ANNARIEVETTA

The Making Of A Bride

Karan had asked if it was okay to call her Rieta, and without thinking, Veta nodded. She barely registered the name; her mind was elsewhere, lost in the storm of the journey. She just wanted it to end, to reach some kind of peace.

But as the hours passed, a sudden, unshakable fear began to grip her. It was unreasonable. It didn’t make sense. Yet it tightened around her chest, making each breath feel heavier.

Karan noticed the tension in her posture, the way her hands clenched at the reins. His gaze flicked to her, and for a brief moment, his lips pressed together in frustration. He felt a pang of dejection. The first person he’d been able to share real freedom with — the first person who didn’t seem to judge him at first glance — was scared of him.

"No. Stop it."

Veta’s voice broke through the silence, sharp and desperate. She reached out and wiped a stray drop of blood from the corner of his lip with her thumb.

For a moment, Karan felt the brush of her fingers on his skin, and it caught him off guard. A shiver ran through him, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he cast a cold glance at her, his expression unreadable.

Without a word, he spurred his horse into a faster pace, the powerful creature galloping with speed and precision. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t sure why, but there was something about this moment, about her touch, that pulled him deeper into a quiet yearning.

He didn’t feel awkward. In fact, he craved the contact, the connection.

But he said nothing.

They finally arrived at Zerubabel, the foreign kingdom that now marked the start of Veta's new life. Karan’s voice was firm as he ordered the maids to escort Veta to the "Princess of Karan's" room. The maids nodded and followed his command without hesitation, guiding Veta through the palace’s grand hallways.

Curiosity gnawed at Veta as they walked. She glanced at one of the maids and asked, “Do the princess and the prince not share the same room?”

The maid glanced at her, her expression neutral.

“No, Your Highness. The prince and princess each have their own rooms, though there is a joint room as well.”

Veta nodded, her mind racing with unanswered questions about the kingdom, about Karan, and what her life would look like here. She would have to adapt quickly, but the weight of it all was starting to sink in.

As they reached the door to her room, the maid offered with a kind smile,

“Would you like to have a bath prepared, Your Highness?”

Veta hesitated for a moment, then shook her head.

“No, I’ll bathe myself,” she said, her tone firmer than she expected. She was used to privacy, to the quiet solitude of doing things on her own.

The maid didn’t argue, bowing and stepping aside, allowing Veta the space to enter the room alone.

Soon, three maids rushed into her room, their expressions tense.

“Your Highness, the prince is angry,” one of them said, her voice trembling with urgency.

“Angry?” Veta asked, brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Because you refused the royal bath,” another maid answered, her tone sharp with disapproval. “It’s not done that way here.”

Veta could feel the weight of their words pressing down on her, the realization that her own choices were not hers to make. She sighed, too weary to argue. Whatever they wanted, she would let them do. It was easier that way.

The bath, when it came, was slow and impersonal, a series of mechanical motions that felt more like a ritual than a comfort. No soothing oils, no gentle hands massaging away the tension—nothing like the baths with Lexi and Yvonne back in Astria. The water felt cold against her skin, and the process dragged on like time itself had slowed in this unfamiliar place.

She closed her eyes, resigning herself. One day, I’ll get used to this, she thought, though she wasn’t sure she believed it.

When they were done, she was left alone in the room. She lay in bed, the sheets cold against her skin. Her heart ached with the distance from home—her parents, her brothers, and her best friends. She thought of them now, of their warmth, their laughter... and of how much she missed them.

Tears fell silently, staining the pillow beneath her head. Veta, alone in a strange land, cried for the life she had lost.

On his way back from praxis, Karan received a call from one of the guards.

“The king requests your presence,” the guard had said, his tone laced with urgency. Since returning from Astria, Karan had spent most of his time in the training room.

He was the best warrior in all of Zerubabel, unmatched in skill and strength. He had fought in countless battles, returning each time without a single scratch. Thousands had fallen by his hands, and the legend of the Possessed One had grown with each victory.

He had carried the title since his youth, playing alongside his brothers—back when they all still looked at him with admiration. But as they grew older, things changed. His brothers began to resent him. They hated him for being better than them in everything—strength, skill, and even looks. They whispered behind his back and sometimes to his face, calling him a curse.

And then there was the cruelest rumor of all—the belief that Karan, his own blood, had killed their mother. Karan, the only one who had lost a mother, had grown up bearing that accusation.

He dropped the dagger in his hand and wiped the sweat from his brow, the familiar ache of old wounds stirring within him. He exhaled slowly, forcing the memories aside. The face of his father, King Ishmael, appeared in his mind—an image of cold authority.

Karan walked toward the king’s chamber, his steps measured but filled with impatience. He knocked on the door before stepping inside.

The room was heavy with silence. His father sat in the shadows, leisurely puffing on his pipe, his face obscured by the haze of smoke.

Karan’s voice broke the stillness. “Your Highness?”

The king didn’t acknowledge him right away, the silence stretching between them. Finally, King Ishmael spoke without turning. "Where is your wife?"

Karan answered his father indifferently. “She’s in her chambers.”

King Ishmael, without missing a beat, informed him, “There will be a feast tomorrow for the entire Camel family to introduce your bride.”

Karan’s brows furrowed. “Why? I don’t need anyone to know my bride.”

“I have spoken,” the king replied, his tone final. He puffed a thick cloud of smoke into Karan’s face.

Karan coughed, a sharp rasp escaping his throat. Though he was a strong man, there were things he never did—never drank, never smoked. He held his composure, not wanting to show any weakness in front of his father.

Once he stepped outside the chamber, Karan let the coughs rack his body, expelling the smoke from his lungs. As long as I’m in there, he thought, I won’t let him see me like this.

He strode down the hallway, his boots clicking sharply against the stone floor. But then, he bumped into someone. He looked up, and his gaze met the sharp, calculating eyes of Princess Britta, his immediate elder brother Clement’s wife.

A smirk tugged at Karan’s lips, but he turned to move on, not in the mood for any games.

“Wait.” Britta’s grip tightened on his wrist, stopping him.

“What?” Karan snapped, his patience wearing thin.

“Yes, my prince,” she said, her voice laced with mock sweetness. “I heard you’re married. Happy marriage.”

She fluttered her eyelashes, a playful but pointed gesture, as if trying to provoke him.

Karan’s expression softened, then quickly hardened again. With a sharp breath, he jerked his wrist free and walked away, his steps fierce and purposeful.This was how the princesses were—each one flinging herself at her husband’s brothers, each desperate for attention, each adding to the brewing hatred within the family. The resentment seemed to grow stronger with every passing day.

Karan walked toward Reata’s room, his mind distracted by the chaos of the palace. The guards posted at her chamber informed him she was asleep.

But that didn’t stop him. He slipped a key into the lock, moving quietly through the door.

There, in the dim light, he saw her. Reata lay beneath the duvets, her face partially visible, stained with dried tears.

For the first time in Karan’s life, he felt something unexpected—guilt. A tight knot formed in his chest as he realized he had left her alone all day. No bride, no woman, deserved to be alone on her wedding day, especially not like this.

He bent down beside the bed, careful not to disturb her too abruptly. Gently, he patted her head, the touch tender. He smiled softly as he took in the sight of her face. Her beautiful lips were pouted in the midst of her dream, an innocent expression that made him ache with something he couldn’t name.