"He always said love was a luxury... but survival? That was the only true art."
The voice didn't come from Eloise. It pulsed in her head like an echo trapped in marble halls, ancient and cold. A whisper, but somehow louder than thought.
She blinked.
The chandeliers above her dripped light like wax, golden and slow. Crimson banners fell from the domed ceiling, brushing against her shoulder every time a draft curled past. Somewhere, a harp was being plucked lazily—too lazily. Off tempo. Wrong. Every note felt like a footstep she couldn't quite place.
She was still in the grand hall. Still wearing the red gown. Still surrounded by women who looked like they belonged in oil paintings... or coffins.
Then, a bell rang.
Not from above, but from somewhere below.
Everyone turned.
A tall man in bone-white robes stepped onto the center platform. His presence parted the room like the teeth of a blade.
"All brides," he began, voice measured, tone oddly amused, "you may now breathe. The Ceremony approaches, and it is time for rules."
Eloise didn't breathe. Couldn't.
He continued. "You have sixty days. That is all. On the final night, the Prince will choose his bride. Only one will bear the crown."
A soft sigh of anticipation moved through the other women like a collective breeze. None of them looked surprised. Not a blink. Not a twitch.
The man clasped his long fingers together, each ring on his hand reflecting torchlight like blood diamonds. "You will not leave these grounds. Not by foot. Not by flame. Not by plea. Any attempt will result in... disqualification."
A slow chuckle followed. Eloise didn't know if he was joking.
"There will be no contact with the outside world. No letters. No phones. No signals. We are beneath the veil now."
Beneath. The veil.
A rush of nausea slammed through her. Not metaphorical. Physical. She clutched her stomach.
The official took a small scroll from his sleeve and read it aloud: "Attendance is mandatory at all rituals, shared meals, and royal evaluations. There will be no exceptions. Any refusal shall be taken as forfeiture."
A silence pressed in.
Then he smiled. "You may now meet your handmaids. They are here to assist you in all things—cleanliness, conduct, courage."
A single, synchronized motion. Twenty-four tall women emerged from the shadows of the pillars, each dressed in muted colors—dusty greys, faded greens, antique silks.
Eloise's breath hitched when one stopped in front of her. She wasn't pale like the others. Her skin was golden-brown, almost sun-kissed, with long grey hair pulled into a thick braid.
"I am Cecilia," the woman said, voice warm but dry. "I belong to you, Lady Eloise."
Belong.
The word settled heavily in the pit of her stomach.
Eloise tried to form something like a sentence. "Are you... Are you human?"
Cecilia tilted her head, a curious smile pulling at one corner of her lips. "Does it matter?"
Yes, Eloise thought. It mattered. It mattered a lot.
But instead of answering, she turned to look at the others. Some of the brides were embracing their handmaids like old friends. Others offered a slight nod, regal and silent. No one looked confused. No one looked scared.
Why was she the only one?
Cecilia seemed to sense her spiraling thoughts. "They were raised for this," she said quietly. "Groomed. Promised. You... you were invited."
"Invited," Eloise whispered, tasting the word. Like it had ever been a choice.
Another bell.
The official raised a hand. "Let the blood rites begin."
Eloise didn't even have time to ask what that meant.
A sharp cry split the air. Not pain. Pleasure.
She turned just in time to see Clarissa—tall, sculpted, with a mouth like sin—grabbing the arm of a young servant boy. She pulled him close, murmured something into his neck, and then bit.
Fangs.
Flesh.
Blood.
Dark red streaked down her chin like honey.
Eloise stumbled backward, hands reaching for balance but finding only air.
No one stopped her. No one intervened.
Clarissa laughed through a mouthful of red. "Keep some for us, darling."
Another bride smirked. "You always take the young ones."
The boy swayed on his feet, eyes rolling back.
Eloise's heart beat out of sync with the rest of the room. Too fast. Too loud. Too human.
And then the truth struck her.
They were human.
They were the meal.
She tried to scream but it caught in her throat.
Black edges frayed her vision like burnt lace. Her knees gave way.
She didn't faint because of the blood.
She fainted because everything—the gowns, the walls, the rituals—was a veil for something monstrous.
And she was in the center.
When Eloise woke, she was back in her bed. The familiar canopy above her head.
And somehow, somehow, she felt safe under it.
When naturally, she should be panicking that she could be their meal if they finally run out of servants.
Soft candlelight flickered from sconces now burning low. The blanket was sprawled across her chest but she could see a part of her red dress wrinkled, her palms damp.
Cecilia sat beside her, quiet and still.
"I passed out," Eloise mumbled, dazed.
"Yes," Cecilia replied gently. "You were overwhelmed."
Eloise sat up too fast. Her head spun.
"Why me?" she asked, voice cracked. "Why send me that letter?"
Cecilia didn't answer.
Eloise grabbed her wrist. "Please."
The older woman finally met her gaze. "Sometimes," she said, "the house chooses. Sometimes the Prince notices. Sometimes... a mistake slips through."
A mistake.
Eloise stared at the floor.
Cecilia rose and smoothed her skirt. "Tomorrow, you'll learn more. Tonight, you must rest. You are no use to him broken."
"Him?" Eloise echoed.
"The Prince."
The name settled like ash.
Cecilia stepped back into the dark.
And Eloise was left with the flickering candle, the silence—and a growing terror she hadn't felt since childhood.
Back when she believed monsters waited beneath the bed.
Now, she knew better.
They threw parties.
They wore crowns.
And they were always... always... hungry.