Chapter 3 Bride of the Empire

The palace moved around Nyra like a beast that hadn't decided whether to swallow her or not.

Every step she took down the silk-draped halls of the Moon Wing felt like a test. The marble beneath her feet was polished to a shine, reflecting fragments of her face-fragments that didn't feel like hers.

Her body no longer ached from the ceremony, but the burn of the runes remained. They pulsed against her skin like something alive.

She wasn't sure if it was pain... or warning.

It had been two days since the Council declared her the Cursed Empress.

Two days since they ordered her to marry Prince Thorne.

And in those two days, not a single soul had spoken to her beyond necessity. Not the guards posted outside her door. Not the maids who brought her food in silence. Not even the birds outside her window, who seemed too afraid to perch on her balcony.

Only the flames in her hearth whispered.

She had started hearing them late the night before. At first, she thought she was going mad. But when she had leaned closer, she'd felt it-energy. A hum in the air. Like the fire knew her.

Or belonged to her.

She hadn't told anyone. She didn't dare.

They already looked at her like she was a mistake waiting to happen. She wouldn't give them another reason to chain her.

But even as she tried to keep still, the power inside her stirred.

It was like being pregnant with lightning.

And tomorrow... she would be made a bride.

The royal seamstress arrived just after sunset.

She was a small, birdlike woman named Madam Alira, with silver hair piled high and eyes that missed nothing.

"You'll be measured and fitted tonight," she said briskly. "The wedding gown must be ready by dawn."

Nyra blinked. "The wedding is tomorrow night."

"Yes. But the gown must be blessed under moonlight." Alira raised a brow. "Surely you know that."

Nyra didn't. Of course she didn't. She'd never worn anything that wasn't stitched from scraps and worn by three girls before her.

Alira snapped her fingers. Two apprentices appeared with bolts of fabric-white silk, black lace, threads of gold and red like fire. The colors of the Empress.

"Undress," the seamstress ordered, already circling her with measuring tape. "Let's see what we're working with."

Nyra flushed but obeyed.

Her body had changed.

It wasn't just the weight of the gown or the gold in her hair. She stood taller now. Firmer. There was a quiet strength in her limbs that hadn't been there before. A groundedness. Like the altar had rooted something inside her.

Alira paused as she ran the measuring tape over Nyra's collarbone. Her fingers brushed the glowing runes.

"They don't fade," she murmured.

"No."

"They're beautiful," Alira said, not with warmth-but with awe. "Terrifying. But beautiful."

Nyra held still.

She wasn't sure she believed in beauty anymore. Only function. Survival. And the power that now curled beneath her skin like a sleeping animal.

When Alira finished, she stepped back.

"You'll wear the red veil," she said. "It will cover your face until the prince lifts it after the vows. That's tradition."

Nyra laughed softly. It slipped out before she could stop it.

"Do you really think he'll lift it?"

Alira tilted her head. "That's not for me to say, Empress."

Empress.

The word felt like a knife in her throat.

The next morning came fast and heavy, like a storm arriving without warning.

Nyra was dressed in layers of silk and fire-thread lace. Her hair was woven with gold coins. Her hands were painted with crimson patterns that trailed up her arms like vines.

When she looked in the mirror, she didn't recognize herself.

She looked like a ghost of a queen long dead.

The guards arrived in silence. No fanfare. No escort of maidens.

Just two black-armored shadows, waiting to deliver her to a man who would rather slit her throat than share her crown.

The wedding was to be held in the Night Hall.

It was ancient-carved into the mountain at the palace's highest point, where the stars could be seen even at midday. No one but royalty and priests were allowed inside.

As Nyra stepped through the towering doors, her breath caught.

Candles lined the walls-thousands of them, glowing with pale blue flames. The air shimmered with sacred magic. The ceiling arched high above, painted with constellations older than history.

At the far end of the hall stood Thorne.

Tall. Grim. Dressed in deep midnight armor with a ceremonial black cloak over his shoulders.

He didn't move as she approached.

Didn't even blink.

A priest stood between them, ancient and skeletal, his voice hollow as he began the rites.

Words blurred together.

Oaths of loyalty. Promises of unity. Bloodline blessings.

Nyra's fingers curled beneath her veil. The runes on her skin pulsed harder.

She didn't want this.

Not the gown.

Not the crown.

Not the man who stood before her like she was the sword pressed against his throat.

And yet... she also wanted something else.

Not escape.

Not revenge.

Something deeper.

To understand.

To unravel why the gods had chosen her. Why the magic hadn't killed her. Why, when Thorne finally stepped forward to lift her veil, the power inside her surged so violently it made her vision blur.

He paused.

For a moment, their eyes met.

His hand hovered just above the veil. His lips parted.

But before he could move-

A crack of thunder split the air.

Every flame in the Night Hall went out.

Gasps echoed.

The priest stumbled back.

And Nyra-

Nyra felt something inside her snap.

The runes on her skin blazed gold. Her chest tightened. Her knees buckled-but she didn't fall.

Magic poured from her like a river breaking its dam.

She saw visions.

Flashes.

A woman with her face, wearing a golden crown, standing in a field of ash.

A dragon of shadow and flame.

A throne of bones.

And a voice-ancient, female, powerful-whispered in her ear:

"You are not their bride. You are their end."

Then everything went black.

She woke in her chamber.

Alone.

The fire was dead. The curtains torn.

Her dress was in shreds.

She gasped, sitting up-only to find her arms bound in silver cords glowing with runes.

Her door creaked open.

Prince Thorne entered.

He looked like he hadn't slept. His jaw was tight. His sword was sheathed-but his hand rested on the hilt.

He said nothing at first.

Just looked at her.

Finally, he spoke.

"You passed out in the middle of the ceremony. Every candle exploded. The priest fled. The seal on your skin burned a second sigil into the floor."

Nyra stared.

"I don't remember."

"I do," he said darkly. "You were glowing like the sun."

He stepped closer.

"I told them you were unstable. Dangerous. That this was a mistake."

Her throat tightened. "So what now? You'll have me killed?"

"No," Thorne said, quiet. "I'll do worse."

He leaned down, cold eyes meeting hers.

"I'll keep you alive. On a leash. In this palace. In my shadow. Until I find out what you are. And how to destroy you."

Nyra didn't flinch.

Didn't blink.

She met his gaze and whispered, "Then you'd better keep a close eye, Your Highness..."

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"...because I'm starting to remember who I am."

The room seemed to shiver.

The fire relit itself behind her.

And this time, it bowed.