A Boy, a Dagger, and a Vow

Viktor

The morning broke bright and clear, but the sunlight streaming into Viktor’s chambers seemed dull compared to the image that had already claimed his thoughts: Natalia, resplendent in her ball gown, moving with an impossible grace. With the familiar, harsh discipline he imposed upon himself, he forcibly banished the image and began to prepare for the day.

Once dressed, he moved with purpose. His destination was Jace’s room. The boy, a small and silent shadow within the palace’s grandeur, had completed his training to Viktor’s exacting standards and was to be deployed this evening. Viktor opened the door to the child’s sparse quarters without knocking and stepped inside.

“Hello, rascal,” Viktor’s voice was a low rumble as he approached the small bed where the boy slept.

Jace's eyes, still clouded with sleep, blinked open. The moment he recognized Viktor, he scrambled from the small bed, his bare feet hitting the cold stone floor. He drew himself up and bowed, his form precise and unwavering despite his grogginess.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Jace said, his voice clear despite his youth.

Viktor gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. He crouched to the boy’s level, offering him an exquisitely crafted dagger with a hilt small enough for a child’s grip. “You know what this is for.”

Jace accepted the weapon with a solemn gaze and nodded, his small fingers wrapping around the hilt with confidence.

“And you know your duties for tonight?” Viktor pressed, his gaze intense.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Jace replied, his tone echoing that of a seasoned soldier. “I am not to leave Queen Natalia’s side until you relieve me of my duty. I will attend to you if called, and upon completion of my task for you, I will return to the Queen’s side. This will continue until the ball is over and Queen Natalia is safe within your apartments.”

“Good boy,” Viktor said, the praise as rare as a precious coin. “And if you fail?”

Jace swallowed, the small movement the only betrayal of his fear. His gaze dropped to his feet. “Then I am to follow her wherever she may go,” he recited. “Even into the arms of Death itself.”

“Well done, boy,” Viktor repeated, rising to his full height. He turned to the attendants waiting by the door. “See that he is prepared for this evening’s ball,” he commanded, leaving the child standing like a miniature sentinel in the center of the room.

From there, Viktor proceeded to another chamber, where Markus was already waiting, lounging in a chair with an air of practiced nonchalance.

“You know, Viktor,” Markus said with a lazy grin, “the ball isn’t for another few hours.”

“I’m aware. But I have a function to attend to before the ball.”

Markus arched an eyebrow. “Oh? What function is this? The grand announcement of your firstborn?” Viktor shot him a look that could have started a fire. “What? I’m merely eager to see some little black-haired, blue-eyed children running around this place.”

“I’m pleased to know you’ve already taken to furnishing my nursery,” Viktor’s reply was dry.

“What can I say? I want to be an uncle.”

Viktor rolled his eyes. “No, Markus. As I’ve told you, I haven’t touched her.”

“Then why the need for formal attire so early?”

A hint of vulnerability entered Viktor’s voice, a tone Markus had not heard in years. “I’m going to give her a ring,” he said quietly. “Do it right, this time.”

Markus looked genuinely stunned. “Aren’t you doing this a bit… backwards? Don’t you normally give a girl a ring before you marry her?”

“Typically,” Viktor conceded.

This time, it was Markus who rolled his eyes. He rose to his feet and gave Viktor a playful smack on the back of the head. Viktor growled and swiped at his friend, who ducked the blow with a laugh. As they began their own preparations, Markus could sense the storm of nerves brewing beneath his friend’s stoic facade. Viktor was uncharacteristically restless, constantly adjusting his cuffs, smoothing his tunic, and glancing at his reflection as if looking at a stranger.

“You know,” Markus said, his tone softening, “Natalia is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to you. But you dare not tell her I said that. She’ll hold it over our heads for the rest of our lives.”

A rare, genuine smile finally broke through Viktor’s tense expression, touching his lips. “Agreed,” he murmured. The shared understanding lingered between them as they finished their preparations in companionable silence.

Natalia

When I woke this morning, the realization that today was the day of the ball settled in my stomach like a lead weight. This would be my first royal ball, my public debut as queen, and I was terrified. Despite Viktor's nightly dancing lessons in the privacy of our chambers, my command of the waltz was tenuous at best. My feet seemed to have a will of their own—a clumsy, disobedient will. If I had my way, I would spend the entire night sitting near the orchestra, singing. But the evening wasn't about my desires; I was expected to dance. All I could do was pray that my lack of coordination didn't result in the accidental maiming of a foreign dignitary. That would be a truly terrible first impression.

