The marriage unfolded beneath chandeliers and gilded arches, yet nothing about it resembled a celebration. Princess Helena's union to Beelzebub, who insisted with faint amusement on the name Nimrod, left the palace humming with uneasy whispers. Servants spoke behind gloved hands, guards exchanged wary glances. Awe mingled with disbelief, reverence tangled with dread. No one knew whether to bow… or to pray.
Girls were raised on dreams of weddings, flowers spilling down aisles, silk dresses stitched with devotion, promises spoken before witnesses who believed in forever. Helena had dreamed those dreams once. Long ago.
This morning, she rejected them all.
She emerged from her chamber not in ivory lace or jeweled silk, but in a simple dress borrowed from her maid. The fabric hung plainly against her body, unadorned and unblessed. Her eyes were swollen from weeping, her face bare of powder or rouge despite the frantic pleas of the women sent to prepare her. She would not be softened. She would not be disguised.
If she were to be offered to hell, she would go as herself.
Helena walked through the palace with her chin lifted and her gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet the eyes of anyone who dared look at her with pity. When she entered the Family Room, the murmurs died instantly.
Her parents sat together in silence. King Alexander stared forward as though carved from stone; Queen Sofia's hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white. Neither spoke. Neither dared.
Against the far wall stood Prince Henry. He faced the open doors to the garden, his jaw clenched, tears suspended unshed in his eyes. He did not turn when Helena entered because he could not bear to see her like this.
The doors closed behind her.
A man rose from among the unfamiliar faces.
He was tall, dressed in a navy tuxedo cut with effortless precision. His blond hair caught the light, his smile slow and knowing. When his eyes met Helena's, something unreadable passed between them, interest, perhaps. Amusement.
He stepped forward and offered his hand.
Helena stared at it as if it did not exist.
The man chuckled softly and withdrew his hand, glancing toward King Alexander, "Your daughter," he said lightly, "is even more striking than I was promised."
Henry's body went rigid. He took a step forward, fury flaring, but Hugo caught his arm just in time, gripping hard enough to remind him where they were, and what was at stake.
Helena remained silent.
"Did no one tell you about me?" the man asked, turning back to her, "I'm wounded."
Still, she said nothing.
"I suppose introductions are in order," he continued, extending his hand again. This time not as a greeting, but a declaration, "I am Nimrod."
Helena's breath caught.
Her eyes searched the room, the unfamiliar men and women standing still, smiling calmly. Demons in borrowed skin. She looked to her parents, to her brother, seeking denial, reassurance, anything, but their faces offered none.
"You needn't look for answers," Nimrod said softly, as if responding to her thoughts, "Everyone here is lost in their own fear."
Her heart pounded. The realization chilled her more than his words: he can hear me.
"And your future," he added, his voice smooth as velvet, "stands before you."
Anger surged. Grief followed. Shock threatened to swallow her whole. And yet, shamefully, unwillingly, relief slipped through the cracks.
This was not the monster she had imagined. No horns, no claws, no grotesque shadow dragged up from the depths. Nimrod was beautiful in a way that unsettled her, and she hated herself for noticing.
She turned away from him and crossed the room, stopping beside Prince Henry. He looked down at her then, and something in his face shattered.
The marriage itself passed without sanctity. No vows spoken from the heart. No blessings offered in faith. It was not a union, it was a transaction. A transfer of ownership from King Alexander to King Lucifer.
When it was done, Helena's family stood frozen, unsure how to say goodbye to a daughter they had already lost. Nimrod, smiling faintly, assured them she would not yet be taken to hell.
Yet no one trusted the promise. After all, what value did a devil's word ever hold?