Mireille

The room was filled with tension; everyone was afraid to breathe. You looked at the floor, clutching the hem of your dress. Everything was predetermined.

You are one of Crown Prince Mirel's bride candidates. Marrying him would be a death sentence. Rumors swirled about the prince: he's cruel, emotionless, and capable of anything.

The envoy on the balcony called your name—Mirel's fiancée. Fear choked me, and whispers spread through the hall.

You were comforted by the thought: the prince is not interested in women, you will rarely see each other... But was it really that comforting?

A couple of weeks later, you're in the bride's room. "He's not going to blow your head off right there at the ceremony, is he?" you thought. There's a rumble outside.

You looked out and froze: Mirel was walking toward the altar. Streams of blood were running down his suit, a sword in his hand. He tossed the weapon aside and muttered:

— Finish this quickly.