2. A Marriage Sentence

Cyrion didn't spare anyone a glance. He just started speaking.

"Rylan," he said without looking up from the parchment, "Regarding the tariffs imposed upon the eastern grain merchants… have the revised figures from Daemir been obtained?"

"Yes, this morning," Rylan replied, already sliding a sealed envelope across the table. "The figures exceed those of the previous quarter… they appear to be growing rather bold."

"They won't stay bold if we pull half their ships for inspection," Cyrion muttered, then made a small note with his quill. "Send a message to Councilor Vane. Make it sound diplomatic, but make sure the threat bleeds through."

Rylan nodded once, like this was just another morning ritual. The rest of the table was silent.

No one interrupted Cyrion when he spoke business. None of the women spoke, not even sharp tongued Meliora. They just stayed quiet, sitting there like they were part of the room, not part of the conversation.

That’s how it always was. Business belonged to Cyrion and Rylan. Everything else stayed in a softer world of flowers, festivals, dresses for the next party.

Cessalie focused on eating quietly. Her knife and fork moved slowly, hoping if she pretended hard enough maybe she could fade into the background.

But then, just as she started to chew the first bite of food she could actually swallow, his voice rose towards her.

"Cessalie."

She froze.

The meat stuck to the back of her throat like it had turned to sand. She swallowed hard and slowly raised her head. His eyes were already on her, the kind of stare that didn't ask to suggest.

"Yes, Father?" Her voice came out calm, but her fingers curled tighter around the fork.

He didn't answer right away, just looked at her, long enough for the tension to crawl up her spine and sit on her shoulders.

"You've turned nineteen."

There was no warmth in it. It was just a fact like announcing a crop yield...like she was part of the inventory. Cessalie had indeed turned nineteen three months ago.

But she didn't respond.

Cyrion set the parchment down finally and leaned back slightly, fingers steepled.

"I was beginning to think no man would be willing to take you after so many rejections ."

No one at the table so much as blinked. Instinctively, she looked at her mother but Elysande just kept her eyes fixed on her plate like she didn't hear a thing.

"You've been difficult," he continued, as if he were discussing an animal he was trying to sell. "you are disobedient and unpredictable. But—"

He paused, almost like the next part was hard to process for him.

"There is one."

Her jaw tightened. She didn't say a word.

"A proposal has been made," he said. "He's from the northern duchy. Davian Aurelthorn of Alderwyn."

She blinked once.

"He wants to marry you."

Wants? That word didn't sit right. Nobody "wanted" her unless they wanted something from her. Because everyone knew that Duke Cyrion's second daughter was extremely uncouth and ill mannered. She lacked the manners of a noble girl.

Thatwas why till date she had been rejected by every noble boy for marriage or dating.

"He became the Duke of Alderwyn four years ago and he holds great importance in kingdom matter, and more importantly, he's willing."

He said it like it was a miracle like she should fall on her knees with gratitude that someone out there was willing to deal with her.

She didn't move at all. But inside, her ribs felt like they were turning inwards, closing in on themselves. The word marriage seemed very horrifying to her because she had seen her mother's married life and she only felt that the same was written in her own destiny.

And across the table, Meliora's smile was practically glowing. Cessalie clenched her jaw refusing to show an other expression on her face.

Instead, she set the fork down on the edge of her plate and looked him straight in the eye.

"Meliora is twenty-two."

That froze the table. Everyone went silent. Even Anwen stopped swirling her wine.

"She's beautiful and obedient. She's exactly what a man like Davian Aurelthorn would want, isn't she?" Cessalie gritted her teeth. "She's everything I'm not, right? So why not send her?"

Meliora's chair scraped sharply against the floor as she sat up straighter. "I am already engaged to High Lunarch, Cece."

Cessalie turned her head slowly to her, lips trembling. "So why are you still sitting here in this house?"

"You shouldn't dare speak to me like that," Meliora hissed across the table, that careful poise cracking at the seams. "And Father is doing what's best for you, for all of us."

Cessalie tilted her head. "He's selling me off like cattle. At least be honest about it."

"You ungrateful—!" Meliora started, but—

That's when he moved.

Rylan.

The scrape of his chair against the floor shattered the stillness. He stood slowly, his towering frame casting a shadow across the table. His hands braced against the surface, and those sharp jades locked onto Cessalie like she was something feral that needed taming.

Her body reacted before her brain did. She flinched.

She never flinched. But around Rylan, she never felt in control of her spine.

He spoke through his teeth. "You will not cause a scene at this table."

His gaze didn't shift. Even Maids present in the corner of room exchanged nervous knowing glances and guards stiffened. Because they all knew Rylan couldn't bear Cessalie at all.

Cessalie swallowed, fingers curling tight around the edges of her chair but she didn't lower her head.

Her fists clenched under the table, nails digging crescents into her palms.

"I will not marry him," she repeated louder this time.

Cyrion exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his fork down with an audible clink. The kind of sound that came with patience wearing thin.

"You have Meliora," she argued, voice unshaken despite the pounding in her chest. "She's older and charming. She possesses every virtue a wife should have. Why me? Why bind me to this, when you already have a daughter so well suited left unwed these three years?"

