Journey to the palace
862 Words
Lydia went still. “What?”
“A carriage is already being prepared.”
“Prepared for where?”
Her mother’s face did not change. “The royal palace.”
The room seemed to tilt, just slightly. Lydia blinked once, certain she had misunderstood. “Why would I be going to the palace?”
“Because a proposal has been accepted.”
The words came too smoothly. Too ready.
Lydia felt something hot and ugly rise in her throat. “You arranged this before today.”
“It was one possibility among several.”
“One possibility.” She repeated it slowly, trying to make sense of the pressure suddenly building behind her ribs. “So while I was standing there being humiliated in front of the pack, you already knew where I would be sent next.”
Her mother did not deny it.
That was answer enough.
Lydia took a step back. “Who?”
“The royal house.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is all you need.”
“No.” Her voice sharpened. “It isn’t. You don’t get to say I’m leaving tonight and then stand there like this is some ordinary arrangement. Who?”
Her mother’s jaw tightened, though her tone remained calm. “This marriage will restore standing that should never have been endangered in the first place.”
Lydia laughed again, this time without humor. “So that’s what this is. Payment.”
Her mother held her gaze. “It is survival.”
“No. It is selling me with better language.”
The slap never came.
Some part of Lydia almost wished it had, because at least that would have been honest.
Instead, her mother said, in that same cool, measured voice, “You were already difficult to place. Now you have been publicly rejected. Do you understand what that means?”
Lydia did understand. She understood too well. A rejected woman, especially one from a bloodline people already distrusted, was not just unwanted. She was marked.
Still, hearing it said out loud would have hurt less than the way her mother looked at her now—not with cruelty, but with practicality.
Like a thing that had to be moved before it spoiled.
“What if I refuse?” Lydia asked.
Her mother’s expression did not shift. “You won’t.”
“Because you think I’m obedient?”
“Because you’re not stupid.”
The answer sat between them, ugly and absolute.
Lydia looked away first. Not because she was ashamed, but because if she kept staring she might throw the wine glass at the wall and shatter something that couldn’t be repaired. Her mother was right about one thing. She wasn’t stupid.
A woman with no allies, no mate, and a name already half-buried in disgrace did not refuse the royal house and expect to survive the consequences.
So she said nothing.
That seemed to satisfy her mother more than tears would have.
“You should change,” she said. “The journey is long.”
Lydia turned toward the stairs.
“Lydia.”
She stopped, but didn’t look back.
“This arrangement is more than you deserve after today,” her mother said. “Try not to make it harder than it needs to be.”
Lydia left before her face could betray her.
The ride to the palace was silent.
Two guards sat across from her in the carriage, both wearing the royal crest over dark uniforms, both avoiding her eyes. That, more than anything, made the whole thing feel unreal. If she had truly been honored by the match, someone would have explained something. Asked after her comfort. Offered her water or reassurance.
Instead, she had been loaded into the carriage like cargo that needed to arrive intact.
Night settled around them as the road stretched on. Lydia watched the trees pass beyond the narrow window and tried not to think about the pack grounds growing farther behind her. There was nothing for her there now anyway. No reason to look back.
Sometime after midnight, the carriage slowed.
The first sight of the palace should have taken her breath away. It was massive, all dark stone and high towers, lit by lines of torchlight that made the walls seem even colder. It rose out of the dark like something carved from the mountain itself.
Instead of awe, Lydia felt unease.
The gates opened before the carriage fully stopped. Not with ceremony. Not with music or attendants waiting under warm light. Just a groan of iron and the sound of wheels grinding over stone as they rolled into the inner court.
No one greeted her when she stepped down.
A servant in plain grey approached, bowed quickly, and said, “This way.”
Lydia looked past her. The courtyard was too quiet. No curious nobles peering from balconies. No line of household staff. No sign that anyone had been expecting a bride.
“Am I late?” Lydia asked.
The servant’s head jerked up, startled, then dipped again almost at once. “No, my lady.”
That “my lady” sounded wrong. Forced. Afraid.
- Writer
