𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒈𝒆
based on trend from tiktok
Lumine had hated her status as a princess of this accursed state from the very beginning. She was sick of the pretense, of the feeling that it wasn't events unfolding (they had long been predetermined by others), but merely the scenery changing; of the fact that at some point, she herself had become hard to distinguish from a doll. She would constantly look at her slender wrists and couldn't understand: why were there no strings, yet her movements weren't free either?
Her own lack of will hadn't bothered her much before. It wasn't difficult to obediently allow others to freely change the position of your joints. It wasn't difficult to let them dress you up in anything and put you on display like a porcelain statuette in a shop window; it wasn't difficult to sink into a deep curtsy at every barely perceptible nod; and it wasn't difficult to smile at both friends and enemies, and those who cast lecherous glances your way. But betraying yourself is grievous, treacherous, and very, very painful.
Lumine proceeds slowly towards the altar; in time with her quiet steps, lily petals sway in her golden curls. Her escort holds her arm firmly and delightedly catches the admiring glances of a hundred noble lords. She is exceedingly close to sinking onto the red velvet carpet and breaking into hopeless sobs, but she walks on proudly nonetheless, with a straight back and a lifted chin. She bears her grief with dignity. As is fitting... For the one watching intently from a dark corner as she approaches the hated place. For the one who is about to lose his beloved. The Captain of the Palace Guard had always been the epitome of composure, strength, and impassivity, but who would have known that no battle scar had ever brought Dainsleif as much pain as the necessity to stand motionless while the woman he loved was being stolen from his life before his very eyes. All evening, prayers had not left his lips. He asked for only one thing — that Lumine, having removed her wedding veil, would not dare lift her amber eyes to him. But she did. Not on purpose, of course; she couldn't help herself. But it was her fatal mistake.
Dainsleif bursts from his spot and seems to cover the distance between himself and Lumine in two strides. He cannot be anything but reckless when it comes to her — he tears the helmet from his face and in an instant catches her stunned gasp with his lips.
It was foolish to assume the reflexes of a general, her betrothed, would be any slower. Or rather, Dainsleif had labored under no such delusion. He knew how it would end. And this outcome was better for him than the one his imagination had painted upon seeing Lumin betrothed to another.
The point of another's sword chills his neck at the carotid artery for only a second, and the Captain's body, with the heavy metallic clatter of his armor, falls onto the same crimson carpet.
Lumine hastily drops to her knees and hysterically cups her beloved's face in her cold palms. She presses her lips to his, gets smeared with blood, but distinguishes one last fragile, barely perceptible "forgive me" before his eyelids fall, forever hiding the gleam of his familiar blue eyes.
Will she fall out of love?