Meliora let out a scornful laugh, arms folding over her chest. "Well suited, you say? You presume far too much for one who knows nothing of this family."

Cessalie ignored her. She kept her eyes on Cyrion, the man who decided her fate as easily as he chose what wine to drink with dinner.

"You are of no value to me, Cessalie" Cyrion said. His voice sounded completely detached. His deep blue eyes burned with anything but affection. "You have no mana and skills. You are best wedded off."

The words slammed into her harder than she expected.

Rylan had magic and meliora was a fake representation of Cyrion's rule. Mana was not rare here but it mattered. In Valkathra, mana was everything. A raw force passed through blood, shaping status and worth. It wasn't like the powerful magic of witches, fae, or dragons. Mana came last in the hierarchy. It was common, but still useful.

Some were born with it and some weren't.

Cessalie wasn't and it wasn't her fault. Her parents had none, so neither did she.

Across the kingdom, temples taught those with mana to shape it for healing, crafting, protecting the realm.

Cessalie? She had nothing. To Cyrion, that made her barely human, only a pawn to be placed wherever Cyrion saw fit.

Her heart hammered in her chest, loud enough she could feel it in her ears. But she didn't back down. "That is no reason to cast me aside." The rest caught in her throat. "As though I were… worthless."

Cyrion leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple like her presence was a burden he couldn't shake. "You are worthless, Cessalie."

Meliora held more place in this house than even Elysande, simply because she was born right.

Cessalie wasn't.

That was the difference.

Her chest tightened, anger crawling up her throat bitterly. She wanted to scream and throw her goblet across the room. But that would only prove his point that she was unruly, useless and nothing more than a daughter who needed to be put in her place.

She forced her voice to remain composed. "I am your legitimate daughter."

"And?" Cyrion's stare sliced straight through her. "Bereft of mana and a girl, no less. What purpose could such a child serve me?"

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

He'd already decided. In his eyes, she wasn't even wasted potential.

Her nails dug deeper into her palms. Her jaw clenched. "Then why not wed Isa instead? She, too, is without magic."

"Because she is fourteen," Cyrion replied, as if the answer was obvious. "Do you hear yourself? You sound desperate."

She wa was desperate to claw her way out of this, grasping for anything that might make him listen.

The chair screeched loudly as she shoved back from the table and stood, her body tense. "You can't do this to me—"

Rylan moved again.

She flinched.

Rylan pushed back his chair. The sharp scrape of it echoed. Cessalie barely had time to react before he started walking towards her.

Her stomach twisted.

Rylan never wasted movement. He didn’t pace in anger or raise his voice. If he stood and walked toward someone, it meant only one thing. That wss punishment.

Her breath came faster, but she didn't sit back down. She refused even as he circled the table, closing the distance. Even as her hands trembled faintly at her sides.

She held her ground, but her body always remembered. The scar on her cheek tingled. Every step he took made it worse.

"You think I will simply smile and bow while you hand me over to some stranger, as though I were livestock?" Her voice rose, sharp enough to make every spine at the table stiffen. Her hands trembled, though she made no effort to still them.

"At least pretend that I matter, Rylan. You may play the heir, the dutiful son, but you do not decide what becomes of my life—"

"You forget your place," he said, still walking as the distance between them vanishing. His voice did not rise, yet it settled cold against her skin. "As always."

"I do no more than speak the truth." Her voice broke, just slightly. "You mistake obedience for loyalty. If it pleases you to live as Father’s instrument, so be it. I will not."

He stopped just before her. His shadow fell across her, and her feet shifted back a step on their own.

She hated that.

"Mind your tongue, Cessalie." His gaze settled on her, unblinking, his jaw tightening just slightly. "Do you believe such displays before Father lend you any standing?"

"I do no more than speak for myself," she "Though I see you have long since forgotten how. You have lived at Father’s command so long, it has hollowed you." she said, the words quick and hard on her tongue.

There was barely a flicker in his eyes, but she saw it and knew she went too far.

"You forget yourself," he said, his voice carrying across the room. "Until you learn to conduct yourself as a Draevin should, you have no place at this table."

He turned to Cyrion. "Confine her to her chambers until she is prepared to give a proper answer."

"You don't get to decide that—" she started, but Cyrion raised a hand, silencing her mid-sentence.

"I agree," Cyrion said flatly, not even glancing in her direction. "It's time she learned discipline."

Meliora's smug smile bloomed like a disease at the edge of the table. Cessalie wanted to claw it off her face.

"I'm not a prisoner," she snapped.

"You are as I declare you to be,"Cyrion replied, his mouth set in a hard line. "Until you remember your place, you will remain confined to your chambers. You will receive no visitors."

"You can't—" Her voice cracked, rage strangling the words.

"I already have."

And just like that, her fate was decided again and sealed as easily as a signed letter as if she didn't exist...as if her voice was nothing in a room with power she could never match.

She was still standing, shoulders trembling, heart choking in her throat.

But no one looked at her anymore. She was invisible.

One of the guards at the door stepped forward.

She didn't move or beg. Her pride refused to let her break. But inside, she was already screaming.

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