My Royal Father-in-Law Forced Our Marriage, but My Bride's Mask Hid a Dark Secret

A Bizarre Holy Matrimony

The heavy oak doors of the grand cathedral groaned as they swung open, letting in a flood of golden afternoon light. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning myrrh and centuries-old stone. Prince Thomas adjusted the stiff collar of his silver and violet doublet, his palms slick with cold sweat. This was not a wedding born of love; it was a transaction of survival. His family's debts to the crown had reached a breaking point, and King Garrick had demanded this union as the ultimate price.

At the altar stood King Garrick, draped in a heavy, emerald velvet robe that seemed to swallow the light. Beside him stood the figure of Princess Clara. But instead of a delicate lace veil, her head was encased in a dark, weathered wooden barrel, secured with iron bands. It was a sight so grotesque and bizarre that a collective whisper rippled through the gathered nobility. Thomas froze in the aisle, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"My daughter is now your wife," King Garrick declared, his voice echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. "Come forward, Thomas, and claim your bride."

Numbly, Thomas forced his legs to move. Every step down the stone aisle felt like marching toward his execution. He reached the altar, his eyes locked on the crude wooden structure covering the princess's face. He could hear her shallow, ragged breathing from within the dark wood. With a trembling hand, Thomas reached for the heavy metal latch. He lifted the iron bar, the screech of metal piercing the silent air. He slowly pulled the hatch open and peered inside.

His breath caught. His eyes widened, and his face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated terror.

"Oh my God," Thomas gasped, stumbling backward into the altar steps.