...The altar stood at the center of the hall, carved from ivory and gold-veined marble. Red and gold silk draped the tall columns that surrounded it, and above them hung a chandelier fashioned from blessed crystal—a symbol of divine approval from the old gods. Petals of radiant blue lilies, sacred in the Richian faith, littered the floor leading to the steps of the altar. The air was rich with incense, anointing the moment in weight and solemnity.
Richie Von Rich stood at the summit, stretching out his hand toward Seraphina.
"Come," he said, his voice deep, rich, and impossibly smooth.
Seraphina looked up at him. The veil on her face shifted slightly as she stepped forward and accepted his hand, her fingers slender and gloved in velvet. Her bow was graceful, calculated—a dance of poise and dominion.
"It is an honor," she said with an enchanting smile, "that a man so bold and so handsome is to be my husband."
Richie chuckled lightly.
He wore ceremonial robes of deep obsidian, lined with crimson embroidery that shimmered under the crystal light. His long dark hair had been tied back with a silver ring, and his deep-set eyes seemed to hold the weight of battles won and secrets buried. Everything about him screamed charisma, control, and quiet chaos.
As she slid her arm into his, they began to ascend together.
Halfway up, Seraphina tilted her head and whispered, "Twenty wives now, it's either you're a very capable man... or very promiscuous. Which is it?"
Richie smiled, his voice above a whisper, "The great King Solomon from the legends was said to have 700 wives, and 300 concubines. I'd say... it's a sign of my greatness."
Some nobles of the Kingdom chuckled at those words.
But the soldiers of the Somaran Empire, standing firm around the room in their sharp violet-and-black uniforms, frowned beneath their helms.
The Somaran empire believed fundamentally as part of their heritage to be descendants of the great wise king solomon.
In fact, rumors have it that every emperor of there's is thought to be the incarnation of the Wise King Solomon.
For Richie Von Rich to call himself greatness matching that of the great wise king was blasphemy in their heads. It was as if he had called himself their emperor.
Their silence was heavy. To speak out would be to challenge the ceremony, and only one person could give that order.
Seraphina.
Meaning they could only hold back their rage for the time being.
At the altar, an aged priest awaited them—his robes were gold and his voice weary with time. As Richie and Seraphina approached, she cast a sidelong glance at the empty throne seat reserved for the King of the Kingdom.
"Shouldn't the King himself be blessing this union?" she asked softly, but the edge in her voice was deliberate, slicing.
Richie smiled, unbothered. "The King is unfortunately... ill. But he sends his heartfelt regards."
Seraphina said nothing more.
The priest began the ritual. A golden ribbon was brought forth—braided with threads of sapphire and dusted with rare silver powder from the western mines.
As it was wrapped around their joined hands, it shimmered, glowing faintly under the sacred light.
They both repeated the vows—ancient words spoken in the union of marriage. Words that had bound bloodlines and kingdoms alike for a very long time.
As the ribbon sealed, they raised their hands to the crowd. Cheers erupted, glasses clinked, and musicians played soft notes of triumph. Nobles stepped forward with ornate boxes, gifts wrapped in silks and fine paper. Servants moved like water, offering drinks, laughter, and endless flattery.
But not all drank.
Velma, seated toward the far end of the ballroom, beside Sir Fen Bolton, watched with hawk-like eyes.
She noticed how every single Somaran soldier refused drinks. Even the nobles from the Empire smiled, chatted, but their glasses remained untouched.
Something was wrong.
The high table, where Richie and Seraphina now sat, was a display of calculated grace.
Many nobles came forward, presenting gifts and long rehearsed blessings. Richie smiled. Seraphina nodded. It was a masquerade of diplomacy.
Richie Von Rich's other wives looked at her from their position, some of them with obvious envy. After all, knowing their husband, he would definitely be spending the following nights in her chambers, showering his latest wife with attention.
And then it happened. The Aether controlled clock in the far end of the hall signified the arrival of midnight.
The arranged time had arrived. The nobles from the Somaran kingdom turned to Lady Seraphina, some carrying dangerous smiles.
She understood.
Then, the clink of a spoon on glass.
Seraphina rose, her presence commanding as all turned to face her.
She took several steps forward, creating a bit of a distance between herself and her new husband.
She surveyed the room, her eyes lingering on every noble. The music faded.
"I just wanted to offer a toast," she began, her voice clear, regal. "To all of you who have welcomed me with such warmth and praise..."
She smiled wider, crueler.
"...Be grateful," she said. "For today, you have all officially become livestock on my father's farm."
Silence.
Then, murmurs. Confused, awkward laughter. Disbelief.
Some even thought she was cracking a joke. Maybe it was how the somaran empire did things.
One noble stepped forward, a tall man in green robes. "What... what do you mean by that, my lady?"
Before anyone could react, a flash of steel.
Viscount Cedric Elmann standing a distance away moved so swiftly it seemed unreal. The noble's head dropped from his shoulders, a clean, practiced cut. Blood sprayed across the marble floor. Gasps. Some fell back in panic, others froze in place.
Seraphina raised her glass.
"To our glorious future," she said, unbothered. Her glass glittered in the light.
The blood from the noble pooling beneath the fallen headless body, staining the well polished floor a deep glaring red.
Even the corpse jetted blood from the severed neck as it jerked at intervals in disbelief.
---
Upstairs, Oliver sat crouched in the far corner of his room, his arms wrapped around his knees, trembling.
The sight of Seraphina had excited his fear far too much than he could handle.
His breaths were shallow and ragged, as though the very air around him had thickened into something choking. His hands, once curled into fists ready to flee, now twitched uncontrollably as he stared at the packed bag on his bed. A simple cloth bag—but one that might have bought him freedom if only his body would move.
"Should I leave?" he whispered. "Am I… am I making a mistake?"
His mind offered no answer—only memories. Flashes. Screams. Laughter. Blood dripping from a woman's slender fingers. The cruel smirk on Seraphina's face as she crushed hope beneath her heel.
He clutched his head again, fingernails digging into his scalp until he hissed in pain. Every part of him screamed to run, yet his legs refused. They curled tighter beneath him, his muscles locked in place like he was still in chains.
Then—it happened.
The first scream.
It was faint, muffled through the thick walls and murmuring voices, but to Oliver, it was the sharp crack of a whip across his back. His eyes widened. The scream echoed through his soul like a ghost calling back old agony.
His breathing halted. The massacre had begun, but then...