Chapter 61: Dawn’s Sadness

Dawn was in her chamber and her servants were preparing her. They’re doing her makeup, her imperial wedding robe with the golden phoenix crest on her back, and a beautiful half-did hair. The room was filled with the soft scent of oils and perfumes, the servants moved around her with practiced efficiency, and their hands are gentle as they applied powders and paints to her face.

The robe was heavy on her shoulders, weighed down by embroidery and jewels, and the golden phoenix on her back seemed to burn against her skin. It was beautiful, everything she had ever been told a wedding should be. And yet, it felt wrong.

She watched the servants in the mirror as they worked, their movements are precise and careful. A young beta woman was applying color to her lips, her brush strokes are light and even. Another was arranging her hair, pinning strands into place with silver clips shaped like phoenixes in flight.

A third was adjusting the folds of her robe, smoothing out wrinkles that only she could see. They were all so focused, so dedicated to their task. They did not look at her face. They did not see the emptiness in her eyes.

Although everything she needed was prepared, her face was frowning. Like something inside her is dying and she couldn’t save it. The smile she had worn for the servants had faded the moment they stopped looking at her, replaced by a hollow expression that she could not hide from the mirror. She stared at her reflection, at the stranger wearing her face, and felt nothing but a deep, aching emptiness.

She thought of the life she had imagined for herself when she was younger, when she was still in Ashrein, when the world had seemed full of possibilities. She had dreamed of a wedding, yes, but not like this.

She had dreamed of a ceremony filled with laughter and joy, of a partner who would look at her with love, and a future built on affection and trust. She had dreamed of choosing her own path, of being more than just a pawn in someone else’s game.

But dreams were for children, and she had stopped being a child a long time ago.

"Can you all get out for now?" Dawn asked, and the servants didn’t answer and just bowed. They stepped outside her bedchamber and closed the door behind them, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant sounds of celebration filtering through the windows. The music, the laughter, and the joy of others—it all felt like a mockery of what she was feeling inside.

She sat there for a long moment, her hands are resting in her lap and her eyes were fixed on her reflection. The woman in the mirror was beautiful. The woman in the mirror was poised, and the one in the mirror was everything a Phoenix empress should be. But the woman in the mirror was not her. Not where it mattered.

Dawn heavily sighed and her shoulders sagged down. She was trying hard to be happy with all this, trying to make herself believe that she would be happy one day. She told herself that she would learn to love Qazaethel, that duty would become affection, and that the coldness in her heart would eventually thaw. But the words felt empty, hollow reassurances that she repeated to herself because she had no other choice.

She thought of Qazaethel. The sovereign was not cruel, not in the way some rulers were. She was cold, distant, and often dismissive, but she was not unkind. She had never raised a hand to Dawn, had never spoken a harsh word.

But she had also never looked at her with warmth, never smiled at her with genuine affection. To Qazaethel, Dawn was a political necessity, a treaty made flesh, a union that would strengthen Solkanaia’s ties with Ashrein. Nothing more.

And Dawn was expected to be grateful for that. She was expected to smile and bow and play the role of the happy bride, to pretend that this was everything she had ever wanted. She was expected to give up her dreams, her desires, her very self, and become something she was not.

And she would do it, because she had no choice. Because her kingdom need her and her family had made it clear that her feelings did not matter.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not hear the door open. She did not hear the soft footsteps approaching and she did not realize she was no longer alone until a voice broke through the silence.

"Why is our princess frowning like that?"

Dawn gasped. She was startled by Liv’s sudden appearance, but she didn’t react much. She had grown used to the general’s quiet presence over the years, the way she could appear without warning and disappear just as quickly. She turned to face her properly, her heart was still racing from the surprise.

"General Liv? Why are you here?" Dawn asked, turning around to properly look at Liv.

Liv stood near the door, her arms are crossed and her expression was unreadable. She was dressed in her formal uniform, the insignia of her rank was gleaming on her chest, and there was a sword at her hip that she had never once been seen without.

Her hair was pulled back in its usual severe style, and her face wore its usual stern expression. But there was something in her eyes—something soft, something warm—that Dawn had rarely seen.

"Well, I figured out that maybe you needed some extra words of encouragement. Congratulations, by the way," Liv said.

Dawn smiled, but the sadness in her eyes was an evident expression that she couldn’t hide. The smile was thin, fragile, the kind of smile that said thank you without meaning it. "Thanks."