My thoughts were cut short when I tried to leave my chamber, only to find my path blocked by a small army—at least a dozen maids, with Seamstress Amara at their head.

“Oh, wonderful! You're awake, Your Majesty!” she chirped, her eyes gleaming with a frightening creative fervor.

And so the preparations—or rather, the torture—began.

Three hours. For three excruciating, seemingly endless hours, I was at the mercy of the maids and their diabolical commander, Amara. It was a long and arduous war, but I survived their relentless campaign of prodding and primping. I emerged with numerous battle scars (see: Exhibit A, a corset so tight I was convinced my ribs had been rearranged), but I had made it! I had lived to see another day! Or at least, until the next time Viktor decided I needed to be encased in whalebone.

Now that I was finally free, I wondered why Viktor had insisted I be ready for the ball so early. It was still hours away. Instead of the grand hall, one of the maids, a timid girl with wide eyes, led me toward the palace garden. It was a place I rarely visited, a sanctuary of quiet contemplation in a life that had recently been anything but. Why was I being brought here, dressed in a magnificent ball gown that rustled with my every move? None of it made sense.

He was there, a portrait of aristocratic elegance, seated on a marble bench amidst a tapestry of fragrant blossoms and sculpted hedges. He was impossibly handsome in his formal attire. He rose the moment I came into view, a chivalrous gesture that was becoming unsettlingly frequent. The Viktor I first met would have remained seated, perhaps scowling. This new Viktor was a constant source of confusion. The maid curtsied and departed, leaving me alone with him in the tranquil quiet.

I closed the distance between us, the fabric of my gown whispering against the flagstones. Before I could speak, he drew me into an embrace. It wasn't formal or stiff, but warm and encompassing, his hand making soft, soothing circles on my back.

“What are you doing, Viktor?” I asked, my voice muffled against his chest. “Why are we dressed for the ball already?” A profound unease was settling over me. He had been so… attentive lately. So gentle. Acting as if he actually cared for me. As if our marriage was more than a political maneuver to satisfy some dreadful prophecy.

“I am finally making things right,” he whispered into my hair.

“Right? What do you mean, ‘right’?”

“I never asked you to be my wife.”

Before I could process his words, he was taking my hand, sliding a ring onto my finger. It was breathtaking—a deep sapphire the color of his eyes, surrounded by a halo of brilliant diamonds. But I couldn't appreciate its beauty, not past the sudden, sharp ache that blossomed in my chest.

What? Why is he doing this? Why is he making me feel this way? Why is he acting like he loves me, like he cares? Why does this beautiful lie hurt so much?

“Don’t,” I whispered, the word catching in my throat.

Viktor pulled back, genuine confusion in his eyes. “What?”

“Please,” I begged, the tears I’d been holding back finally breaking free, streaming down my cheeks. “Don't pretend to care. Don't act like this means anything to you.”

“What are you talking about? I—”

“No!” I cried, cutting him off. “Don’t say it! You don’t get to say things you don’t mean! You only married me because of your stupid prophecy! You only need me because without me, you die! So don’t you dare lie to me!”

And then I turned and ran.

I fled from Viktor. I fled from the beautiful garden, from my husband, and from the lie that felt so devastatingly real. Tears blurred my vision as I raced through the palace corridors. I reached the door to our bedchamber—the room we shared as husband and wife—and my hand froze on the handle. I couldn't go in. That was our room. A symbol of our union. Desperate for a sanctuary, a place to hide from him and the world, my back turned. A memory from my first week here sparked an idea. My feet began to move on their own, carrying me toward the forgotten room. I found it, shoved the dusty cot aside, and revealed the dark mouth of the secret passage. Without a second thought, I descended into the blackness. It was the perfect place to hide from Viktor, even if I hated the dark.

How could he do this to me? How could he offer me the illusion of love only to snatch it away with the cold truth of his motives? I wanted to tell myself it didn’t hurt, that I didn’t care, that I didn’t love him. But here, in the suffocating darkness, I could no longer lie to myself. I loved him. It ached, how much I loved him. He wasn't the monster I had first believed. He was Viktor. My jerkface, my Mr. Psycho, my husband. My other half.

I curled into a tight ball on the damp, cold stone, heedless of my ruined gown, the oppressive dark where monsters surely lurked, or the chill seeping into my very bones. I didn't care that at this very moment, Viktor and Markus and likely half the palace guard were scrambling to find me.

Nor could I have known that this very distraction was the opportunity King Stefan's forces had been waiting for, poised to breach the palace walls.