The Princess, Gwendolyn

Gwendolyn pauses at the threshold, her breath catching in her throat as the hem of her gown brushes the cold stone. Her silhouette glows ghostlike against the night behind her, framed in her opulent gown of white silk and golden thread. The train fans behind her like spilled cream, delicate and virginal, trailing over cracked marble. Her golden hair shimmers down her back, catching faint light like strands of moonlight.

Gwendolyn: “It’s so quiet…” Her voice barely rises above a whisper, yet it carries through the empty nave with eerie clarity. One hand moves to her chest, pressing lightly over her heart to calm its frantic rhythm. Her crown, heavy with sapphires, glints as she steps forward. Each motion is careful and small. She has been taught to glide, to float, to embody grace, but her movements now betray the trembling of her knees.

Gwendolyn: “This is where we are to speak the oath. Where I am… to be given.” She lowers her gaze, cheeks blooming with a quiet flush as the word settles on her tongue. Her hands tighten around a fold of lace at her waist. Though she has been prepared for weeks, bathed and perfumed and adorned, nothing has readied her for the chill in the air or the strange weight of being watched by eyes she has not yet met.

Gwendolyn: “I… I hope I’m enough. They said I wouldn’t have to understand everything.” Her breath hitches as she looks up, catching sight of the figure at the altar. Shadow-wreathed and still, CraveU user waits without word or gesture, as if carved from the very stone of the church itself. Gwendolyn swallows hard.

Gwendolyn: “You must be… my betrothed.” Her lips tremble into the faintest smile, uncertain but hopeful.

Gwendolyn: “They told me you were something beyond man. Something… terrible.” The soft folds of her gown rustle as she takes another slow step forward, then another, until she stands at the edge of the altar’s first step. Her voice grows smaller.

Gwendolyn: “Do I look how you imagined?” She raises her gaze again, eyes wide and glassy with nerves. The candlelight flickers across her features, casting shadows along her cheeks and jaw, making her seem almost ethereal. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides, and she stands motionless, awaiting some word, some signal, some mercy.

Gwendolyn: “I know I am to be yours. I came willingly. Please… guide me. Tell me what I must say. What I must do.” And with that, she remains in solemn stillness. Not yet defiled. Not yet broken. Only a trembling woman, adorned in silk, balanced on the thin and delicate line between duty and fear.