The nightgown was soft from years of washing, thin enough that she could see the shadow of her skin through it.
It had been white once, but time and repeated washing had turned it a dingy gray.
There were small holes in the fabric where it had worn through, and the hem was frayed.
But it was comfortable, familiar, and it covered her.
She emerged from behind the screen and sat at her small vanity—a rickety thing with a cracked mirror that distorted her reflection, making her face look slightly warped, her features stretched and strange.
Her hair.
Kat picked up her brush and began the futile task of trying to tame her wild red curls.
It was a habit, nothing more.
A ritual she performed every night, even though she knew it was pointless.
Every night, she brushed and brushed, trying to smooth the chaos into something manageable, something acceptable.
Every morning, she woke to find it had sprung back into its natural state—a riot of copper and flame that refused to be controlled.
Like you, a voice whispered in her mind.
Refusing to be what they want you to be.
The brush caught on a tangle, and she worked it free patiently, starting from the bottom and working her way up the way she’d taught herself to do.
No one had ever shown her how to care for her hair properly.
She’d learned through trial and error, through painful sessions of ripping the brush through knots until her scalp ached and her eyes watered.
She brushed until her scalp tingled and her arm ached, until the curls lay in something approximating order against her shoulders.
It wouldn’t last.
It never did.
By morning, they’d be wild again, springing free of any attempt at control.
But the ritual was soothing, the repetitive motion calming her racing thoughts.
When she finally set down the brush, she stared at her reflection in the dim candlelight.
Wild red hair that caught the light like flame.
Shamrock green eyes that seemed too large for her face.
Pale skin scattered with freckles like stars across a winter sky—across her nose, her cheeks, her shoulders, everywhere the sun had touched her during her rare moments outside.
A dark omen, they said.
A curse.
But in the north, would they see her the same way?
Would the Archduke look at her with the same disgust her family did?
Red hair meant bad luck, meant witchcraft, meant the devil’s touch.
Green eyes meant fae blood, meant magic, meant danger.
And the freckles—those were the marks of the devil himself, they said, each one a place where he’d touched her.
She’d heard it all her life.
From her parents, from the servants, from the few people outside the family who’d caught glimpses of her.
The cursed daughter.
The devil’s child.
The bad omen that had brought nothing but misfortune to the Ashford family.
Or would he see something else?
She studied her reflection, trying to see herself through a stranger’s eyes.
Trying to see what Theron might see when he looked at her for the first time.
Would he see the curse?
Or would he see a woman—young, thin, marked by hardship but still alive, still breathing, still hoping?
Would he see the scars on her back and know what they meant?
Or would he simply see a duty to be fulfilled, a political alliance made flesh, a bride he’d been forced to accept because his first choice had refused him?
Kat didn’t know.
She had no way of knowing.
All she could do was hope that when he looked at her, he would see something worth keeping.
Something worth being kind to.
She blew out the candle and climbed into bed, pulling the thin blanket up to her chin.
The sheets were cold, and the mattress was lumpy—she’d never been given a new one, just the cast-offs from other rooms, mattresses that had grown thin and uncomfortable with age.
But it was familiar.
Hers.
The place where she’d slept for as long as she could remember.
Tomorrow night, she would sleep somewhere else.
In an inn, perhaps, on the road north.
And the night after that, and the night after that, until finally she reached Blackwood Castle and whatever fate awaited her there.
She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come.
Her mind raced with images, with possibilities, with all the rumors she’d ever heard whispered about the Shadow Lord of the North.
What would he look like?
They said he was scarred.
Horribly scarred, from battles and duels and the violent life he’d led.
She tried to imagine it—a face marked by violence, by pain.
Would the scars be raised and red, or pale and silvered with age?
Would they twist his features into something monstrous, or would they simply be marks on skin, proof that he’d survived?
She’d read about scars in her books.
About warriors who wore them like badges of honor.
About the stories each one told—a blade deflected, a life saved, a lesson learned.
In some cultures, scars were considered beautiful, proof of courage and strength.
Perhaps his scars were stories too.
Perhaps each one had a tale behind it—a battle won, an enemy defeated, a moment when he’d chosen to fight rather than flee.
Or perhaps they were like hers—marks of cruelty, evidence of suffering, reminders of pain that never quite faded.
And his temper—they said he had a fearsome temper.
That he could be cruel and cold, that his rages were legendary.
But then, her father had a temper too, and Marcus, and she’d learned to navigate those storms.
She’d learned to make herself small and quiet, to disappear when the anger rose, to avoid the triggers that set them off.
Would it be the same with Theron?
Or would his anger be different—hotter, perhaps, but more honest?
Not the cold, calculated cruelty of her family, but something rawer, more real?
Anger that burned hot and fast and then faded, rather than the simmering resentment that never quite went away.
She didn’t know.
She had no way of knowing.
And the pagan ways—what did that even mean?
Kat had never been allowed to attend church herself—her family kept her hidden away even on holy days, unwilling to let the congregation see their cursed daughter.
She knew the sermons by heart from the volumes in the library, even if she’d never sat through one herself.
The old gods, the ones from before the church came…
those were mysteries that fascinated her.
In her book, the slim volume she’d packed, there were stories of gods who lived in forests and rivers, who demanded blood and fire, who were wild and untamed as the land itself.
Gods of the hunt and the harvest, of war and wisdom, of life and death intertwined.
Were those the gods Theron worshipped?
Did he make offerings at stone altars under the open sky?
Did he dance around bonfires and speak in ancient tongues?
Did he believe in magic, in spirits, in forces that couldn’t be explained by logic or reason?
The thought should have frightened her.
The church said such things were evil, that the old ways led to damnation.
But Kat had spent her whole life being told she was cursed, that her red hair marked her as touched by darkness.
If she was already damned in the eyes of the church, what difference did it make?
And perhaps—perhaps—there was something beautiful in those old ways.
Something wild and free, like the forests she’d only ever seen from her window.
Something that valued strength and honesty over pretty lies and false piety.
What would his lands be like?
The north was supposed to be harsh and cold, full of dark forests and craggy mountains.
A place where winter came early and stayed late, where the wind howled like wolves and the snow piled high enough to bury houses.
A place where survival required strength and cunning, where the weak didn’t last long.
But it was also supposed to be beautiful, in a fierce, untamed way.
She’d read about the northern lights that painted the sky in ribbons of green and gold, shimmering and dancing like living things.
About hot springs that steamed in the frozen air, creating pockets of warmth in the endless cold.
About ancient trees so tall they seemed to touch the clouds, their branches heavy with snow and ice that sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight.
She’d read about wolves that ran in packs through the forests, their howls echoing through the night.
About bears that hibernated in caves and emerged in spring, hungry and dangerous.
About eagles that soared above the mountains, their wings spanning wider than a man was tall.
Would she be allowed to walk in those forests?
To feel the snow on her face and the wind in her hair?
To see those northern lights with her own eyes, to watch them dance across the sky.
Or would she be locked away again, just in a different tower, a different prison?
Would Theron keep her hidden, ashamed of his cursed bride, unwilling to let his people see her?
And the people—what would they be like?
Northerners were said to be hard and practical, shaped by the unforgiving land they called home.
They valued strength over beauty, honesty over flattery, action over words.
They were warriors and hunters, farmers and craftsmen, people who worked with their hands and earned their place through deeds rather than birth.
But they were also said to be loyal, to value strength and honesty over pretty words and false smiles.
Once you earned their respect, they would stand by you through anything.
Once you proved yourself worthy, they would accept you as one of their own.
Would they hate her for her red hair, as her family did?
Or would they simply not care, too busy surviving to worry about omens and superstitions?