Heir of Ashes

Chapter 4 Silk chains

“Will my husband… hurt me… like Dad hurts you?” I had asked her. The moment the words left my mouth, the air between us froze. The comb slips from her hand.

Her breath catches, then breaks. She drops to her knees in front of me, arms wrapping around my waist, her face pressed to my stomach. Her body convulses with silent sobs. She cries like she’s been holding this pain for years, like she’s been waiting for someone—anyone—to notice.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, breaking. “Meira… I should have protected you. I should have run far away.” I reached out, touching her hair and stroking it, just as she usually does with me. “Mamma… no.”

“I trapped you in this life,” she breathes. “And I can’t undo it.” I want to tell her she’s wrong. That she’s brave. That she’s loving and kind, and the thread holding us together. But the words lodge in my throat like stones. I mean them, but I am afraid of crying when I say them.

A sharp knock at the door makes us jump.

She goes still.

In an instant, she transforms. Her spine straightens. Her tears vanish under a sweep of her sleeve. The soft, broken mother kneeling in front of me disappears, replaced by the perfect Queen. Calm eyes. Painted smile. Movements so practised that they are indistinguishable from instinct.

She leans close, lips brushing my ear.

“Never show them fear,” she whispers. “The moment you do… You lose control.”

Another knock. Harder. Sharper.

She rises, smoothing her skirts, adjusting her hairpin. Every motion precise, rehearsed, elegant.

“Come in,” she calls, her voice soft and regal.

And just like that—she’s gone.

The Queen stands where my mother was.

——

I sit in the quiet antechamber, hands folded neatly in my lap, the violin case pressed against my legs. Candlelight flickers along the polished floor, shadows stretching like fingers reaching for me. My stomach twists into knots, even though I’ve practised this moment endlessly—every smile, every curtsy, every polite word rehearsed until it feels like second nature. Still, fear coils inside me. Failure is not an option.

The door opens, making my heart race as I thought I was being summoned. A boy steps inside. Deep red hair, sharp blue eyes, lips curved in a smug half-smile. Fifteen—just a year older than me—but the air shifts. His presence is sharp, entitled, and suffocating.

“I’m Caden,” he says, voice low, measured, confident. “I’m supposed to wait here with you.”

My chest tightens. This is him. My future husband. He doesn’t disappoint; he looks exactly like the boy I wouldn’t ever like.

He leans in, invading my space. His words cut, leaving marks in my confidence, my self-esteem, my soul:

“My father said you are beautiful. I must say he was mistaken.” He sighs dramatically.”From today on, you belong to me.” Silence stretches between us. And no one comes to correct him.

“You are my possession. I can say and do whatever I want to you. You are just a girl. Your only value is to look pretty and behave. Don’t embarrass me.”

Bile rises. My fingers curl into my lap.

“You’re… kidding, right?” I manage, voice small but firm. How can he be so…like my father? He does not flinch. Does not blink. Just stares at me, his gaze sharp and assessing. It hits me all at once:

This is no childish arrogance.

This is training and entitlement all in one. He sees me as an object. Something to be admired, used, and controlled. And the thought twists my stomach with icy dread.

“You don’t own me!” I shrieked out in irritation, still in disbelief of his utter nerve.

“Not yet, but very soon. I was promised a new toy.” I stared at him, trying to figure out what to say, but before I could even find the words.

I am fourteen. I am trapped.

The door opened again. A servant came in signalling for us to follow him. I handed the servant my violin. There is no point in fighting this. This is what is expected of me. I know exactly how the night will go. I take a breath and make my way out of the room.

We reached the big, intimidating ballroom doors. Caden steps forward next to me, taking my hand, not waiting for me. He raised our hand up between the two of us in formal procession we’ve been drilled on. The doors are opened light streaming out from the ballroom into the hallway. I can do this. Caden starts walking holding my hand tightly, to tightly. Clearly not letting me mess up. I follow, every step precise, careful not to stumble. The ballroom stretches before us, glittering with chandeliers and hundreds of noble eyes. Every glance feels like judgment, every whisper like a verdict.

