Page 6 of The Vespertine Treaty

But as the torrent of her maternal cruelty washed over me, my Empathy flared, cutting through the venom. I didn’t just feel her fury; I felt the absolute, crushing shame of a fallen High House, a despair so vast it made her heart a shrivelled thing, and I could not utter a single word back. Somehow, she always won in these vicious commentaries. The door to my bedchamber opened and I knew the reprieve I was granted had only been temporary.

“You think this is about what you want?” my mother continued, pacing. “No. This is about survival, Ophelia. You’re too weak, too soft, too… fragile! You should have the Life Touch, and you can’t even heal a plant! And Caspian? Get it through that thickskull of yours that he’s a dream you’ll never get to live. He’ll be everything you can’t have, and you, everything he can’t protect.”

I didn’t sink. I stood rigid, my body trembling from clarity more than cold. I pushed through the torrent of ancestral shame and maternal cruelty, finally finding the hard, defiant edge I sought.

“I’m not weak,” I finally said, my voice breaking, but steady. “I’m not giving up. Not like this. Not ever. I will do what must be done, but simply because the balance of the realm demands it, not because you so desperately want it.”

My mother’s laugh was sharp, cruel. “Pathetic. You’ll learn soon enough what it means to serve the greater good.” The chill in the air thickened with magic and fury, and I knew I couldn't stand there a second longer. Luckily, with a knock on my door, three younger females entered, as my mother made her way out.

I retreated to my bath chamber. The small group of common Aenites was sent to our house to attend to me. They wore the simple, rough-spun linen of service, a stark reminder of the class divide I was about to exploit for their survival.

One of the females, a tall, slender Aenite with kind, weary eyes, stepped forward. “Forgive me, Lady Ashworth. I am Bess Travere. I will draw you your bath.”

She proceeded to do exactly that, while I undressed— the mere chipped marble basin filled with warm water, the one I was too familiar with— but she approached the task with gentle reverence.

I stared at the water, the surface calm and still.The warm water offered a deceptive, silkenpeace; the thought resurfaced, bitter and familiar.I had already been here once, had already failed.I watched the slight, wavering reflection of the decrepitwashroom, wondering if this, finally, was the moment I could find the motivation to go through with it and claim my eternal silence.How easily I could just sink beneath the surface, avoiding the pain of the Treaty, the long, slow rot of my House, and being bound to a monster.The cold basin felt less like a bath and more like a final, desperate invitation to the oblivion I so desperately sought.

“My Lady,” she murmured, her voice soft as she scattered dried herbs onto the surface of the water, pulling me back from my reveries.

I gripped the towel tighter. “I am no lady, Bess,” I countered, the words brittle. I gestured around the crumbling walls, the exposed stone wall, and the chipped marble. “Look at your dilapidated surroundings. We are a fallen house. I am in no way superior to you, so you will call me Ophelia.”

Bess met my gaze, a flicker of genuine sadness in her eyes. “As you wish, Ophelia.”

The preparation process continued, followed by a final, forced cleansing. As the warm water hit my skin, my power flared to life, a raw, burning wound. Bess helped me, her hands surprisingly gentle as she poured water over my shoulders.

“Perhaps… perhaps your intended will be kind,” Bess ventured, her voice low. “I hear the Treaty requires balance. Perhaps he will not be the cold monster the rumours claim him to be.”

A sharp, painful laugh escaped my throat. “Perhaps he won't be, Bess.” I sighed and scrubbed harder with the gritty, miserable soap, trying to remove the stain of my family’s disgrace, but the ancestral horror clung to me. I was instantly drowned in the echoes of our past: the searing heat of my ancestor’s ambition,the agony of the magical backfire, the quiet, suffocating embarrassment that had become our legacy.How easy would it be this time to submerge and never get out? To be lulled into peaceful surrender so that I may avoid my cruel fate.The water offered a deceptive, lustrous peace; I only had to sink, to let the depths offer the sweet darkness I was too cowardly to seize. The ultimate, haunting irony was this: I, the cursed heir of Life, found myself incapable of achieving the only true silence—death. Instead, I was destined for a wedding, eternally bound to the one male whose touch was annihilation, yet who possessed the power to ensure I never died, nor truly ever lived.

I emerged shivering, cleansed but far from purged. The last vestiges of my childhood innocence were gone, replaced by a cold, sharp resolve. This wasn't just for my House anymore. This was for Aeternia. This was my duty.

The second Aenite, a silent, tired female, was already laying out the clothes sent by my Cenite intended, as Bess so innocently put it. It was a gown of midnight-black velvet and long silk sleeves, so deep it absorbed the scant light in the room, embroidered with stark, glittering silver threads. It was the antithesis of Life magic, scandalously dark, revealing, and utterly controlling.

The neckline was a jagged descent, the velvet clinging to my skin like a second, cold layer of shadow. It didn't just clothe me; it claimed me.

My jaw tightened. “I will not wear this. It is obscene.”

Bess stepped forward, her eyes pleading. “It is tradition, Ophelia. The bride must wear the pieces gifted by the groom. To refuse is to refuse the bond, and they will...”

"I know what they will do." I swallowed the statement, the taste of submission bitter on my tongue. I was a sacrifice, and sacrifices do not choose their robes. I let them dress me.

The third Aenite, deft and quick, began braiding my long, wavy red locks. She gathered the mass of ruby-coloured hair into a regal, intricate crown atop my head, leaving only two wavy pieces to frame my heart-shaped face. When she stepped back, the contrast was devastating: the midnight-black dress, the cold, powerful elegance of the hair, and the defiant flame of my face. I looked like a queen dressed for her own funeral.

“You’re going to be late. And that would be a fucking permanent solution to all of this,”Poppy’s reminder cut through the spiritual noise.

“They can wait a little,”I retorted, snapping at my familiar and immediately feeling guilty about it.

My three Aenites bowed low, their eyes holding a shared, silent pity. They then turned and left the chamber, their soft footfalls fading as they went to retrieve the waiting carriage. I was alone now, waiting for the death of Ophelia Josephine Ashworth.

I had only one hour until I had to leave, so I retreated to the study, not to plan, but to breathe. The scarred mahogany desk was my thinking place, but today it felt like a waiting room for the gallows. I sat there, tracing the grain of the wood, trying to slow the frantic rhythm of my heart.

"Stop vibrating,"a voice chirped from the windowsill."You’re making my whiskers twitch."

Poppy hopped down, her golden fur catching the dusty light. She trotted across the desk and sat directly on top of my hands, forcing me to look at her. Her large, intelligent eyes werenarrowed, shimmering with that unique mix of annoyance and fierce protectiveness that defined her.

"I can't help it," I whispered, leaning my forehead against her soft flank. "I feel like I'm walking to my own funeral, Poppy. A funeral where the corpse is expected to say 'I do.'"

"Don't be dramatic. It's unbecoming of a lady,"Poppy huffed mocking my mother at every turn, though she nudged her head under my chin."Besides, if he tries anything on you, I’ll bite his ankles. I have very sharp teeth. I’ve been sharpening them on your chair leg for weeks."