The officiant smiles.
He looks at us like we're something holy—like this moment deserves to be carved into marble and remembered for generations. His eyes shine with something that might be joy… or might be performance.
Silas's eyes stay on me.
Warm. Steady. Unblinking.
I look away.
Frustration burns behind my eyes—hot, sharp, pressing against my skull like something trying to break free.
Even if I try.
Even if I force it.
Even if I dig down to the part of me where obedience used to live—
I can't make a smile appear.
The muscles have forgotten how.
They've been frozen too long—locked into an expression of nothing.
A mask that isn't a mask… because there's nothing underneath to hide.
A servant walks forward.
The tray in their hands is beautiful—polished wood, dark as midnight, carved with flowers that don't exist in nature.
White petals scatter across its surface, like snow that forgot to melt.
At the center, nestled in velvet the color of blood, rests a box.
