A soft, golden glow bathed the hall as thousands of candles flickered from every crevice, their warm flames casting trembling shadows upon the marbled floors. The air was heavy with the scent of lilies, roses, and rare mountain blossoms. Crystalline chandeliers shimmered like constellations overhead, and music—haunting and beautiful—echoed through the chamber like whispers from another world.
Tyche stood at the center of it all.
She wore a gown spun from moonlight. Or at least, that was how it looked—woven with fine silver threads and shimmering silk that flowed like water around her feet. The long sleeves clung delicately to her arms before billowing at the wrists, edged with tiny pearls. Her copper hair cascaded freely down her back in soft waves, the front carefully braided and pinned with delicate vine-like strands of silver and tiny white blossoms that glowed faintly. A translucent veil trailed behind her, ethereal and light as morning mist.
Around her stood faces—so many faces. Her family. The royal family. Nobles. Strangers. Some looked on with envy, their eyes sharp and judging. Others pitied her, gazes full of quiet sorrow. A few wept as if they knew something she didn't. But Tyche felt none of it. She only knew that her heart was racing, that her hands trembled slightly in her gloves, and that the man she was to marry—who now turned to face her—was breathtaking.
He stood tall, regal, and untouchable.
Levi.
His skin was pale like moon-kissed marble. His long, silky black hair was tied back into a loose knot at the nape of his neck, a few strands falling artfully along his chiseled cheekbones. His eyes burned gold, like fire caught in amber, striking and otherworldly. He wore deep crimson robes trimmed in obsidian black and silver embroidery, bearing the sigils of ancient kings. A dark cloak billowed behind him, caught in the faint breeze of the cathedral's draft. He looked like royalty and danger woven into a single being.
The priest spoke, but the words were muffled, as if Tyche were hearing them from underwater. She tried to focus, but something felt wrong.
Her chest tightened.
The music deepened. Her vision blurred. The candles dimmed. The veil on her head fluttered unnaturally, as though wind stirred it from within. A cold, prickling sensation crept down her spine like invisible fingers.
Something is not right.
The moment Levi reached out to take her hand, a jolt of terror ripped through her—sharp and electric. The hall collapsed into blackness.
Tyche gasped.
Ice trickled down her back. Her thin sleeping gown clung to her skin as she bolted upright on the straw-stuffed mattress,
A metal bucket clanged to the floor.
Aunt Lysandra stood above her, arms crossed, her face twisted with irritation. "Lazy brat," she snapped. "You think the chores will do themselves? It's nearly dawn! You useless girl, lying there like a lump while others work themselves to the bone."
Tyche blinked, her wet lashes heavy with droplets. The chill seeped into her bones. Her thin nightdress clung to her skin, her soaked copper hair dripped down her back.
"I—" she tried to speak, but her voice trembled with cold.
"Save your excuses," Lysandra cut her off. "You've got five minutes to dry off and meet me in the kitchen. If you're not there—" she leaned down, her voice like poison in Tyche's ear, "—you'll get something worse than a bucket of water."
With that, she turned on her heel and stomped out, leaving a trail of muddy footprints and a shivering girl behind.
Tyche pulled herself up with shaking hands. Her thin mattress was soaked, and so was the patched blanket she'd used. Water pooled on the uneven wooden floor.
She rubbed her arms, trying to create warmth, but her thoughts spun back to the dream.
A wedding. Him. The clothes. The palace.
It had felt so real.
Too real.
She caught her reflection in the cracked mirror leaning against the far wall. Her emerald eyes stared back, wide and uncertain.
She'd always hated them—those strange, bright eyes that marked her as different. Eyes that had earned her the whispers of "witch-blood" behind her back.
But no one knew the truth.
Not even Tyche herself.
She didn't remember the accident. Only flashes—the scent of smoke, the sound of her mother screaming, the coldness of death. And then the warmth. A voice. A shadow. And nothing.
She had awoken days later, an orphan. And different.
Tyche reached for a ragged cloth and wiped her face, trying to collect herself. She would dry off, get dressed, and report to the kitchen like always. Her aunt's punishment was only the start of another day in a life she never chose.
But her heart still pounded.
The golden-eyed man still lingered in her mind.
She had never seen him before.
So why did it feel like… fate?
♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️