Bound by Vows and Vendetta
This place was a mirror — broken, sacred, bloodstained.
Like her.
She walked the aisle slow, letting her heels echo like war drums on the marble. She wore no crown. No lace. No makeup save for the blood-red slash across her lips. Her suit was matte black, double-breasted, the jacket tailored to the lines of command.
At her side was a dagger. Not concealed. Not subtle.
A Benedetti blade, etched with her grandfather’s initials, kissed once by her mother’s blood.