Chapter 3: The Price of Survival
1081 Words
Seraphina didn’t know if she was too heavy or not for her new husband, but she was uncomfortable and scared—this was the first time she had ever been carried like this.
She mumbled softly, hoping the beast could hear her.
“Y-Your Majesty, I can walk on my own. I just need my crutches…”
“You are too slow,” Draven replied, his deep voice leaving no room for argument. “It’s better this way.”
“But my crutches—”
“I will tell my aides to retrieve them before we leave.”
“Um… thank you, Your Majesty…” Seraphina whispered. She tried to stay quiet, afraid of angering her new husband. She had been told all her life to keep her voice hidden, that it was rough and unpleasant—like sandpaper. Unlike Lyria, whose voice was sweet and delicate, like a robin singing at dawn.
The sunlight brushed across Seraphina’s face, forcing her to squint. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw rows of guards and servants lined up on either side of a carpet strewn with flowers. At the end of the path stood a black carriage, ominous and out of place among Holy Aveloria’s usual bright colors.
But that wasn’t what unsettled her the most.
It was the way the entire line of servants and guards bowed before them.
Seraphina knew they weren’t bowing out of respect for her. This was fear—fear of the man who carried her. The beast who had killed their king, who had slaughtered an entire elite platoon in ways so gruesome no one dared to speak of it openly.
At least, that was what she’d overheard from the maids.
Her chest tightened. She hated being the center of attention—it reminded her too much of the time Lyria had called the guards to surround her and beat her because she had accidentally stepped on her sister’s new dress.
Seraphina struggled a little in Draven’s arms, whispering timidly, “Your Majesty, I-I can walk by myself, I—”
“Be good,” Draven cut her off, his grip tightening around her slight frame. “We are almost out of this suffocating palace.”
His command silenced her instantly. She buried her head against him, closing her eyes, and remained still until he entered the carriage and carefully set her down on a cushioned seat.
The door shut behind them, and Draven seated himself across from her. Though blindfolded, he tilted his head toward the window as if watching the scenery.
“You seem to be well-loved in the palace,” Draven remarked, his tone unreadable. “So many guards were deployed to bid you farewell.”
Seraphina’s fingers curled tightly around the hem of her old wedding dress—the only relic her late mother had left her. She forced a small smile and nodded.
“Yes, Your Majesty. I am… grateful.”
But inside, she knew the truth.
Queen Isolde had staged everything. The display of guards and servants wasn’t to honor her—it was to deceive Draven. To make him believe Seraphina was just as valued as Lyria, the golden princess, so he wouldn’t see her as a defective bargain.
And maybe it had worked, at least for now.
Yet Queen Isolde couldn’t fool him entirely. Despite the grand send-off, the streets told another story. The citizens of Holy Aveloria did not cheer. They locked themselves inside their homes, peering fearfully from behind shutters as the black carriage rolled past.
Still, Seraphina’s heart fluttered with quiet wonder. She had rarely been allowed beyond her chambers, and never alone. To see the world outside the palace walls—the shops lining the street, statues of goddesses, and the colorful flowers adorning each home after the spring festival—felt like stepping into another life.
“So beautiful…” she whispered to herself.
Draven’s voice interrupted her soft awe.
“You should relish the sight while you can. The beastmen in my kingdom do not waste time with such frivolous things. We value strength above all else.”
Seraphina’s lips curved faintly. Another cage or not, it didn’t matter. She had never been free, and she had long accepted that truth.
“I understand, Your Majesty,” she said quietly. “I’m just happy I got to see them at least once. I never knew there were so many kinds of flowers in Holy Aveloria.”
Draven scoffed.
“You act as though you’ve never seen them before. You are the First Princess—you should have witnessed them every spring.”
Her smile faltered, but she quickly masked it.
“Y-yes… I’ve seen them every year. I’m glad I could see them again before leaving.”
The corners of Draven’s lips thinned. His silence pressed against her, heavy and sharp. Seraphina couldn’t read his expression beneath the blindfold, but she sensed his displeasure.
Her nerves twisted. She had been taught to survive by pleasing others—by pleasing Lyria—so she rushed to fill the silence.
“Y-Your Majesty, should I call you Your Majesty? Or Your Grace? Or… uhm… Master?”
Draven frowned, his voice dropping lower.
“Did your mother not tell you my name?”
“Ah—that’s—” Seraphina’s words stumbled over themselves.
This man had always been called a monster. A savage beast. The Beast King. Never by name. She hadn’t dared to ask, fearing Queen Isolde’s wrath.
“I-I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” she stammered, lowering her head. “It’s my ignorance. Forgive me…”
“You are ignorant indeed,” Draven said, his voice edged with disdain. “I knew your name before I came for you, Princess Seraphina Asmara of Holy Aveloria. Yet you had no desire to know mine.”
Even without seeing his eyes, Seraphina felt the weight of his power pressing down on her. Her chest heaved as fear gripped her, his aura suffocating her fragile composure.
Ten agonizing seconds passed before it ebbed, leaving her trembling in her seat.
Finally, Draven spoke again, his voice quieter but no less commanding.
“Draven. You may call me by my name… but only in private.”
He paused, and the air between them thickened with something unspoken—a warning, a promise, and a quiet, dangerous intimacy that made her pulse race. Seraphina shivered, realizing just how alone and exposed she truly was, yet also, strangely, captivated.
- Writer
