Lan woke to a pale gray light that filtered through the high arched window, illuminating the cold, stone-carved lines of her unfamiliar room. The sheets beside her were already neat, pressed, and lifeless.
Prince Alaric was gone.
She ran her fingers over the fabric. No warmth remained. Only the faint scent of iron, leather, and something bitter—like war.
She sat up slowly, her small figure barely disturbing the heavy bedding. The silence screamed. There was no knock. No servant. Not even Mina.
With trembling hands, she folded the hanfu she had slept in, the silk now wrinkled from tossing and sleep. She was still wearing it because no one had given her anything else. No instructions. No kindness. No care.
Today, she was a princess married to a ghost.
And no one cared.
2. Stripped of Dignity
The door burst open without warning.
Three maids entered—none of them Mina. They didn't bow. Their expressions were a mixture of disdain and thinly veiled amusement. The one in front, tall with ash-blonde hair pinned into an elegant crown, narrowed her eyes at Lan.
"You're still wearing that?" she said in Stromwalden.
Lan stiffened. She understood enough. She held her arms around herself.
The blonde nodded toward another. "Strip it off. She's not walking around the house like some Qinglong concubine."
Before Lan could protest, cold hands grabbed her by the arms. The third maid reached for the sash of her robe.
"Stop—please!"
She twisted away, clutching her front, but the blonde only clicked her tongue.
"Spare us the performance. You'll be on your back for someone sooner or later. Let go."
The maid tugged harshly, yanking the sash from her waist. The silk loosened. Lan gasped, her bare shoulder exposed. She shoved the fabric back, panting, humiliated.
"Don't touch me," she whispered, voice shaking.
The blonde gave her a dark look. "Then dress yourself, princess."
They threw a bundle of gray and black fabric at her feet and turned their backs, arms folded, waiting. The dress smelled of dust. Too tight across her chest. The collar choked.
But she wore it.
She had no choice.
...
Lan was led out into the house without explanation, her shoes too big, her steps small and uncertain.
No one acknowledged her.
Nobles passed, some staring, others whispering. A man in silver armor looked her up and down and laughed quietly with his companion. One of them muttered something in Stromwalden. She didn't understand every word—but the sneer on their faces said enough.
"Another Qinglong whore bought for a title."
She kept her eyes down.
In the side hall, a noblewoman intentionally bumped into her. The impact made Lan stumble backward into a wall.
"Watch it," the woman snapped, brushing off her own sleeve though Lan had barely touched her.
"I—I'm sorry..."
A few nearby guards looked over. Then away. No one helped her.
Worse was still to come.
She was escorted into a small salon—a waiting room. A seat had been left for her, a delicate white chair with a golden backrest. She sat.
Moments later, a maid entered with a tray—wine and bread.
She placed it on the table without a word and left.
Lan reached for the cup, her hands shaking slightly. The moment she touched it—
Another maid stormed in.
"Who told you to drink that?!"
"I... I thought..."
"That's Lady Monet's cup!"
Before Lan could respond, the tray was smacked from the table. Glass shattered. The red wine soaked through her dress and pooled in her lap.
"You stupid foreign brat!" The maid hissed. "You think we'll bow to you? You're just some conquered pretty thing shoved into a royal bed."
Lan froze, mouth trembling. The wine dripped from her sleeves.
The maid walked away, no apology. No consequences.
The others in the room giggled behind their hands.
Lan stood, her soaked dress heavy, red spreading like a wound across her chest.
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
4. Shadows in the Corridor
Later that afternoon, she tried to find Mina.
Servants passed her, bumping her shoulder. A tray was dropped at her feet. Another nobleman murmured something in her ear in passing.
"Maybe I'll marry her next."
When she turned around, he laughed.
"She can't understand a word I'm saying. Stupid doll."
Lan kept walking. Faster. Her throat burned.
She stopped a young girl and asked about Mina. The girl rolled her eyes.
"She's been reassigned."
"What...?"
"No one wants to serve a foreigner with a death clock on her marriage."
Lan felt her knees wobble. Her breath caught. "She was the only one—"
But the girl had already walked away.
Lan walked the rest of the corridor alone, her steps echoing.
When she finally returned to her room, there was no food. No warmth.
Only silence.
...
The world outside had turned dark.
Lan sat curled up on the bed, still wearing the stained dress. Her hair was tangled. Her body ached. Her chest burned. Her pride bled.
She buried her face in the mattress.
And finally, she cried.
Not delicate, soft tears.
But the ugly, shaking, suffocating kind—where breath becomes gasps and the pillow muffles every sound except the cracking of a young girl's heart.
She cried for her father. For her brother.
For the palace she lost, for the birds she used to feed.
For the sky that didn't look the same anymore.
And for herself—fifteen, married, dressed in the enemy's colors, invisible to the one man who was supposed to protect her.
She cried until sleep took her the way mercy never had.