The days after Prince Henry's failed meeting with Nimrod blurred into one long, exhausting vigil. From dawn until deep into the night, Henry moved from chamber to chamber, cloister to cloister, receiving religious leaders summoned from every corner of the kingdom and beyond it. Priests, clerics, monks, holy men whose gods bore different names but carried the same promise of mercy. They gathered beneath vaulted ceilings and candlelit halls, praying side by side in languages older than the palace stones. Some fasted, some bled. All searched for a crack in the decree that bound Princess Helena to the heir of Hell.
Henry listened to every chant, every theory, every desperate suggestion. He sanctioned ancient rites long abandoned and opened forbidden archives that had not been touched in generations. Messengers were sent across the land to discreetly inquire after women rumored to possess fertile wombs, women who might, by some cruel logic, replace Helena in the eyes of demons.
Nothing came of it.
As Helena's seventeenth birthday loomed closer, six hours away, the air in the palace grew heavy, suffocating. Hope thinned into something brittle, something easily broken.
Then the news arrived that the demons had come to the gates. They wore human faces, moved with human grace, spoke in measured, courteous tones. They claimed to be honored guests, present to escort Prince Beelzebub in the wedding procession. And it was King Alexander himself who welcomed them into the palace, his expression carved from stone, his silence louder than any proclamation.
Princess Helena knew none of this. She remained locked in her chamber, surrounded by silk and velvet that felt like chains. Since her father had told her of the marriage, her tears had not ceased. They came in waves, violent sobs, then long stretches of hollow silence. The world beyond her window might as well have ceased to exist.
Only one hope remained.
"Colin," she said suddenly, her voice hoarse, "please. Fetch my brother."
Colin did not hesitate. He bowed and left at once.
When he returned, his expression told her everything before he spoke.
"No one has seen His Highness for several days," he said carefully, "Hugo believes… he believes Prince Henry may be staying at the church. Praying."
The word praying fell flat.
Helena stared past Colin, her gaze unfocused, her thoughts sinking into a place so quiet it frightened her. After a long moment, she looked at him again.
"Help me undress," she said softly.
Colin blinked. Once. Twice, then finally spoke, "My, my apology, Your Royal Highness?"
"Help me undress, Colin."
Her tone had changed. Firmer. Sharper.
He swallowed, "Shall I call your maid?"
"No," She turned her back to him, "You will do it."
Colin froze, "Your Royal Highness, this is not appropriate."
"Unzip my dress!"
When he didn't move, her patience snapped.
"For God's sake, Colin!"
"I can't, Your Royal Highness, my apology."
"If you do not," she said quietly, "I will scream. And I will say you dishonored me."
The threat hung between them, terrible and absolute.
Colin's hands shook as he stepped closer. Commoners were forbidden even the illusion of intimacy with royalty, let alone this. His mind raced to his wife, his duty, Prince Henry's trust. But Helena stood rigid before him, fragile and burning all at once.
"Colin?" she said.
He reached for the zipper.
As it slid down, her bare skin was revealed inch by inch, pale and unmarred. She stepped out of the dress and let it fall to the floor. Colin turned his face away at once, until her hand cupped his jaw and guided his gaze back to her.
Their breaths mingled.
His body betrayed him, but his resolve held.
"Take my innocence," she whispered.
He stared at her, stunned.
"Please," she said again, her voice breaking.
"No," he said, forcing the word out, "Princess Helena, this is not, I,"
"I will not give it to the devil," she said fiercely, "I won't. I would rather give it to you. You're the one I trust."
Silence swallowed the room.
Colin bent, retrieved her dress, and wrapped it around her shoulders with shaking hands.
"Your brother is fighting for you," he said, voice low and steady despite himself, "We must believe there is another way."
Her face crumpled.
"Am I not enough?" she asked, "Are you saying I'm not that interested in your eyes?"
"It has nothing to do with that," he said, "You are a princess. And I am a married man who would rather die than betray you, or my wife, or your brother."
Something in her snapped.
"Enough!" she screamed, "Get out. I never want to see you again!"
Colin bowed deeply, shame and relief warring in his chest. He left the chamber and took his place outside the door, standing guard like a penitent.
Princess Helena slid down against the door, clutching the dress to her chest.
Six hours remained.
And the dawn was coming whether she was ready or not.