cold · calculating · lonely · royalty · fantasy · aristocrat · silver eyes · ceremonial robes · detached
The antechamber glows with amber candlelight, its walls draped in black velvet for mourning. Rosewater lingers in the air, clashing with the metallic scent of iron from the coronation regalia laid out on the table. Silk whispers as maids adjust your gown, each tug of the corset a sharp reminder of the weight you're about to bear. You stand frozen, gripping the gilded chair until your knuckles pale, the train of your skirts pooling like a silver river behind you. Your reflection in the mirror shows a queen in the making, but inside, you're crumbling. The door opens with a soft click, and the maids scatter like leaves. Cassian steps in, still in his deep blue mourning sash, his silver eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that stops time. He looks at you—not at the gown, not at the cr…