Because anything had to be better than this.
Anything had to be better than spending the rest of her life locked in this library, watching the world through a window, slowly dying of loneliness and neglect.
Even a monster’s castle.
Even a scarred husband with a terrible temper.
Even the risk of being thrown from battlements or locked in dungeons or subjected to pagan rituals.
At least it would be different.
At least it would be hers.
After a long moment, Kat pushed herself up from the floor.
Her legs were unsteady, but they held her weight.
She moved through the library like a ghost, her fingers trailing over the spines of books she’d read a hundred times, memorizing the feel of them, saying goodbye to the only friends she’d ever had.
She climbed the spiral staircase to the upper gallery, her footsteps echoing in the silence.
From up here, she could see the entire library spread out below—all those books, all that knowledge, all those worlds she’d visited only in her imagination.
She’d spent fifteen years in this room.
Fifteen years of her life compressed into this space, into these pages, into the view from that single window.
And now she was leaving.
She descended the stairs and made her way to the window seat, settling into the worn cushion one last time.
The sun was lower now, painting the sky in shades of gold and amber.
The gardens were beautiful in this light, the roses glowing like jewels, the fountain sparkling.
Kat pressed her forehead against the cool glass and let herself finally feel the full weight of what had just happened.
They were sending her away.
Her family—the people who should have loved her, protected her, cherished her—were sending her away to marry a stranger, and they were happy about it.
Relieved.
Celebrating.
She was twenty years old, and she’d never been loved.
Not once.
The tears came then, hot and silent, streaming down her face and dripping onto her gray dress.
She cried for the childhood she’d never had, for the family who’d never wanted her, for the life she’d never been allowed to live.
She cried for the girl who’d spent fifteen years locked in a library, dreaming of gardens she’d never walk through and a world she’d never see.
But she also cried with something that might have been relief.
Because tomorrow, a stranger would come for her.
The day after, she would leave this place forever.
She would never see these corridors again, never see her family’s contemptuous faces, never hear Marcus’s cruel laughter or Celeste’s false sympathy or her mother’s cold dismissals.
She would go north, to the Shadow Marches, to a castle built on ancient ground where old gods were still worshipped.
She would marry a scarred archduke with a terrible temper and a tragic past.
She would face whatever fate awaited her there—monster or man, nightmare or salvation.
But it would be hers.
Her life, her choice—or at least, her acceptance of the choice that had been made for her.
Her future, whatever it held.
After her tears subsided, Kat stood and moved to the shelves.
She pulled down the treatise on the northern territories, the one she’d been reading when the summons came.
She opened it to the section on the Shadow Marches and began to read, absorbing every detail about the land that would become her home.
The Shadow Marches were ancient, the book said.
The forests there were old-growth, never cleared, full of trees that had stood for a thousand years.
The people still kept the old ways, still marked the turning of seasons with fire and ritual, still left offerings at standing stones and sacred wells.
The land itself was said to be alive, aware, watching.
The Blackwood family had ruled there for centuries, longer than most noble houses could trace their lineage.
They’d never converted to the new faith, had never abandoned the old gods.
They were respected and feared in equal measure—respected for their honor and their strength, feared for their power and their unwillingness to bend to outside pressure.
Archduke Theron Blackwood was the current lord, twenty-eight years old, a widower.
He was said to be a fierce warrior, a skilled hunter, a man of few words and strong convictions.
He was also said to be hideously scarred, though the book didn’t specify how or why.
Kat traced her finger over a map of the Shadow Marches, following the roads north from the capital, through the midlands, into the forests and mountains of the north.
It was a long journey—two weeks at least, maybe more depending on weather and road conditions.
Two weeks until she met her future husband.
Two weeks until her new life began.
She pulled down more books—histories of the north, studies of pagan practices, even a volume on northern flora and fauna.
She read until the light faded and she had to light candles to see by.
She read until her eyes ached and her back was stiff from sitting.
She read until she’d absorbed everything these books could tell her about the place she was going, the people she’d live among, the gods they worshipped.
When the clock struck seven, a servant came to escort her to her room.
Kat went without protest, carrying three books with her—the treatise on the northern territories, a volume on pagan festivals and rituals, and a collection of northern folk tales.
She would read them tonight, in her small cold room on the third floor.
She would prepare herself as best she could for what was coming.
And tomorrow, when the Archduke’s representative arrived, she would face him with her head held high.
She would not let her family see her fear.
She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.
She was Katriana Ashford, the cursed daughter, the family shame, the girl with fire in her hair and darkness in her blood.
And she was going north, to the Shadow Marches, to marry a monster.
But perhaps, she thought as she climbed the stairs to her room, perhaps monsters recognized their own kind.
Perhaps a scarred archduke who worshipped old gods would understand what it was like to be marked, to be different, to be feared and rejected by those who should have loved you.
Perhaps, in the land of shadows and old magic, a cursed girl might finally find a place where she belonged.
It was a fragile hope, as delicate as spider silk, as easily broken as a dream.
But it was hers.