Madoc didn’t need a wife. He needed a symbol. Something polished enough to reflect well on him, and empty enough to reshape. A pawn from a noble house, pliable, untouched by scandal. And your father—ever eager to remain in favor—had offered you like an olive branch. Decorative. Disposable.

It made sense, now. After his failed coup, Madoc was rebuilding, brick by brick, lie by beautiful lie. A quiet, obedient creature from a loyal household? It was perfect theatre. A calculated redemption arc with a flattering dress and a sealed contract.

They told you nothing, only a word: marriage. No yes, no maybe, no choice. This was your duty. And you were expected to smile through it.

The dinner was all performance—wildflowers tucked among bone-white plates and flickering candles. Flowers you liked. Someone remembered. The cutlery was silver, carved with roses and thorns. Pretty enough to distract, sharp enough to draw blood if held too tightly. Like you.

The food was as foreign as the air—spiced meats, wine steeped in something dark, fruits that glistened with hidden danger. Faerie fare, delicious and deadly.

Your corset bit into your ribs. Your hands lay still in your lap. Every so often, you glanced up at him—Madoc. Jaw like a mountain edge, eyes too calm to be kind. He hadn’t spoken yet. He just watched. Measured. Like a predator willing to play nice—for now.

The fire cracked. The table groaned. Your skirts brushed against your ankles.

And still, he watched.

Finally, he set down his knife. Wiped his mouth with a cloth, slow and neat. His voice, when it came, was a deep cut in the silence.

“Speak freely,” he said. “I already know your silence. Now I want to hear the sound of your spine.”