments the riders had vanished into the thickening twilight.
She watched until the last shadow of Calix Benvito disappeared from view. Then, slowly, she turned to look at Mariel—still snoring softly on the sofa, her silver hair spilling across the crimson velvet, utterly unaware of the darkness gathering around them.
---
## — The Archduke's Orders —
Calix addressed Raizen, his thoughts lingering on the fragile form of his new wife.
"Make sure she's as comfortable as possible. A week-long carriage journey will be difficult for someone in her condition." His voice was clipped, efficient. "See that she doesn't lose any more weight."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Since I won't be present for most of the journey, ensure she doesn't fall ill. She's not accustomed to travel."
Raizen inclined his head.
"Take care of her sister as well. They're women—they may be too embarrassed to ask for what they need." Calix paused, his jaw tightening. "Be careful. Be *attentive*."
He remembered Asella silently shaking her head, refusing his kiss. Even after he had explicitly asked her to tell him if something displeased her, she had said nothing—only that small, desperate motion of denial.
*"Even if she refuses,"* he said slowly, *"that doesn't mean she doesn't need it. You must be persistent. And patient."*
What did this marriage mean to her? How had she perceived it from the very beginning?
He remembered her eyes—blue as glass beads, catching the light. Beautiful eyes. Terrified eyes. They had reflected only one thing.
*Fear.*
And this was not simply fear of the unknown, or of a strange man who had become her husband against her will. No. This fear had deeper roots. Something older. Something worse.
*So why did she agree? If she was so afraid—why?*
Mariel Chartreuse. The answer surfaced immediately. Perhaps Philip had been blackmailing her, threatening to kill the girl if Asella refused.
He had seen how fiercely she clung to her sister. That bond was unmistakable.
"Your Highness. Archduke."
Philip's oily voice interrupted his thoughts. Calix turned, irritation flickering across his features. *What does he want now?*
The man approached with that familiar servile hunch, rubbing his palms together as though warming them over a fire. His eyes, however, were sharp and calculating.
"Allow me to take just a moment of your time. It's... important."
Calix gave a curt nod. *Speak.*
Philip wasted no time. "The gold bars we discussed—you've sent only half the agreed amount."
Calix glanced at Raizen.
"My apologies, Your Highness," the steward replied smoothly. "What was delivered came from the capital residence. The remainder is being transported from the principality. There was an unavoidable delay. The rest will arrive within a few days."
Philip's expression brightened, greed poorly concealed beneath a veneer of relief.
Calix regarded the man with undisguised contempt. Something cold and hard settled in his chest.
"I'll double the amount," he said flatly.
"Your Highness?" Philip's eyes widened, glittering.
"But you will sign a waiver of guardianship."
The words landed like a blade.
"But—how is that possible?" Philip's face contorted, cycling through confusion, calculation, and poorly hidden panic.
*Refuse guardianship?* He hadn't anticipated this. His mind raced, trying to understand the Archduke's angle.
*No. This isn't Asella's doing. She wouldn't dare.*
*Then—is he hoping Mariel's powers will awaken? She's nearly ten. If they manifest, she'll be valuable beyond measure. And if they don't... well. In a few years, she could be sold just as profitably as her sister.*
*But who else could offer such a price?*
Philip swallowed, his throat clicking. The sum was staggering—more gold than he could ever hope to extract for Mariel through any other means. And yet. Perhaps there was room to negotiate.
He arranged his features into an expression of wounded nobility. "Your Highness, Mariel is my precious daughter. How could I possibly exchange my own flesh and blood for mere coin?"
Calix's crimson eyes narrowed to slits.
"Meaning?"