On the most auspicious day, the grand church carried the sweet scent of freshly bloomed lilies. Their fragrance was clinging to the stone walls like a silent blessing.
Hundreds of candles flickered, casting soft golden light that danced across the polished floors and colourful stained-glass windows.
On one side, the nobles and royals sat in elegant rows, their silken robes gleaming under the warm glow. Their expressions, however, were anything but welcoming—cold, unreadable and their whispers barely concealed behind jewelled fans.
Across from them, the villagers and fallen nobility gathered their simple garments, which were a stark contrast to the wealth around them. Yet their faces held something the others lacked—genuine warmth and quiet hope.
"I cannot fathom how the King allowed such a disgrace," whispered a woman draped in emerald silk, shielding her lips behind her fan as though the very words were scandalous.
"It wasn't the King," another woman murmured, her voice barely above a sigh. "They say the Crown Prince himself insisted on this… alliance."
Gasps fluttered through those seated nearby and their ears stretched to catch every syllable.
At the front, Queen Elisabeth the Crimson Crown sat still, her spine straight, her gloved hands folded in her lap.
She had heard every word.
Her face was calm, her expression carefully schooled, but beneath it lay barely restrained fury.
"The Queen and the princesses were outraged," the first woman continued, leaning in slightly. "And can you blame them? The Crimson Crown has never bowed to anyone—let alone to a girl of a fallen house." She placed emphasis on the word fallen as though it was something vile.
Another woman, unable to resist, leaned forward. "Have you heard the whispers?" Her voice dropped lower, eyes darting around as if the walls themselves might be listening. "They say she bewitched the Crown Prince."
Although many have not expressed their disapproval to the king directly, it does not imply that they were not furious upon receiving an invitation to the royal Crown Prince's wedding to Meribella Faye, daughter of Harald Faye, a fallen noble residing in a modest cottage in the small village of Brindlewood.
Many noble families had daughters of suitable marrying age. Their daughters eagerly waited for the right moment to capture the crown prince's interest in many social gatherings.
But the notion of him marrying someone from a fallen noble felt like an affront to their dignity and social position. It challenged many established Nobel beliefs, regulations, and their hierarchy structure.
The third woman continued their current scandalous conversation. "Some travellers saw her deep in the forests, her hands and dress soaked in blood, her eyes glowing red under the moonlight."
A cold shiver passed through those who listened.
"They fled away from the sight in fear of becoming the next sacred fices." The woman inhaled deeply and slowly, attempting to soothe her pounding heart due to fear. "They..they claimed she was amid dark rituals."
"A witch?" the second woman hissed, clutching her pearls as though the accusation might summon a curse. "Shouldn't she be facing flames instead of welcomed into the royal family?"
"That is the problem," the third woman murmured, unease slipping into her voice. "The villagers worship her. They would protect her with their lives. Whatever spell she cast, it holds them all in its grasp."
She exhaled, glancing around as though afraid of what she was about to say next. "Two merchants from Riverbendale claimed they saw something disturbing." And another hush fell over the group.
She continued her voice barely a whisper but potent enough to draw the attention of those nearby.
"On their return, they grew thirsty and spotted a small cottage nearby. As they came closer to request some water, they found Meribella was outside, feeding the birds. At first, she gave them a disdainful look before going inside to get a bottle of water for them."
The two women, with their curiosity, leaned more forward to hear her clear.
"The merchants were thankful for her kindness," the third woman continued, her tone now threaded with mockery. "One of them uncorked the bottle for a drink. Rather than experiencing a refreshing coolness to relieve his thirst, he encountered a metallic flavour—similar to iron. Startled, he spat it out, and when he looked at the liquid, it wasn't clear—it was red."
A collective gasp swept across the nobles who were listening to the conversation.
"Blood?"
The woman nodded. "They ran back to her cottage, shouting for the villagers to witness her cruelty with proof. But the villagers denied it—dismissed them, said exhaustion had made them see things. Even when the bottle still held red liquid, they ignored it. They insisted it was a mistake, saying someone must have played a cruel prank, and the merchants had mixed up the cottages since many in the area look alike.
She continued with a scoff, "The villagers, treat her as though she's an angel who had descended upon earth to protect them. To them, she can do no wrong." She frowned, "But isn't that what makes her so dangerous?"
"A witch?" Queen Elisabeth muttered under her breath, the words clawing at her mind.
How had such rumours escaped her notice until now? The Queen pondered. If she had known it before, she could have put an end to this charade. But now—now, it was too late. The eyes of the other kingdoms were upon them, and any interruption would bring scandal.
She bowed her head, lips moving in a silent prayer. 'Holy Father,' she prayed, closing her eyes. 'Protect my family. Protect this empire. Let this unholy union unravel before it's too late.'
And then the bells tolled, their deep, sonorous chimes echoed across the small town. Everyone present went silent.
Through the open, heavy wooden doors, the bride appeared.
She stepped through the threshold. The path bathed in sunlight. Her face was hidden under the veil that shimmered like moonlight against the golden light that streamed from the cathedral's windows.
Meribella's ivory fishtail dress hugged her thin frame, and delicate lace outlined the shape of her body, looking as if it were made by maidens of heaven. A bouquet of soft, fragrant lilies rested in her hands, like the moment itself.
Though her face remained hidden beneath the veil, every eye was upon her.
Far beyond the church walls, the sound of hooves thundered against the hardened ground.
Seven riders raced toward Brindlewood, their blood-red cloaks billowing behind them like banners of war. Their faces remained concealed beneath deep hoods.
Dust rose, swirling and clinging to the air as if trying to drag riders back. They rode with purpose and urgency as if they could not delay any longer.
Although their faces remained hidden beneath deep hoods, something about them—something about the way they moved—sent unease creeping into the very land they crossed.
But it was not just the riders that unsettled the air.
Their horses—black as midnight, with eyes as burning as embers, sent a ripple of fear through the silence. They were not simple horses. They were beasts bred for war.
But who are they?
Guardians or destructors?