We walked right to the centre of the ballroom, where we stopped. He let go of my hand in order for us to turn and face each other. We bow. Slight, perfect, rehearsed. We start with our choreographed dance. Each of us has practised it at home with our dance instructor, but never together. The dance is meant to show we’re “compatible.” It signifies us starting to court. A Performance. A farce, since the deal is already sealed.

Caden guides me around the floor, hand firm, posture rigid. I can feel his grip, controlling, possessive, as though he owns not just my hand but every inch of me. The audience watches, expecting perfection. I tried my best to give them just that.

Once we finished our dance, my violin was handed to me. I am like an animal on display. It’s time to show my skills. I have no idea what about me being able to play instruments shows that I will be a good Queen.

My bow glides across the violin strings, every note calculated, delicate, perfect. I am performing not for him but for the room—every nod, every smile, every sound under scrutiny. I feel his eyes on me once, sharp, measuring, as if testing how quickly I can be tamed.

The night stretches on. I answer questions, laugh politely, nod at compliments, and smile when I’m told I’m graceful or beautiful. Inside, I feel hollow, raw, exposed. Every step reminds me I am not a person here; I am a display, a possession. And everyone is watching.

Then come the in-laws.

Caden’s father is tall, rigid, his gaze like a knife as he scrutinises me from head to toe. Every step I take, every gesture, every carefully measured smile is observed. I bow, curtsey, and answer his questions with calm, steady words, but my fingers tremble. His nod is approving, sharp, precise, yet the glint in his eyes makes my chest tighten. He sees everything, and nothing I do escapes his judgment.

Caden’s mother sits there, she doesn’t say anything. Perfect. Silent. I understand. This is what I’m meant to become. I am fourteen. I am trapped. I am already learning the rules of this life: look perfect, speak little, never falter, never breathe wrong.

Caden says nothing, but his presence is constant -assessing, claiming, reminding me I am only here tonight because I am being handed over to him. I taste bile, my hands clammy inside my gloves, and I imagine all the whispers:

“She is beautiful… obedient… perfect.” And yet, perfect is not enough. It is never enough for them.

Finally, my father summons me aside. His expression is taut with pride, eyes gleaming.

“You did well tonight, Meira,” he says, voice low, pleased. “Perfect. Graceful. Beautiful. Exactly what a princess must be. I could not ask for more.” I always wanted him to be proud of me. I always yearned for his praise. Now it makes my skin crawl.

I nod, chest tight. His praise is not for me—it is for what I represent. My body. My image. My obedience. I feel the weight of it, heavier than the silk and tulle pressing into my ribs.

By the end of the night, I am hollow, suffocating in layers of silk and expectation. My lungs ache. My fingers burn from the violin. My chest is heavy, each breath a struggle. I stumble toward the corridor, tugging at the dress, trying to breathe without the weight of every gaze crushing me.

I know the feeling of being trapped, but this is different. My chest tightens first, like something is crushing me from the inside. I try to take a breath, and it catches halfway, shallow and ragged, as if the air itself has thickened.

My heart pounds, loud and uneven, hammering against my throat, echoing in my ears. My fingers tingle, then go numb, and a strange tremor runs up my arms.

The hallway tilts, the music from the ballroom blurs into a dull roar. My stomach knots, twisting and turning as if it knows I’m trapped, and panic flares, hot and bright, like fire in my veins.

I want to scream. I want to run. But my legs won’t move fast enough, my hands won’t stop shaking, and my lips are too dry to form the words. I feel small. Invisible. Overwhelmed.

Then mom is there. Her hands on my shoulders, steadying, grounding. “You’re alright,” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”

Her presence is the only thing keeping me upright. The only thing that reminds me I am still a person. I lean into her. My reflection in the polished floor shows a girl dressed in silk, adorned in jewels, performing perfection—but inside, I am already learning the first lesson of my life as a princess: perfection will not save you. Only endurance will. And I am fourteen, trapped, and already knowing the price.