The hall was lit like a furnace, chandeliers blazing with hundreds of candles. Gold gleamed along the walls, music swelled from hidden musicians, and silken-clad nobles moved like painted figures across the marble floor.
But beneath the splendor was fear. I could feel it in the way voices hushed when I passed, in the way laughter faltered, in the way masks were adjusted too quickly.
The Feast of Masks had always been spectacle — a parade of obedience, a reminder of the Veil's dominion. Brides of the Veil were displayed like jewels in glass, silent ornaments of devotion. Tonight, I was one of them.
My gown was silver, threaded with pale embroidery, heavy against my shoulders. A mask of porcelain covered half my face, its smooth perfection hiding what they longed to read. My father's choice. My prison. My shield.
I entered the hall to murmurs. Every gaze followed me — priests, nobles, strangers with wine-bright eyes. Even the painted smiles of other Brides bent subtly in my direction, as though the Veil itself leaned closer.
I gave them nothing. No falter, no warmth. My silence was flawless. My poise was unbroken.
The High Priest approached, his mask wrought of black iron filigree. His voice carried like a blade across the hall. "Behold Seliora Veylen, blood of devotion, heir to obedience."
The words struck the room like a command. Applause rose, hesitant at first, then swelling, brittle and hollow.
I inclined my head with perfect grace, the mask hiding the ice in my gaze. Inside, my thoughts were sharp as glass: Heir to obedience? No. I will inherit nothing but the chains I choose to break.
As the feast continued, nobles came forward, speaking reverent words, asking hollow questions. I replied with only what was necessary — soft courtesies, nothing more. Yet each silence between my words pressed heavier than speech.
I began to see it then: their fear was not of me failing. Their fear was of me succeeding—of me becoming a Bride, and yet not theirs to claim.
And when the music faltered, when the hall's light bent strangely as if shadows pressed closer, I felt it: the Veil was watching too.
Watching, and waiting.