The palace was darker —its stone walls heavy with age and authority, its corridors echoing with footsteps that seemed to carry centuries of bloodshed. She was led into her chamber, and there, she was transformed.
Maidservants washed her, perfumed her skin, brushed her hair until it shone like spun gold. Layers of silk and velvet were placed upon her—ivory, silver, and ash-grey embroidered with the crown's sigil.
A circlet was settled upon her head.
"You must be flawless," an older matron murmured. "The court will be watching."
No one asked if she was afraid.
No one cared.
When the doors finally opened, sound met her first.
Voices. Hundreds of them.
The great ceremonial hall blazed with candlelight. Dukes, duchesses, aristocrats, generals, and nobles filled the space, their eyes sharp with curiosity and judgment.
She walked forward alone.
Her groom was nowhere in sight.
The murmurs began.
He makes her wait.
As expected.
The Monster Prince has never bowed to ceremony.
Then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Unyielding.
They silenced the hall instantly.
She turned.
The man who entered was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed not in festive robes but dark ceremonial armor scarred by battle. His presence alone bent the atmosphere of the room.
The herald announced him.
"His Highness, Crown Prince Darcien Valemont, Heir to the Throne of Valerith."
She knew she was supposed to bow.
Curtsy.
Lower her head.
Acknowledge him.
But she didn't know how.
So she stood.
She did not bow.
She did not acknowledge him at all.
A collective gasp rippled through the hall.
Whispers erupted instantly.
"How disrespectful—"
"Has she no manners?"
"She dares insult the Monster Prince?"
Elowen stood motionless beneath their judgment, her heart pounding wildly, unaware
That the man she had just failed to greet
wore the same face, and presence
as the husband who had divorced her in another life.
The hall fell silent, the murmurs stilled only for a heartbeat.
Elowen's chest heaved. Her legs felt weak beneath her, but instinct overrode fear. She took a small, trembling step forward—and the words tumbled out before she could stop them.
"Darcy…" she whispered.
Her gaze swept across the room, taking in the rest of the Crown Prince's family.
The king, stern and immovable, observed her with a calculating expression. His second queen—stood near him, a graceful but cold woman whose eyes measured everything. Behind her were two princes and one princess, the prince's step-siblings, who all stared at Elowen with a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and barely concealed disdain.
The room itself seemed alive with tension. The people of her kingdom would never have understood this world: the Crown Prince's people were all werewolves, strong and swift, capable of feats no ordinary human could imagine. But in the eyes of outsiders, in whispers that crossed borders and reached neighboring realms, he was only ever called a monster. A ruthless, terrifying warrior whose conquests were spoken of in fear.
Even the nobles who lived under the same roof did not know the truth: the Crown Prince was also a vampire, a secret inherited from his mother who had hidden her nature from the king to survive. She had married him thinking it was safer to conceal her vampiric blood, and in turn, their son inherited both the strength of the wolf and the power of the vampire. He was the apex of his world—far more powerful than any could guess.
And yet, in the eyes of everyone here—aristocrats, nobles, and her step-family alike—he was nothing more than a rumor incarnate.
A monster.
Elowen's lips parted again, but this time, the words were swallowed by the heat of fear and desire. She knew she had only one choice: to maintain her composure. To stand still, to breathe, to not reveal that in this room, in this era, she was drowning in recognition, longing, and the memory of love that no one else could understand.
The Crown Prince moved closer, each step deliberate and commanding. His dark eyes swept the hall, noting the whispers, the judgment, and finally… her.
For a moment, no one spoke. The courtiers froze, the stepmother's gaze sharpened, his step-siblings stiffened. And in that pause, Elowen realized the truth of what she had stepped into:
Here, in this palace, nothing could protect her.
Her soul had entered a princess's body, destined to marry the most feared, most powerful being she had ever known. A man whose identity was layered in secrets: warrior, werewolf, vampire, and her once-husband from another life.
And yet, to everyone else in the hall, she remained just another bride.
A bride standing too still, too proud, too silent.
A bride daring to face the Monster Prince without bowing, without acknowledging him, without fear—yet completely unprepared for the storm of whispers, scandal, and intrigue that her first word had already begun to summon.
The hall held its breath.
Elowen's whisper of "Darcy" had traveled farther than she imagined. The nobles' murmurs flared into a quiet frenzy. A few gasped audibly; others leaned closer to their neighbors, exchanging sharp, disbelieving glances.
But the man himself—Darcien Valemont—remained silent.
He stopped a few steps from her, the soles of his boots echoing against the polished stone floor like a drum of war. His dark eyes scanned her, slow and deliberate, measuring every tilt of her head, the way her hands trembled ever so slightly, the faintest curve of her lips.
There was no anger in his expression. Not yet.
Not recognition.
Only that sharp, unspoken tension that demanded attention.