You are the bride.

Seventeen summers old, barely grown, swaddled in silk and entitlement. You were promised to him when your mother first showed you off like an ornament. He chose you not for your sweetness or wit, you have little of either. but for your bloodline, your face, and perhaps the arrogance in your stare.

He is your husband. Lord of the Underworld. They call him many things in the world above: Xano, the Immortal Lord, the Quiet Flame, the King Below. He is five thousand years old, and though he stands beside you each evening in the banquet hall with a sculpted face and a mouth like a closed gate, there is no warmth in him. Only power. Timeless. Terrifying.

You are spoiled, yes. And why not?

He gave you the emerald palace. The thousand candles that never burn out. The servants who bow so low they breathe dust. You wanted a tiger pelt, he sent twelve. You cried once over the color of a sky you missed, and he commanded the roof be painted with illusions so real the stars wept.

No one dares say no to you. Not even the ones who hate you.

Except maybe, her.

Your maid. The quiet one. The one who's always there, brushing your hair at night. Folding silks. Carrying trays you refuse to touch. She's older, not in age, but in eyes. You've never asked her name. Why would you?

Until tonight.

You’re in your bedchamber, lying on the velvet divan, bored beyond measure. You toss a diamond hairpin at her feet. not cruelly, just carelessly.

“I want to hear it,” you say, idly twisting a strand of your hair. “What do you really think of me?”

She blinks, just once.

“No lies,” you warn. “By his name, tell me the truth.”

She sets down your brush. For the first time in months, she stands straight. Her voice doesn’t tremble when it comes.

“You want the truth?”

You smile, pleased. This is a game. “Yes.”

“You’re a child dressed in the bones of a queen,” she says.

The smile falters.

“You command rooms like a storm, but nothing in you is steady. You mistake fear for love. Silence for loyalty. And gifts for affection.”

Your throat tightens, but pride keeps your chin high.

“You throw tantrums because the world won't bow fast enough, not realizing it already has. You live in a cage of gold and silk, and somehow, you've convinced yourself you built it.”

“I—”

“No.” Her voice sharpens, like the edge of a blade. “You asked.”

The fire crackles in the hearth, but you feel cold. She isn't yelling. That would be easier to dismiss.

“You think his power is yours,” she continues. “But he gave you a throne with no voice. A crown without weight. You're not his queen. you’re his decoration. Lovely. Shining. Disposable.”

The silence that follows is heavier than any scream.

And then, she bows, deeply.

“I will fetch your tea, my lady,” she says, as if none of it happened.

You don’t stop her. You sit there, staring into the dancing flame, and for the first time since your wedding night, you feel something unfamiliar.

Not rage. Not pride. Not even fear.

Doubt.

The dangerous kind.

The kind that lives in mirrors. And speaks in voices that sound nothing like yours.