They dressed her in scarlet silk heavy enough to feel like a curse. It clung to her body like a second skin—stitched with dragons, phoenixes, and the kind of symbolism that usually came with sacrifices.
No white for the cursed bride.Only blood.
Red for bad omens.Red for war.
Sienna's reflection in the lacquered mirror was almost otherworldly—a ghost painted in fury and fabric. The crimson veil draped over her hair didn't soften her. If anything, it made her look more dangerous. More untouchable.
A bride meant to haunt, not heal.
They escorted her to the ancestral hall with the reverence of a funeral procession. Incense choked the air, and portraits of dead Lancasters loomed from every wall, watching her like she was some unworthy offering at the altar of their bloodline.
Silas Lancaster waited at the front, swaying slightly as if one breath might knock him over. His ceremonial robes hung off his narrow frame like they were meant for a healthier man—one who hadn't been kissed by death and told it was coming back soon.
His skin was too pale. His lips, bloodless.But his eyes…
His eyes were wide awake.
When she knelt beside him, their hands brushed, and Sienna expected cold fingers or some awkward show of formality.
Instead, she felt something sharp. A slip of paper.
She palmed it without a flinch, fingers trained in sleight of hand long ago.
Later. She'd read it later.
But the words inside it were already burning against her palm, as if they'd been seared in ink and fire.
"The doctor didn't drown. They held him underwater."
Her breath caught.
Her head snapped up instinctively—and caught Silas watching the elders.
Not with reverence. Not with resignation.
With calculation.With predator's patience.
He didn't look like a man waiting to die.
He looked like a man waiting to strike.
The ceremony droned on, full of hollow blessings and false smiles. Sienna nodded, bowed, and rose on cue, her expression serene.
Then Joyce Lancaster—perfect, polished, poison-tongued—stepped forward with the "blessed" wine.
Two silver cups. One for bride. One for groom.
Joyce's gaze danced between them like she already knew how this scene was supposed to end.
Sienna reached for her cup. Drained it in a single, fearless gulp.
Then—without hesitation—she reached for Silas's too.
"My husband's health is delicate," she said sweetly, raising the second cup."So I'll drink his share of... everything."
And she did. Slowly. Deliberately.
Every sip was a challenge.
The ancestral hall went deathly still.
Across the room, Matriarch Lancaster's cane cracked against the marble.
Once.
Twice.
Like the opening gong of a duel.
The real game had begun.
And Sienna had just made the first move.