Liv noticed the strain in her voice. She had known Dawn for a long time, had watched her grow from a child into an adult omega she is now, and she knew when something was wrong. She had seen Dawn smile a thousand times, had heard her laugh a thousand more, and she knew the difference between genuine joy and the mask of it. And right now, Dawn was wearing the mask.

"Is there something you want to talk about before you continue?" Liv asked.

Dawn shook her head. "It doesn’t matter. Even if I tell you, that changes nothing." She said, and Liv saw the defeat in her. It was there in the slump of her shoulders, in the way her hands lay limp in her lap, and in the emptiness of her gaze.

Liv did not like seeing her like this. She had watched Dawn grow up before she moved to Ashrein, she had seen her face challenges with courage, had seen her bear burdens with grace, and had seen her smile even when things seemed hopeless. But this—this was different. This was not a challenge to be faced or a burden to be borne. This was a wound, deep and bleeding, and Liv did not know how to heal it.

But she had to try.

"But at least it’ll make you a little bit better," Liv said. She pulled a nearby vanity chair and sat down to face Dawn close up. She set her sword down and crossed her legs. "Alright, I’m all ears now." ℴ

Dawn couldn’t help but giggle at Liv’s action. The sight of the proud, strict general sitting in a delicate vanity chair, her sword propped against the table, her legs are crossed like a gossip preparing for a long conversation—it was so unlike her that it was almost absurd. It was also, somehow, exactly what Dawn needed.

"What?" Liv was a bit taken aback when Dawn suddenly giggled.

"Nothing hahaha. You always looked like the proud, strict, and cold General, but... I never knew that you’re also willing to listen. Even to me, what am I? I’m just an omega," Dawn said. The words came out before she could stop them, a bitter truth she had carried for so long that it had become a part of her.

Liv held her hand. Her grip was warm and steady, the grip of someone who had spent centuries holding swords and shields. But it was also gentle, careful, as if she was afraid of hurting the princess. "Hey, don’t say that, little potato."

When Dawn heard the nickname, she gasped. "You remembered?" She asked, like she was purely bewildered by it. "I... I thought—"

Liv gently cut her off. She shook her head. "How could I forget the nickname I gave you? You were always strong-headed, and I remember you crying when you were hit by a potato hahaha." Liv said, and both of them ended up laughing softly about the memory.

The memory was an old one, from a time when Dawn had been a child, newly arrived in Solkanaia, alone and frightened. She had been wandering the palace gardens when she had stumbled upon a patch of vegetables, and the sight of the strange, lumpy things had frightened her so badly that she had burst into tears.

Liv had found her there, sobbing inconsolably, and had scooped her up in her arms and laughed. She had called her a little potato, a silly, endearing name that had stuck ever since.

It was a small moment, a fleeting burst of warmth in the cold chamber, but it was enough to ease some of the tension in Dawn’s shoulders. She had not realized how much she needed that, and how much she needed someone to remind her that she was more than just a political pawn. She was a person, with a history and a heart and a soul. And Liv, at least, saw that.

"Now tell me what’s bothering you, little potato?" Liv asked again, and softened her features. The hard lines of her face relaxed, and for a moment, she looked less like a general and more like an older sister, someone who had seen too much and understood too well.

Dawn looked at her, at the kindness in her eyes, at the patience in her expression. And she felt something inside her crack, just a little. She had been holding it together for so long, pretending to be strong, pretending to be okay. But with Liv sitting there, looking at her like she mattered, she could not pretend anymore.

"Well... I just... I just don’t want this. I never wanted to get married," Dawn said.

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Liv did not look surprised. She did not look judgmental. She simply nodded, as if she had known all along.

"I know... But face this for now. You can do everything for the sovereign to dislike you, and maybe, she’ll be forced to choose another empress if she sees that you’re unfit," Liv said.

Dawn thought about what she said. The idea was dangerous, and reckless even. To deliberately make the sovereign dislike her, to sabotage her own position—it could work, but it could also backfire in ways she could not predict.

Qazaethel was not a fool. She would see through the act eventually, and when she did, the consequences would be severe. But the thought of freedom, of escape, of a life where she could make her own choices—it was too tempting to ignore.

"Are you sure about that?" Dawn asked.

Liv nodded. "Yeah. I’ve been beside Qazaethel for almost five thousand years. I know her temper." Her voice was confident, steady, the voice of someone who had seen the sovereign at her best and at her worst.

