The casual cruelty in her voice doesn't surprise me anymore. I've learned to expect venom from that particular source.
The third woman begins laying out undergarments—layers upon layers of silk and lace designed to shape my body into something more pleasing to dark elf sensibilities. Corset, chemise, stockings that reach my thighs, shoes that pinch my feet into delicate points.
"Arms up," Vaelra orders.
I comply, feeling like a mannequin as they dress me piece by piece. The corset laces tight enough to restrict my breathing,pushing my breasts higher than nature intended. The chemise follows, then another layer of silk, then another.
"Tighter," Vaelra instructs as Marta works the corset laces. "She needs definition."
Each pull of the strings compresses my ribs further. By the time they're satisfied, I can barely draw a full breath.
The wedding gown itself hangs from a wooden frame like a ghost waiting to possess me. Cream-colored silk shot through with silver threads that catch the lamplight, it represents everything I'm supposed to become—beautiful, expensive, owned.
"Careful with the sleeves," Vaelra warns as they lift the dress over my head. "The fabric cost more than most families see in a year."
The weight of it settles around me like chains. Silk whispers against silk as they arrange the skirts, adjust the bodice, ensure every fold falls perfectly. When they step back to admire their work, I barely recognize the creature in the mirror.
She looks like a doll crafted for a wealthy child's amusement—porcelain skin, painted features, draped in finery that transforms her into decoration rather than person.
The veil comes last. Layers of gossamer that cascade from a silver circlet, it falls past my shoulders to pool on the floor behind me. When Vaelra places it on my head, the weight of the circlet presses against my skull like a crown of thorns.
"Perfect," she breathes, stepping back to survey the finished product. "Lord Hethryn will be thoroughly pleased."
In the mirror, the stranger wearing my face stares back with silver-touched eyes that hold secrets none of them suspect.
They cart me to the settlement square like cargo bound for market.
The wagon bounces over rutted stones, each jolt sending the silver circlet sliding against my skull. Vaelra sits beside me, onehand gripping my arm to keep me upright, the other smoothing imaginary wrinkles from my skirts.
"Remember," she hisses as we approach the crowd, "smile when he takes your hand. Nod when the elder speaks. Do not embarrass us."
The square teems with bodies—settlement folk dressed in their finest threadbare garments, scattered dark elves in leather and silk observing from the periphery like wolves evaluating sheep. Someone has erected a wooden dais at the center, draped in cream cloth that matches my gown.
And there, pacing before the makeshift altar, stands Bram.
He turns as our wagon stops, those luminous violet eyes fixing on me with the intensity of a predator sighting prey. His ash-pale skin seems to reject the sunlight, lending him an otherworldly quality that makes my flesh crawl.
"Let me see," he commands, approaching before I've fully stepped down.
I stand motionless as he circles me, his gaze cataloguing every detail of my appearance. The way his eyes linger on the curve of my waist, the exposed line of my throat above the gown's neckline, makes my skin feel contaminated.
"Acceptable," he pronounces finally, as if I'm livestock he's considering purchasing. "The dress suits you well enough."
Well enough.As though I should feel grateful for his grudging approval.
The crowd parts as I begin the walk toward the dais. Whispers follow in my wake like autumn leaves stirred by wind.
"Poor child, sold off like breeding stock."
"Better than starving, I suppose."
"She looks like a ghost already."
"Lucky girl, securing such a match."
"Mark my words, she'll be dead within the year."
Their voices blur together into meaningless noise. I scan the faces around me, searching shadows between buildings, looking for any sign of dark hair and gold-flecked eyes. My heart pounds against the constraining corset with each step that brings me closer to the altar.