The memory of the execution block faded as we move back three years.
Elara stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in Vance Manor. Her corset was tightened to the point of pain, a physical reminder of the constraints of her life.
"Tighten it more," Elara instructed her maid, Mina.
"But my lady, you won't be able to breathe during the banquet!"
"I don't need to breathe, Mina. I need to be perfect."
That was the mantra. To be the daughter of a Duke and the betrothed of a Prince meant being a statue. No opinions, no outbursts, only grace. Her father, Duke Silas Vance, entered the room, his footsteps heavy. He didn't look at her face; he looked at her posture.
"The trade negotiations with the Southern Isles hinge on your charm tonight, Elara," he said coldly. "Do not let the prince’s wandering eye distract you. Men are hunters; give him something to hunt, but never something to catch."
"Yes, Father."
"And the rumors of the girl in the village? The one Alaric visits?"
Elara’s hand trembled slightly. She smoothed her skirts. "A temporary distraction. I will handle it with the dignity befitting my station."
She was a girl playing a game where the rules were rigged against her. She believed that if she followed every law, honored every vow, and sacrificed every personal desire, she would be rewarded with safety. She was wrong.
As she stepped into the carriage, the sun setting behind the spires of the palace, Elara felt a strange chill. She didn't know that tonight was the night the "Saintess" would fall from the sky into the palace gardens. She didn't know that her life was about to become a countdown to the axe.
She only knew that her corset was too tight, and the world was waiting for her to fail.
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She only knew that her corset was too tight, and the world was waiting for her to fail.
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