Chapter 17

The palace loomed like a dark fortress as the horses thundered through the gates. Malcolm dismounted with effortless grace, dragging Amelia behind him as if she weighed nothing. Her feet stumbled against the cold stone path, her wrist aching from the force of his grip. All around them, the court’s curious eyes watched, whispers trailing in their wake.

"Is Viktor ready?" Malcolm barked to a nearby guard, his tone sharp and unyielding.

The guard snapped to attention, nodding quickly. "Yes, Your Majesty. He waits at the altar."

"Good," Malcolm replied, his voice devoid of warmth. Without hesitation, he hauled Amelia through the grand palace doors, his stride purposeful and unrelenting.

The ornate corridors were alive with light and chatter, nobles dressed in their finest silks and jewels lingering with goblets in hand. But as Malcolm passed, the conversations died away, and all eyes turned to him and the disheveled woman he dragged along.

Amelia’s heart pounded in her chest, her face burning with humiliation. She tried to avert her gaze from the stares, but the weight of their judgment was suffocating.

He stopped abruptly outside a towering set of double doors.

Amelia’s head snapped up, panic flashing in her eyes. "Your chambers?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

He didn’t respond, merely pushed the doors open and pulled her inside. The room was vast and imposing, dominated by a massive bed draped in dark velvet. A fire roared in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the richly adorned walls.

"Call the maids," Malcolm ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Moments later, a group of women hurried into the room, their faces carefully blank.

"Prepare her," Malcolm said, his gaze fixed on Amelia.

The maids exchanged uncertain glances, hesitating for a brief moment. "Here, Your Majesty?" one of them asked cautiously.

"Here," Malcolm confirmed, sharply.

Amelia’s stomach churned as the maids approached, their hands gentle but firm as they led her toward an adjoining room. The large bathing chamber was almost oppressive in its grandeur, with a gilded tub that reflected the flickering candlelight. Steam rose from the water, the air thick with the scent of rose oil.

The maids worked in silence, undressing her with efficient movements. Amelia wanted to protest, to demand privacy, but she knew it would be futile. Instead, she clenched her teeth, her body trembling as they scrubbed her skin clean, their touches devoid of warmth.

They shaved her legs and underarms, their blades scraping against her skin with precision. She felt like an object being polished.

When they finally lifted her from the bath, they wrapped her in soft towels, their hands moving swiftly to dry her hair. She was ushered to a seat before a grand mirror, and the transformation began in earnest.

The maids braided her hair intricately, their fingers moving with practiced skill as they wove in delicate golden threads. They painted her face with powders and paints, highlighting her natural beauty while erasing any trace of the woman she’d been before. Perfume was dabbed onto her wrists, her neck, her collarbones, the floral scent overwhelming.

Amelia stared at her reflection, barely recognizing the woman who stared back. She looked regal, like someone born to the halls of power. But inside, her stomach churned with unease. She could feel the maids’ disdain in every movement, the way their eyes flicked toward her with thinly veiled contempt.

When the preparations were complete, they led her back into Malcolm’s chambers. He sat on the edge of the massive bed, his posture relaxed but his gaze cold and calculating.

The maids stepped aside, and Malcolm rose to his feet, his tall frame casting a shadow over her. He moved closer, his hand reaching out to stroke her cheek. The touch was unnervingly gentle, a stark contrast to the icy look in his eyes.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice low.

Amelia shivered, her heart pounding in her chest.

Malcolm grabbed her hand, his grip firm as he turned toward the grand doors. They opened with a groan, revealing a group of guards waiting just outside.

Amelia had no choice but to follow as he led her through the palace. The journey to the grand hall felt endless, every step a reminder of the fate that awaited her. Her chest felt tight, her breaths shallow as the sound of revelry grew louder.

When they reached the grand hall, the sight before her was overwhelming. Nobles feasted at long tables, their laughter and conversation filling the massive space. Goblets clinked, and the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine hung heavy in the air.

The room fell silent as Malcolm entered, dragging Amelia behind him. All eyes turned to them, curiosity and judgment etched on every face.

At the far end of the hall, Viktor stood at the altar, his expression one of sheer boredom. He didn’t look up as Malcolm approached, his posture slouched, his hands hanging limply at his sides.

Malcolm’s grip on Amelia tightened as they reached the altar. He shoved her forward, positioning her directly in front of Viktor.

"Your bride," Malcolm announced coldly, his voice carrying through the hall.

Amelia’s knees felt weak, her hands trembling as she stood there, every eye in the room fixed on her.

Malcolm’s gaze swept over the gathered nobles, his expression hard. "Let the celebration commence," he declared, his voice sharp and commanding.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, followed by the sound of goblets being raised and more wine being poured.

Amelia’s heart sank as she realized there was no escape. She could feel Viktor’s disinterest like a physical weight, his apathy cutting deeper than any insult.

