Another figure emerged from the shadows of Damien's chamber. Silas was leaner than Corbin, his eyes sharper, holding a quiet intelligence that made him far more dangerous. He was the one who handled the details.
"The bride arrives today," Damien said, his voice flat. "No matter who it is, follow the old rules."
Silas bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord. As with the others. A clean and efficient disposal."
The casual exchange hung in the cold air, a testament to a horrifying secret. The curse wasn't a curse at all. It was a meticulously executed series of murders.
"No," Damien corrected, a flicker of something new in his one visible eye. "This one is different." He paused. "Don't be so quick to act. A 'gift' from the King should be unwrapped and examined first."
He wanted to see what this new pawn was made of. "Start with humiliation. Let's see how she reacts to a proper welcome."
The carriage ride to Hawthorne Castle was jarring. Luna sat alone, the plush seats doing little to cushion the bumps of the poorly maintained road. Celeste was already gone, following her instructions to the letter. First, secure the money. Second, use a portion of it to gather information.
The carriage lurched to a halt. But not before the grand, imposing main gate of the castle. It stopped beside a small, dilapidated side entrance, barely wide enough for a person to pass through, reeking of damp stone and decay.
The door was pulled open by a stern-faced, elderly woman in a severe grey dress. Her name was Bertha, the Matron of Ceremony, and her face was pinched with disdain.
"The bride will enter through here," she announced, her voice as brittle as old parchment. "It is the rule of the castle."
Luna glanced through the window. In the distance, the main gate stood tall and proud, carved with snarling beasts and the Hawthorne family crest. The contrast was a deliberate, calculated insult.
From the corners of her eyes, she could see the castle servants gathered, their whispers and stifled laughter like the buzzing of flies. This was her welcome. A test from her new husband.
She remained seated, her expression unreadable.
Bertha's patience wore thin. "Did you not hear me? Get out of the carriage," she snapped, reaching in to grab Luna's arm.
Luna's gaze dropped to the woman's hand. Her voice was quiet, yet it cut through the murmurs like a shard of ice. "Take your dirty hand off me."
Bertha froze, her hand hovering in mid-air, stunned by the sheer force of will in Luna's tone.
Slowly, gracefully, Luna descended from the carriage. The blood-red of her wedding gown was a slash of defiance against the grey, oppressive courtyard.
She didn't move toward the side gate. Instead, she turned to face Bertha.
"You're telling me," she asked, her voice dangerously calm, "that the Princess Regent is to enter through the servants' passage?"
Bertha stiffened her neck. "It is the custom of Hawthorne Castle."
A slow, cold smile touched Luna's lips. With a sudden, sharp movement, she reached up and tore the red veil from her head.
The face revealed beneath was not just beautiful; it was formidable. Her eyes, dark and piercing, swept over the crowd, silencing every last whisper.
She let the veil drop to the dusty ground and ground it under the heel of her shoe.
She advanced on Bertha, one slow step at a time, her presence radiating an authority that had nothing to do with titles. "Now," she said, her voice a low purr, "let me teach you about real rules."
Bertha stumbled backward, her arrogant facade crumbling into genuine fear.
Luna shoved her aside. The woman was surprisingly frail, and she went down in a heap of grey fabric and sputtering indignation.
A collective gasp went through the crowd. No bride had ever acted this way. They were sent here to die, not to fight.
Luna didn't spare the fallen woman a second glance. She walked directly toward the massive, sealed main gate.
She stopped before it, her back straight, her head held high. Her voice rang out, clear and strong, echoing across the silent courtyard.
"Go tell your master his bride has arrived."
She paused, letting the words sink in.
"And if he doesn't open this gate, I will tear it down myself."
