The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 32: A Gilded Cage

After Marcella was done with her gown measurement, she went to her father's study room.

The study smelled of old parchment and candle wax. Bookshelves towered along the walls, filled with religious texts, decrees. Marcella stepped through the doorway without knocking. She just stood stiffly inside the threshold, her arms crossed.

High Priest Alistair sat at his desk—his hands still busy with scrollwork as if the world hadn't just been rearranged around his daughter. "Is the dress to your liking?" he asked.

"Yes, Father." Marcella nodded her head, dismissing the small talk. The dress was the least of her concerns.

"So, what made my dear daughter come to my study room?" Still, he didn't look up, the scraping of his quill the only sound.

"I need the truth."

His quill froze mid-stroke, a drop of ink splattering onto the scroll.

Marcella walked closer, pulse thudding in her throat. "Three days," she said, her words tight and strained. "My wedding is in three days. And I want to hear the truth, Father. All of it. Not parables. Not holy riddles wrapped in scripture." It was high time that she asked everything to her father directly.

Alistair finally set the quill down and looked up at her. There was weariness in those pale eyes—too old for even his age, like he had been carrying something for decades and knew it would crush him any day now.

Alistair sighed, rubbing his temples. "Truth is a heavy burden, Marcella. He stood, walking toward the hearth. The firelight reflected in his pale eyes as he spoke. "There was a rift once—centuries ago. The border between our realm and what lies beneath it thinned. Demons, once locked beyond mortal reach, invaded our sacred lands. To drive them back, a great war was waged: heroes against horrors. We won, but not completely."

Alistair paused, his voice somber. "The Demons weren't defeated, couldn't be. As when a demon walks into our land, he becomes undefeatable. So, they were chained deep beneath the empire."

Marcella listened attentively, something cold blooming in her stomach, a pit forming with each word.

Alistair continued, "To keep them sealed forever, we invoked the Ashen Flame. It's the divine flame that keeps the rift sealed shut." His gaze drifted to the ancient tomes lining the shelves. "Then, a pact was forged with blood between the noble houses, church and the crown. Older than the throne. Older than the church. A pact known as the Veiled Crown."

She backed a step, bile rising in her throat. "And you were going to offer Racheal for this pact?"

"Initially, Rachael was chosen," Alistair admitted. "But she didn't bear the mark."

Marcella's heart slammed against her ribs. "Mark?"

He looked at her..truly looked and it was almost as if his eyes were filled with pity. "She wasn't born under the veiled flame."

"What flame?" What was he not telling her?

"A rare moon," Alistair prompted. "One that appears once every thousand years. A sky veiled in flame." He swallowed hard as if the words themselves tasted bitter. "The prophecy was clear– that a female born under the Veiled Moon when the heavens hide their light must be wed and bound to a gate." he said, meeting her gaze. "Simply, the bride is the vessel, and the groom is the gate."

The words lodged in her chest, suffocating her. "Vessel," she whispered, almost afraid to taste the word. "You mean... to hold something?"

Alistair nodded.

The silence was punctuated only by the crackling of the fire.

"The bride's special birth makes her soul capable of holding the Ashen Flame which is needed to reseal the demon rift. The marriage ritual uses the Ashen Flame to bind the bride's soul to the gate." His voice dropped, the air growing cold. "And you were the chosen bride born under the Veiled Moon."

Marcella staggered back a step, sucking in a deep breath as though she needed to fill her lungs with something else, anything else to clear her mind from the chaos his revelation just gave her.

The room spun.

Alistair continued, swallowing hard as if the words themselves tasted bitter. "You were born during the darkest eclipse in a hundred years. The omens aligned. You carry the mark into your soul. You're the vessel."

"The eclipse," she breathed. "Then why was Berith chosen as the gate?"

"The Montclairs were entrusted with guarding the border, and also with the power to control the gate that holds back the demonic force. Some say their ancestors were blessed by flame, others say cursed. But they are the gate. Only that bloodline can receive the seal."

Marcella was shaking now, the pieces clicking together in her mind like a cruel joke. "So, if I'm the vessel... and he's the gate... then what?"

"The marriage completes the pact," He nearly pleaded for her to understand as he said. "It must be consummated."

The words hit her like a slap. For a moment, everything inside her went numb. Then the cold rolled in—slow, creeping, suffocating.

"W-what?" she breathed, the question forced out of her throat.

"It's written in the old texts," Alistair sighed, shaking his head. "The joining must be physical. Symbolic unions are not strong enough to complete the seal."

A wave of nausea rose in her throat and bile burned the back of her mouth. Marcella caught herself on the edge of a nearby table, fingers gripping the carved wood like it could ground her.

Consummate the marriage. With Berith.

Her mind reeled, the room tilting on its axis, and suddenly, she was no longer in that study. She was back there- her wedding night in her past life, as if she were reliving the memories herself.

A hand pressing her hard against the wall as he kissed down her neck as their lips met, as he drove himself inside her. The heat of his hands. The weight of his body. Marcella had wanted him then. The danger. The thrill of being desired by someone so magnetic and powerful. She had surrendered willingly.

But that was before.

Before she saw the cruelty that lived in his smile.

Before she learned what he was capable of.

Now?

Now the thought of him touching her again made her physically recoil, sending a shiver of revulsion down her spine.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

"I can't... I won't do this," she choked out, her voice cracking,

Alistair stepped forward, a plea in his eyes. "Marcella—" His shoulders slumped slightly. "If the union isn't completed before the Veiled Moon reaches its peak in three nights, the seal will fail. The mark inside you will begin to burn... and your body will try to contain it on its own."

Her hands clenched and she was suddenly on the defensive as she stammered, "What if I don't do it accordingly, father?"

He hesitated. The warmth drained from his eyes, leaving them cold and empty. "You will weaken. You're a vessel, Marcella. If the bond fails, your body will try to contain the seal alone. It will devour you from the inside."

The words settled over her like a shroud. "So that's it?" she asked, "My options are death... or surrendering my body to a man I can't trust?"

Alistair didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Marcella turned away, her arms wrapped tight around herself as if she could physically hold in the scream building in her chest, as her mind ran wild with her imminent doom.

She shuddered. She hadn't asked to be a vessel. Did she get back her second life just to experience her past life on loop?

And now, her wedding bed had become an altar.

A sacrifice. One way or another.

But a sacrifice she wasn't willing to make, even if it meant all hell would break loose.