Dawn was so happy that she immediately hugged Liv. "Oh! Thank you, General! Thank you for the idea!" She excitedly said, her voice was rising with hope.

Liv immediately gestured for her to quiet down. "The servants are gonna hear us outside."

Dawn acted like a child and covered her mouth excitedly, her eyes are sparkling with the first genuine happiness Liv had seen from her all day. The reaction was so innocent, so unguarded, and that Liv could not help but smile.

"If that happens... I wanna marry the person I love." Dawn said with a sigh of relief. The words slipped out before she could stop them, a secret she had kept buried for so long, and she did not realize what she had revealed until she saw Liv’s expression shift.

"Who this person might be?" Liv asked, her heart was breaking to know that Dawn already loved someone else. She kept her voice steady, kept her expression calm, but inside, she felt something crack.

She had watched Dawn grow up, had protected her, and guided her. She had never allowed herself to feel anything more than duty, more than friendship. But hearing those words, hearing that Dawn loved someone else—it hurt more than she expected.

Dawn’s cheeks turned bright red and she immediately looked away from shyness. She had not meant to say that. She had not meant to reveal the secret she had guarded so carefully, the feelings she had never dared to voice. But Liv had a way of making her feel safe, of making her forget the walls she had built around her heart.

Liv feared that she was crossing a boundary with the princess, so she also averted her gaze and cleared her throat. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry."

"It’s okay, it’s not a big deal," Dawn said, though the redness in her cheeks said otherwise. She did not look at Liv, she could not look at her. The silence stretched for a long moment between them, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved feelings.

The wedding march began to play in the distance, the notes drifted through the window, and Dawn knew that her time was up. She had to go, she had to walk down the aisle, smile for the guests, and become the Phoenix empress of Solkanaia. She had to leave behind the girl who dreamed of love and become the woman who accepted duty.

But for just a moment longer, she sat there with Liv, the silence between them was comfortable and painful all at once. And she wished, with all her heart, that things could be different.

She wished she could be someone else, somewhere else, with someone else. But wishes were for children, and she was no longer a child. She was a princess, and princesses did not get to choose their own paths.

She stood up, straightened her robe, and turned to face the door.

"I should go," she said quietly.

Liv nodded and stood as well, picking up her sword and fastening it to her hip. "I’ll be watching from the crowd," she said. It was a simple statement, but it carried a weight that Dawn could not ignore. Liv would be there. Liv would always be there.

Dawn smiled—a real smile this time, small but genuine. "Thank you, General."

She walked to the door, her hand was resting on the handle, and paused. For a moment, she considered turning back, considered saying something more. But the words died in her throat, and she pushed the door open instead.

The servants were waiting outside, their expressions are curious but respectful. They did not ask why the general had been in her room. They simply bowed and led her toward the great hall, toward the future that awaited her.

Dawn followed them, her heart was heavy but her steps are steady. She did not look back.

The corridors of the palace stretched before her, lined with servants and guards who bowed as she passed. The walls were draped with silk and flowers, the air was thick with the scent of incense and perfume. It was beautiful, all of it, a celebration fit for a sovereign. And yet, Dawn felt nothing. She walked through it all like a ghost, her mind elsewhere, her heart was numb.

She thought of Liv, of the way the general had looked at her, of the warmth in her eyes. She thought of the nickname, little potato, and the memory of a childhood long past. She thought of the words Liv had spoken, the idea that she could make Qazaethel dislike her, that she could escape this fate if she was brave enough to try.

But she was not brave. She was not strong. She was just a princess, a pawn, a bargaining chip in a game she had never wanted to play.

The great hall loomed before her, its doors were thrown wide, the sounds of the wedding march filled the air. She could see the guests inside, the nobles and dignitaries and concubines, all of them are waiting for her.

She could see Qazaethel at the altar, tall and imposing, her expression was unreadable. She could see the future stretching out before her, a life of duty and obligation, and a life without love.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped through the doors.

The crowd turned to look at her, their eyes were filled with curiosity and expectation. The music swelled, the notes are rising in a crescendo. And Dawn walked forward, one step at a time, toward the alpha who would become her Alpha wife.

She did not smile. She did not cry. She simply walked, her face was a mask of calm, her heart was a storm of emotion. And when she reached the altar, when she stood before Qazaethel and the officiant and all the assembled guests, and she did not look back.

She could not look back. There was nothing behind her but memories, and memories could not save her now.