Azryana's chamber -
Azrya's mind drifted back to the hours before the wedding—the moment her father, Duke Boswell, had entered her chambers unannounced. It was the first time he had ever set foot inside her room.
She knew instantly: this couldn't mean anything good.
"Leave us," the Duke commanded.
The seamstress fitting her wedding gown and the handmaids attending to her exchanged quick glances, then rushed out without protest, skirts whispering against the marble floor.
Azrya remained still, her eyes fixed on the ground. Meeting her father's gaze had consequences. Even the smallest act of defiance could provoke his wrath.
She flinched as he stepped in front of her—and gasped when a sudden blow struck her square in the stomach. The air left her lungs in a sharp cough.
Still, she forced herself upright, meeting his eyes. For once, she didn't care if it enraged him. She wouldn't be under his control for much longer. That thought alone gave her courage.
"Insolent, wretched child," her father spat, delivering another punch—this one sent her sprawling to the ground, her white dress crumpling beneath her.
"You're lucky today is your wedding day," he growled. "That's the only reason I'm sparing your face. But as for the rest of your worthless body..." He kicked her while she lay curled on the floor.
Pain bloomed across her ribs, but Azrya clenched her jaw. She refused to cry. She would not give him the satisfaction of her tears.
"You and that lowborn imposter caused quite the stir yesterday," he said with venom. "I can't touch him—not while that bastard has the King's favor—but don't think that means you're safe."
He crouched low, grabbed her roughly by the neckline of her gown, and yanked her up. His voice dropped to a snarl.
"No matter who you marry or where you go, you are mine. My property."
He hurled her back to the ground like discarded cloth.
Fury burned in her chest. She glared up at him, eyes sharp with defiance.
The Duke's tone turned colder, almost gleeful. "Remember this—if you step out of line or bring shame to our name, you'll be punished. Just because you've gained your freedom doesn't mean your sisters have."
His lips twisted into a smile that made her stomach churn.
"The youngest... such a sweet thing, isn't she? I've seen you playing with her in the gardens. Would be such a shame if anything happened to her."
Azrya's blood ran cold. The threat wasn't hollow. She knew her father—he was more than capable of such cruelty.
"Be a good wife to that brute, or you won't be the only one to suffer," he said flatly.
And then, just like that, he turned and left.
The maids rushed back in moments later. They found her on the floor and scrambled to help, lifting her gently, brushing dust from her gown, fixing her hair. Reapplying lipstick, smoothing the fabric. Silently, efficiently.
Within minutes, not a trace of what had happened remained.
Azrya sat before the looking glass, staring at the fragile girl reflected back in white satin.
And then she broke. Tears spilled down her cheeks as the weight of everything pressed in.
She was certain — this would be the worst day of her life.