Gloria stood in the chamber doorway, the weight of the gown dragging at her shoulders—dark red silk, trimmed with gold thread, Eldeholt colors Helga had forced on her like a brand. The maids had wrestled her into it after the bath, Lina yanking the laces tight until her ribs ached, Mara brushing her damp hair into a braid that pulled at her scalp. The sapphire stayed hidden in her patched dress, left behind with her rats—Victor's yellow eyes watching as she'd been dragged away. Now, the great hall loomed ahead, its pine table gleaming under torchlight, and her father's voice boomed, thick with wine. "Here she is—my girl!" Count Edgar Eldeholt sprawled in his chair, a goblet sloshing, his Fire and Poison aura flickering as he grinned at the Filmore envoy.
Helga stepped beside her, her hand a cold vise on Gloria's arm. "Move," she hissed, shoving her forward. Gloria stumbled, the gown's hem catching her boots, and the room's eyes turned—sharp, judging, peeling her bare. The Filmores sat across the table: four figures in blue and purple, their serpent-boat sigil stitched into cloaks and cuffs. The envoy, a lean man with graying hair, nodded curtly—Count Filmore's voice, no doubt. Beside him, Lady Filmore, her face smooth and hard as river stone, watched with pale eyes, Water magic shimmering faintly in the air around her. A butler, Byron, stood stiffly behind, his hands clasped, his black coat crisp. Then Rebecca, 36, broad-shouldered and brash, her dark hair pulled tight, Water magic coiling in the steam of her teacup. And Tristan—16, 6'2, a sailor's frame honed by years on boats, his tan skin taut over muscle, brown hair salt-rough. He froze when Gloria entered, his teacup halfway to his lips, green eyes wide and speechless.
Edgar laughed, a wet, ugly sound. "See, boy? That's your catch—Tristan's bride-to-be!" He slammed his goblet down, wine splashing the pine. "Five villages, one city—ours soon enough." The envoy inclined his head, sipping tea, but Rebecca snorted, her voice cutting through.
"She's a child," Rebecca said, leaning forward, her Water swirling the tea in sharp eddies. "Thin as a reed, no meat on her. Tristan could do better—someone with spine, not this waif." Her tone was loud, brassy, and she ruffled Tristan's hair with a rough hand, grinning at him. "My little brother deserves a real wife, not some dirt-caked noble scrap." To Tristan, it was sisterly—protective, loud love. To Helga, it was a slap; to Gloria, it reeked of something too close, too possessive.
Helga's grip tightened, nails biting Gloria's skin. "Mind your tongue," she snapped, her Air stirring the hall's dust. "Gloria's an Eldeholt—blood worth more than your river mud. She'll wed him when she's of age, and you'll thank us for it." Her voice was ice, but her eyes flicked to Gloria—worthless, they'd said in the bath, and now dressed up to prove otherwise.
Lady Filmore raised a hand, her Water magic calming the air. "Enough," she said, her tone smooth but edged. "The match is set—two years, when she's sixteen. Tristan's Fire and Water pair well with your line. The plans stand." Her gaze slid to Gloria, cold and measuring, then back to Edgar. "We'll host in our city—fish feasts, port fees waived for your kin. A union worth the coin."
Tristan coughed, setting his cup down, his voice finally breaking free. "She's… pretty," he managed, low and rough, his sailor's hands flexing on the table. Rebecca rolled her eyes, shoving a cookie at him—crumbly, spiced, fresh from their boats. "Pretty's not enough," she muttered, biting her own with a crunch. "No magic, they say—pathetic for a noble. What's she bring, eh?"
Gloria's chest burned, her hands fisting in the gown's folds. "I'm here," she said, the words sharp, louder than she meant. The room stilled—Edgar's laugh cut off, Helga's grip slackened. Tristan blinked, green eyes locking on hers, and Rebecca's brow arched, a smirk tugging her lips. Byron shifted, pouring more tea, his silence heavy.
Helga recovered, her voice a lash. "Quiet, girl. You speak when spoken to." She turned to Rebecca, venom dripping. "No magic yet—true. A disgrace, if it stays that way. But she's ours, and she'll serve. Tristan's lucky we'd stoop to your pirate spawn." The jab hung, Rebecca's smirk fading, Lady Filmore's eyes narrowing.
Edgar guffawed, oblivious. "Pirates or not, they've got gold! Fish, fees—stocking, ports, all of it. My girl'll seal it—Tristan's a fine lad, eh?" He winked at the boy, who flushed, ducking his head. Gloria stared at him—tall, broad, a stranger who'd own her in two years. Her stomach churned.
Rebecca leaned back, sipping tea. "Two years to fatten her up, then. She'll need it—Tristan's got a fleet to run, not a nursemaid's job." Her laugh was harsh, and she nudged him again, too hard. "You sure, little brother? She's a ghost—look at her." Tristan didn't answer, his gaze flicking to Gloria, then away, his jaw tight.
The shadows stirred—at the hall's edges, under the table, curling toward Gloria's feet. She felt them, a whisper brushing her mind: "You're enough." Her breath hitched, the memory of the bath's dark voice alive again. Helga's words—worthless, disgrace—clashed with it, and she gripped the gown harder, the red silk crumpling. Lady Filmore's Water shimmered, Rebecca's swirled, but neither saw the black tendrils licking the stone.
"Tea?" Byron offered, his voice soft, breaking the moment. He slid a cup toward Gloria, spiced steam rising, and she took it, her hands trembling. Edgar rambled on—wedding dates, village mergers—while Helga and Rebecca traded barbs, Lady Filmore steering them back. Tristan stayed quiet, watching her over his cup, speechless again. The cookies sat untouched before her, their scent sharp against the hall's musk.
Gloria sipped, the tea bitter on her tongue. Two years—Tristan, Rebecca, Lady Filmore's cold plans. The shadows whispered again, "Rise," and she shivered, the hall's torches dimming for a heartbeat. Helga didn't notice, too busy flaying Rebecca with words. Gloria set the cup down, her mind drifting to the tunnels—Victor waiting, the dark her own. She'd escape this, somehow. The Filmores could have their fish and fees, but not her soul.