"It is your day," his voice was a low, dark current beneath the music. "Every bride is meant to be radiant. Yet you choose to linger here, in the shadows."
"I… I choose to observe, my lord," she managed, her voice thin.
"You choose?" He scoffed, the sound dripping with disdain. He leaned in, the scent of him—spice and something colder—washing over her. "You do not choose. I choose what becomes of you. What you do. Where you stand. Do you understand?" The whisper was harsh, already thick with disgust for her perceived defiance.
"I do, my lord." The words were ash in her mouth. "What would you have me do?"
"We are going to dance," he stated, his gaze stripping her of any remaining pretense of autonomy. "Endeavor to place a smile upon your face. It would not do for you to look as if you are already in mourning."
Before she could reply, his hand closed around her wrist, drawing her firmly from the shelter of the pillar. He led her to the very center of the grand hall, where the light from the great chandeliers fell brightest. All other movement stilled; every eye followed them.
The music swelled into a slow, stately melody. He was overwhelmingly tall and solid, a figure of martial power, while she felt insubstantial beside him—slender and petite, a sapling next to an oak. His right hand settled at the small of her back, possessive and unyielding, drawing her close until the stiff fabric of her gown brushed against him. His other hand raised hers, their fingers intertwining with a formality that felt like a trap. Mechanically, she lifted her free hand and rested it lightly upon the hard, unyielding plane of his chest.
Slowly, they began to move. Their steps were a prescribed ritual, a public performance of unity. She could feel the weight of a hundred stares upon them—assessing, approving, envying. She kept her gaze fixed just over his shoulder, her face arranged into the serene mask he had demanded, while inside, her thoughts churned in silent, furious rebellion.
Then—a sharp, familiar spike of pain pierced her temple. Her head throbbed, a sickening pressure building behind her eyes. She clenched her teeth, a cold sweat breaking out across her skin. It was the vapor. The old, cursed sickness she'd carried since childhood, rising without warning.
"My lord," she gasped, the words strangled as she struggled to draw a full breath against the tightening in her chest and the vise around her skull. "Please… stop. I must… I need to be excused." The pain was a white-hot drill behind her eyes, blurring the edges of his face.
He stared down at her, his expression one of confusion and dawning impatience, utterly unaware of the internal siege.
"May I… be excused?" she forced out, each word a monument to endurance. She needed Hilda. Only Hilda had the tonic that could quell the rising storm in her veins.
Without waiting for his dismissal, her survival instinct overriding protocol, she pulled her hand from his and stepped shakily back, offering a faint, wobbling bow before turning away. She moved through the crowd, a ghost in white silk, her vision tunneling. She walked left, then right, disoriented, the glittering hall becoming a nauseating labyrinth. The pain crested, bringing with it a wave of despair. She was on the verge of collapsing where she stood.
Then she saw her. Hilda. But she was not waiting with a vial in hand; she was in the arms of a man, turning slowly on the dance floor, a serene smile on her own face.
"Lady Hilda!" Gisela cried out, the sound a raw thread of pain and desperation that cut through the murmur of the music and the crowd.
Hilda turned immediately, her serene expression dissolving into one of sharp concern. "Forgive me," she said to her dance partner, her tone leaving no room for discussion. The man's face fell into slight disappointment, but she was already stepping away.
"Your Highness, you look…" She did not need to finish. One glance at Gisela's ashen face, the sheen of cold sweat on her brow, and the wild, pained look in her eyes told the entire story. Her own eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, merciful heavens. Tell me the King did not see you in this state."
"The tonic," Gisela breathed, the words barely audible as she fought to remain upright.
"Yes, yes, of course." Hilda's hands, usually so steady, fumbled for a moment with the clasp of her small, beaded purse. She drew out a small glass bottle filled with a deep red liquid. Without a word, Gisela took it, her trembling hands bringing it to her lips. She drank it in one desperate, burning gulp, the bitter herbs a familiar, harsh comfort coursing down her throat.
"His Majesty will be waiting," Hilda murmured, her voice low as she studied the slow return of steadiness to Gisela's posture, the terrible pallor receding from her cheeks. "You should return to him now."
"A moment more," Gisela said, her own voice faint, a thread of sound pulled taut as she willed the trembling in her hands to cease. "He did not take a wife for affection's sake. My absence will be a minor irritation, at best."
Hilda watched, measuring the breath that finally deepened in Gisela's lungs, the desperate focus in her eyes giving way to exhausted clarity. She gave a slow, acknowledging nod.
"I must go," Gisela said, her tone firmer now, the ghost of her regal bearing settling once more upon her slender shoulders. "But remember, Hilda—do not let yourself be drawn into the company of courtiers. If this… indisposition should strike again, I must find you directly. Do you understand?"
A sharp, approving smile touched Hilda's lips as she offered a slight, formal dip of her head. "Yes, my Queen."
She remained still for a heartbeat, watching the white-gowned figure glide back into the shimmering fray—no longer a faltering ghost, but a deliberate presence parting the sea of silk and ambition.
"She has grown," Hilda whispered to the empty space beside her, the words carrying a weight of pride and profound foreboding. "A great deal indeed."