And yet, it was Malcolm’s cold, possessive gaze that haunted her the most. She was no longer a person to him—

As the celebration continued around her, Amelia stood frozen, her mind racing. She couldn’t see a way out, but one thing was clear: Malcolm would stop at nothing to ensure his will was done.

---

The hall was filled with whispers, the nobles casting curious glances toward the altar where Viktor stood with Amelia. Their murmurs rippled like a low tide, punctuated by sharp, judgmental laughter. Goblets clinked faintly as servants refilled wine, their hands trembling under the weight of the tension.

Then Julian stood.

The room fell silent as the queen regent’s chair scraped against the polished floor. She rose with a deliberate slowness, her expression cold and composed, though her sharp gaze betrayed a storm brewing beneath her placid exterior.

"Stop this farce," she commanded, her voice cutting through the still air.

All eyes turned to her as she began to walk toward Malcolm, her movements fluid and graceful, like a predator stalking its prey. The fabric of her gown trailed behind her, rich and heavy, befitting her station.

Amelia flinched at the sound of Julian’s voice but kept her head down, her red-rimmed eyes focused on the floor. Viktor, meanwhile, remained impassive, as if the drama unfolding was beneath his notice.

Julian stopped before Malcolm, her chin lifted defiantly as she looked up at the king. "A servant?" she asked, her voice laced with disbelief and disdain.

Malcolm, who had been lounging in his chair, barely spared her a glance. "What of it?" he replied, his tone bored.

The tension in the hall thickened. A murmur passed through the nobles as they processed Julian’s words. Many hadn’t known the bride’s origins, assuming she must be of noble birth or from an influential family. A servant? Whispers spread like wildfire, voices rising in incredulous gossip.

Julian’s lips thinned into a sharp line as she glanced around the hall. The nobles’ reactions only fueled her anger. "Why," she pressed, her voice cutting, "would you marry him to a servant?"

Malcolm’s gaze flicked to her, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Sit down," he said, his voice low and even.

The queen regent hesitated, the weight of his command pressing down on her. She searched his face for any trace of explanation or reason, but she found only boredom—boredom and the flicker of something darker.

Julian opened her mouth to speak again, but Malcolm’s voice rose, slicing through her hesitation. "Sit. Down."

The hall fell utterly silent as his words echoed. Julian froze, the sharpness of his tone a reminder of who held the power here. Malcolm’s patience was razor-thin, and everyone knew it. He was unpredictable, a man who could turn from detached to wrathful in an instant.

Julian sat at her table, her gaze fixed on Amelia.  Whatever hold this servant girl had over Malcolm, it wouldn’t last. Julian would see to that herself. She had dealt with obstacles before, and this one would be no different.

Whoever this girl was, she was a threat.

At another table, Sofia sat with a goblet in her hand, her knuckles white as she gripped the glass. Her lips curled in disdain as she watched the scene unfold. When she heard the word "servant," her grip tightened until the glass shattered, shards cutting into her palm.

A servant? The insult was unbearable. This girl would carry the same title as she did. The mere thought of it made her stomach churn. She stared at her with burning resentment.

The wedding rituals began, each step carried out with solemn precision. Viktor performed his part dutifully, his expression empty, as though he were a puppet going through the motions. Amelia mirrored his actions, her red-rimmed eyes glassy and distant.

The room was heavy with silence, the usual cheer of such celebrations replaced by a stifling unease. The nobles, who normally reveled in the spectacle of a royal wedding, could barely bring themselves to feign enthusiasm.

Amelia’s heart pounded as she repeated the vows, her voice cracking with suppressed emotion. She felt trapped, like a lamb being led to slaughter. Every step of the ritual was a reminder of her powerlessness, each word binding her further to a fate she couldn’t escape.

In the back of the hall, the servants exchanged whispered gossip as they moved between the tables, serving the guests.

"Isn’t she the new servant girl?" one of them murmured, her voice barely audible.

"Yes," another replied, her tone tinged with disbelief. "And now Viktors second wife."

They chuckled quietly.

"Ambitious, isn’t she?" one sneered, her eyes narrowing as she watched Amelia at the altar.

"Too ambitious," another agreed, shaking her head. "She won’t last long. Not with the Queen and Lady Sofia watching her like that."

The laughter died down as they resumed their tasks, their whispers replaced by the clinking of plates and glasses.

The final ritual was performed, the priest’s voice ringing out as he proclaimed the union complete. There was no applause, no cheering—only the cold, polite silence of the court.

"Let it be done," Malcolm said, his voice sharp and final.

The nobles exchanged uneasy glances as the priest stepped back, bowing deeply before retreating.

Malcolm rose from his chair, his movements slow and deliberate. His gaze swept over the hall, cold and unyielding.

"Let the feast begin," Malcolm announced, his voice carrying through the hall.

But the appetite had left the room. The nobles drank and ate in silence, their eyes darting toward the altar where the new bride stood, her expression haunted.

As the night wore on, one thing became clear: this was not a union born of love or even strategy