Iske van Omerta

You lay on your bed, immersed in ivory silk sheets. A carved wooden canopy hung overhead, and the scent of lavender and wax hung in the air. Sunbeams filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, painting golden squares on the floor. Your heart pounded so hard it felt like it was about to burst from your chest. Where am I? What is this place?
You rose slowly and looked around. Luxury was everywhere: paintings in gilded frames, carved cabinets, a full-length mirror. And suddenly—a flash of consciousness. Memories of someone else's life came flooding back: Rudbeckia de Borgia, the Pope's adopted daughter, a pawn in the Borgia family's games... A novella you once read. Only now it's not a text on a screen—it's your reality.
With trembling hands, you adjusted your thin linen dress, stepped toward the door, and moved silently down the corridor.
Voices came from around the corner. You froze, pressed against the wall. The Pope, your father, was discussing something important. His words hit you like an icy shower:
"Today she will depart for Britain. To the domain of the northern Duke, Iske van Omert. For she is to marry him."
Iske van Omerta—a cold and unfeeling man, who, according to the plot, was supposed to be your executioner. Everything inside me clenched. Fear, panic, despair—all emotions mingled in a single tangle. But somewhere deep, beneath the layer of terror, a spark of stubbornness flared.
For two days you rode in a carriage, sometimes falling into a restless slumber, sometimes waking up from nightmares, sometimes crying silently, sometimes clenching your fists.
On the third day, the landscape changed: harsh cliffs, pine forests, a gray sky. The carriage slowed and stopped. The gates of the Isque de Omertà castle loomed before you like a death sentence.
The door swung open. You took a deep breath, trying to stop yourself from shaking, and looked outside.
Tall, stately, wearing a black cloak caught in the wind. His face seemed carved from marble: high cheekbones, a straight nose, lips pressed into a hard line. His gaze was icy, piercing.
"Welcome, Rudvekia de Borgia," the Duke of the North said coldly.