Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~8 min read
The corset was too tight.
Freya Thornwood couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but stand perfectly still while three handmaidens fussed over the train of her wedding gown. White silk pooled around her feet like spilled milk—expensive, suffocating, and utterly wasted on a bride who would rather be anywhere else.
“You look beautiful, my lady,” Mira whispered, her loyal maid’s voice thick with unshed tears.
Beautiful. The word tasted like ash. Freya stared at her reflection in the gilt-edged mirror and didn’t recognize the hollow-eyed woman staring back. Auburn hair twisted into an elaborate updo. Honey-brown eyes lined with kohl to hide the fact that she’d been crying for three days straight. Pale skin that hadn’t seen sunlight in weeks, not since her father had told her the truth.
You’re going to marry Prince Viktor. It’s already arranged.
“My lady, we need to fix your veil,” one of the handmaidens said, reaching for the gossamer fabric.
Freya’s hands trembled. She pressed them flat against the vanity table, focusing on the cool marble beneath her palms. Breathe. Just breathe. In four hours, this would all be over. She’d be Viktor’s wife. Viktor’s property. Viktor’s problem.
The thought made her stomach turn.
“Is she ready?” A sharp voice cut through the chamber.
Freya looked up to see Lady Genevieve Thornwood—her mother—sweeping into the room in emerald silk. Beautiful, cold, and utterly unbothered by the fact that she was delivering her daughter to a monster.
“Almost, Mother.”
“Almost isn’t good enough.” Her mother’s critical gaze raked over her. “The ceremony begins in twenty minutes. The cathedral is full. Prince Viktor is waiting.”
Let him wait forever. Freya bit her tongue hard enough to taste copper. Arguing was pointless. She’d tried arguing two months ago when Father had first announced the engagement. She’d tried begging. She’d tried running—made it as far as the eastern border before Father’s guards dragged her back.
Nothing worked. Nothing ever worked when you were a woman and your family needed you to save them from ruin.
“Stand up,” her mother commanded. “Let me see you.”
Freya stood, and the weight of the gown threatened to drag her down. Thirty pounds of silk and lace and shattered dreams. Her mother circled her slowly, inspecting every inch like a horse at auction.
“You’ll do.” Not a compliment. A assessment. “Remember—smile during the vows. Don’t cry. Viktor doesn’t like weakness.”
Viktor doesn’t like anything except cruelty and power. But Freya nodded obediently. Good daughters didn’t talk back. Good daughters sacrificed themselves for family honor. Good daughters married cruel princes because Father had gambled away the family fortune and this was the only way to keep the Thornwood name from complete disgrace.
“I’ll see you at the cathedral.” Her mother brushed past without so much as a touch. No hug. No words of comfort. Nothing.
The door closed, and Freya’s knees buckled.
Mira caught her before she hit the floor. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t do this.” The words tumbled out in a desperate whisper. “Mira, I can’t—he’s going to hurt me. You’ve heard the stories. The last woman he courted disappeared, and no one asks questions because he’s a prince, and—”
“Shh.” Mira’s arms wrapped tight around her. “I know. I know, my lady. But what choice do we have?”
None. That was the problem. Freya had no choices. No power. No escape route. Just a wedding dress and a cathedral full of witnesses who would watch her sign away her life.
She pulled back, swiping at her eyes. “Fix my face. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.”
Mira worked quickly, dabbing away smudged kohl and reapplying powder. Freya watched her reflection transform back into the perfect, polished bride. A beautiful lie.
“There.” Mira’s smile was sad. “You look like a princess.”
“I look like a sacrifice.”
A knock at the door made them both jump. “Lady Freya? The carriage is ready.”
This was it. No more delays. No more hoping for a miracle. Freya squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and walked toward the door like she was walking toward the gallows.
Because she was.
The Cathedral of Saint Lucia was obscenely beautiful.
Vaulted ceilings stretched toward the heavens, stained glass windows painted the stone floor in jeweled light, and white roses—thousands of white roses—lined every pew. The scent was cloying, overwhelming, mixing with incense and expensive perfume until Freya wanted to gag.
She stood in the vestibule, hidden from view, listening to the organ music swell. Beyond those massive oak doors, three hundred nobles waited to watch her marry a man she despised. A man whose cold blue eyes had assessed her like property when they’d first met. A man who’d smiled when she’d flinched away from his touch.
Please, she thought desperately. Someone. Anyone. Save me from this.
But prayers were for children, and Freya had stopped being a child the day she realized no one was coming to rescue her.
“Ready, daughter?”
Lord Edmund Thornwood appeared at her side, offering his arm. Her father looked older than she remembered—grey threading through his dark hair, lines carved deep around his mouth. Guilt did that to a man. She wondered if he even felt it anymore, or if desperation had burned that away too.
“No,” she said honestly.
He flinched. “Freya—”
“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” She slipped her hand through his arm, feeling the fine fabric of his formal jacket. “Nothing I want matters. It never has.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” She looked up at him, memorizing his face. After today, she’d belong to Viktor. Her family would be saved from debtor’s prison, and she would never forgive her father for it. “You gambled everything away. You made this mess. And I’m the one paying for it.”
His jaw tightened. “Someday you’ll understand that—”
“That you sold me? Yes, Father. I understand perfectly.”
The organ music shifted, the opening notes of the processional swelling through the cathedral. The doors began to open, revealing a sea of faces turned toward her. At the end of that impossibly long aisle, standing at the altar in crimson and gold, was Prince Viktor.
He smiled when he saw her.
It wasn’t a kind smile.
Freya’s heart hammered against her ribs, panic rising like a wave. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t walk down that aisle and promise herself to him. She couldn’t—
Her father’s hand tightened on her arm. Not comforting. Restraining.
“Walk,” he murmured.
So she did. One foot in front of the other, mechanical and numb. The faces blurred together—nobles she’d danced with at balls, ladies who’d gossiped behind fans, lords who’d looked the other way when Father’s debts had become public knowledge. None of them would help her. None of them cared.
Viktor’s smile widened as she approached.
The priest began speaking, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Words about love and honor and fidelity. Lies, every single one of them. This wasn’t love. This was a transaction.
Freya stood at the altar, Viktor’s hand clamping around hers like a shackle, and felt something inside her break. This was her life now. This was all she would ever be—a beautiful ornament in a cruel man’s collection.
The priest droned on. Viktor’s thumb stroked over her knuckles, a mockery of tenderness.
Please, she thought one last time, a desperate prayer to gods who’d never answered before. Please, someone save me from this. I’ll do anything. I’ll go anywhere. Just please—
The cathedral roof exploded.
Stone rained down in massive chunks, crashing through pews and shattering stained glass. Screams erupted from every direction. Viktor shoved her aside, and Freya fell hard, her gown tangling around her legs.
And through the gaping hole in the ceiling, blotting out the sun, descended a dragon.
Massive. Black as midnight. Wings that spanned the width of the cathedral, scales gleaming like polished obsidian. Silver eyes that burned with an intelligence far beyond any beast.
Those eyes found her through the chaos.
Locked on.
And Freya felt the world tilt sideways as the dragon dove straight toward her, mouth opening to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth, and everyone was screaming, running, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only stare as death itself came crashing down—
The dragon landed in front of her with earth-shaking force.
And between one heartbeat and the next, it began to change.
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