"Kneel when the bell tolls," the attendant whispered as she fastened the clasp at the base of Eloise's spine. "No sooner. No later."
Eloise didn't ask what happened to the ones who didn't obey.
She already knew.
The throne room was unlike any place she had ever seen.
It was cavernous—cathedral high, temple deep—lit by a thousand blood-red lanterns that hung like glowing hearts suspended in the vaulted ceiling. Shadows spilled like oil down the marble columns. Black banners edged in silver framed the wide dais at the room's far end.
Every surface gleamed. Every scent—frankincense, myrrh, and iron—clung to the air like perfume and threat.
And within that ominous opulence, they gathered.
Twenty-four brides.
One by one, they entered. Cloaked in black, masked in crimson, faces concealed behind silk and feathered filigree. Dresses whispered like breath over stone. Jewels caught the light and threw it back like bloodied stars.
Eloise stood near the back.
She had never seen them all together before. The effect was… unnerving.
Beautiful, yes. But terrifying, too. A living tableau of elegance sharpened to a knife's edge.
These weren't girls. Not anymore.
They were players. Pawns. Symbols in someone else's sacred game.
And she was one of them.
Her mask itched against her cheekbone. It was lined in black velvet and cut high across the bridge of her nose, dipping low over her brow. She could barely see the floor in front of her, but she didn't dare adjust it. Not now.
A hush swept the room as the last bride entered.
Some had their hair twisted into gold-threaded braids. Others wore coronets of black thorns or velvet ribbons threaded with pearls. No one spoke.
There was something reverent about it. Something wrong.
Like a church made for gods who never forgave.
Eloise's gaze drifted across the chamber.
There was Cecilia, flanked by her two polished shadows—Inessa and Ravyn. All steel spines and cold smiles. Lysandra stood farther off, separate as always, the only one whose posture didn't strain under the weight of scrutiny. Her expression unreadable.
And across the room, a girl Eloise didn't know held a trembling hand to her mouth.
Not everyone was ready.
None of us are, Eloise thought. But here they were.
Together.
For the first time. Possibly the last.
A soft chime echoed above them.
A whisper of movement. Then, silence.
Somewhere—behind the veiled black throne—the machinery of ceremony clicked into place.
And then—
The bell tolled.
Deep. Resounding. Like a judgment passed by the earth itself.
BOOM.
The sound rattled her ribs.
All around her, the brides dropped to their knees.
Velvet hit marble. Beads clinked. Air shifted.
Eloise moved with them, her heartbeat wild beneath her bodice. She kept her eyes low.
Something in her gut turned over.
Another bell followed. A second toll. Then a third.
On the fourth, the great doors at the end of the hall groaned open.
Wind swept in from the corridor beyond—cold, sharp, and scented with old magic.
Footsteps followed. Measured. Even. Almost… slow.
Then the sound stopped.
Stillness stretched. Even the flames in the lanterns seemed to bow.
Eloise did not look up.
But she felt it.
A presence.
Heavy and quiet and vast as a mountain.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She wasn't sure how she knew it was him. She just did. The same way the sky knows thunder's coming before the clouds break.
Prince Valerian.
The Steward's voice broke the silence.
"Rise," he said.
Eloise obeyed.
The moment she lifted her head, she regretted it.
There he stood.
Atop the dais. Cloaked in deep crimson, the collar of his mantle high and fur-lined. His mask was silver, sharp, and angular—carved like the face of a fallen god. Only his mouth and jaw were visible beneath the edge of it, pale and still.
His hands—gloved in black—rested calmly on either side of his body. He had not moved.
He did not need to.
His presence filled the room like the echo of thunder that never ended.
All eyes were on him.
And yet, he looked at none of them.
Not directly. Not yet.
The Prince turned slightly to the steward beside him. A silent nod.
The steward spoke again.
"You have been chosen. By fate, by legacy, by offering."
His voice rang clear through the air. A ritual. A rite. His tone was sharp, but not cruel. Mechanical.
"Before you stands Prince Valerian. He who bears the Blood Oath. He who reigns beneath the red moon."
A pause.
"In the nights to come, you will be tested. For grace. For will. For truth."
The tension pulsed like a drumbeat beneath the words.
"And you will be watched. Every step. Every whisper. Every mask you wear or discard."
A shiver trailed down Eloise's spine.
"Those who remain shall feast. Those who falter shall fall."
The words hung there. Simple. Undeniable.
The steward turned and bowed his head to Valerian.
"Your Highness."
The Prince finally moved.
Just his head. Just enough.
He looked at them.
No, through them.
Eloise's breath hitched when his gaze swept her way. He didn't pause. Didn't fixate. But for a heartbeat, the space between them shrank.
She felt it. Like she had in the dream.
And in that moment, her knees almost gave out.
"You're not ready yet," the voice from her dream echoed in her head.
She swallowed.
Maybe I never will be.
A final toll.
Then silence again.
The doors closed.
The Prince remained at the dais a few moments longer. Then he turned—slow, deliberate—and vanished through a hidden passage behind the throne.
Like a phantom made flesh.
The brides were dismissed in silence.
Not with words, but with a motion from the steward.
It was over.
And nothing had truly begun.
Back in her chamber, Eloise stood at the mirror, fingers trembling against the edges of her mask.
She peeled it off slowly.
Her reflection blinked back at her. Pale. Wide-eyed. Lips bloodless.
Not a queen. Not even close.
But something had shifted. Deep in the marrow of this place. In her.
The game had moved to its next phase.
And the shadows had started watching back.