Chapter Text
Nightmare's castle.
From a distance, it was something grand to behold—spiraling towers stretching toward the heavens, dark brick walls veined with creeping vines, and a vast garden of black marble gleaming beneath the pale light. But up close, the illusion fractured. The bricks were cracked, the vines withered into thorny knots that clawed at the stone, and the servants wore faces etched with quiet agony. Ah, but the garden. Still beautiful. A gift, Nightmare said, for his bride-to-be. To his subjects, he called it a gesture of goodwill—a promise of a bright and prosperous union. Yet behind closed doors, everyone knew the truth: it was nothing more than a bribe, meant to silence the woman he'd stolen.
It had been three months since Y/N last saw her family. Each morning, she woke with a crushing weight in her chest, a constant reminder that every sunrise brought her closer to the wedding. Still, she pressed on, convincing herself that surrendering her freedom was a necessary sacrifice.
Her mornings followed the same bleak pattern. She would sit up in bed to find a small woman standing silently in the corner of the room, dressed in what could only be described as a potato sack. Mute, or bound to silence by Nightmare's cruel magic? Y/N couldn't tell. The servant never spoke, no matter how many times Y/N tried to reach out. The girl couldn't have been older than twelve. She simply watched as Y/N rose from the high, silk-draped bed, stretching with a soft groan and brushing her finger along her gums—only to find, yet again, that they had bled overnight.
Once Y/N was standing, the servant would wordlessly begin her task, dressing her in heavy, suffocating layers of royal finery—tight corsets, jeweled gloves, gowns embroidered with gold and weighed down by luxury. Every day, a new dress. Never once the same as the last.
Then came the monotony of her so-called royal duties—recited each morning by a tall, thin butler with stark white hair and skin like a dried prune. His cheeks remained oddly rosy, but his voice was hoarse and grating, carrying through the vast chamber as he outlined her daily expectations. Some days, she was paraded before the public, forced to bless or "inspire" the citizens with hollow smiles and scripted words. Other days, she recited speeches about the "glory of Nightmare's rule" before the royal council, her voice echoing through the cold marble halls.
Today, it was a ceremonial feast to celebrate yet another month of her imprisonment within the castle's gilded walls.
After the briefing, her day would unfold in the usual tiresome fashion—endless lessons with strict tutors on etiquette and posture, hours of balancing books on her head to perfect her composure, studying royal customs, and practicing her curtsies until her knees ached.
And then, finally—after hours of lessons that made her want to claw her own eyes out—Y/N was permitted a brief escape to her beautiful garden. The privilege varied day by day. If she was expected to appear in the town square or attend some political meeting as Nightmare's silent shadow, there would be no such "foolishness," as he liked to call it. But today, mercifully, there was time.
So when Y/N stepped out of her tutor's office, the air felt lighter, almost hopeful—until her gaze met that of Nightmare's most trusted guard. The one assigned to trail her every moment she wasn't locked away. The one who never spoke unless necessary, but whose presence was impossible to ignore.
Horror.
A large, unkempt skeleton towered beside the doorway. He was dressed in rough, dark cloth layered beneath a battered chest plate of enchanted steel, its surface etched with faint runes that shimmered faintly in the light. Matching armor pieces covered his knees and forearms, scratched and dented, clearly worn out. One of his eye sockets was hollow, the other burning dimly with a blood-red light that seemed to pierce through the gloom.
A deep, jagged hole marred the side of his skull—a wound Y/N had never dared to ask about. Dried blood and dirt clung stubbornly to his bones and clothing. She doubted he ever bathed; the air around him carried the sharp tang of iron and the faint, nauseating scent of raw meat.
He fell into step a few paces behind her as she began down the long corridor. He always did—always the same distance, always silent. Y/N moved through the familiar path toward the castle's base floor, a route she had walked so often it was a wonder she hadn't worn a trail into the thin carpet stretched over the cobblestone.
Down the winding staircase and through one dim hallway after another, the sound of Horror's weapon followed her like a shadow. His massive cleaver dragged along the stone with a slow, grating scrape—an awful, ear-splitting noise that had once made her flinch. Now, she hardly noticed it. It was as much a part of her days as the castle itself.
Y/N stood before a grand set of double glass doors, her hands folded neatly in front of her. The fabric of today's gown was especially unbearable—itching at her skin and weighing heavily on her shoulders. The mere thought of settling onto one of the marble benches in her garden was the only thing keeping her upright.
Horror took his time retrieving an oversized iron key from his belt, fitting it into the lock with a low grumble before pushing the doors open. He stepped aside without a word, watching as Y/N descended the three marble steps and stepped onto the dirt pathway beyond. A soft hum escaped her lips as the first breath of fresh air in three days brushed against her face, tangling in her hair.
As she wandered deeper into the inner gardens, her body slowly began to unwind. The air was sweet, the flowers vibrant—painstakingly maintained by the castle's gardeners despite the gloom surrounding the place. She always made a full lap before resting by the grand fountain at the center, soaking in what little peace the world allowed her.
As she walked, with Horror's heavy footsteps trailing faithfully behind, her gaze caught on a section of the outer wall—one she had once climbed. Her pace faltered. The scar along her palm throbbed faintly at the memory.
It had been a series of fortunate events—or so she'd thought at the time. A stormy night, a stolen servant's cloak, and a moment of reckless hope. She'd nearly made it past the western gate before something—she still didn't know what—caught her. When she woke three days later, her body was battered and bruised, and Horror was standing silently at her bedside.
From that day on, he had been her shadow.
Nightmare had given her the scariest monster in the kingdom. Not to protect her, but to remind her that she wasn't going anywhere. The memory sent a chill down her spine, and Y/N quickened her pace, moving past the wall as if she could outrun the thought.
She continued her walk at an unhurried pace, the hem of her gown whispering against the dirt path. Behind her, she could practically feel Horror's quiet irritation—he always grew a tad restless when she slowed down. A small, defiant smirk tugged at her lips as she glanced over her shoulder.
"Planning to breathe down my neck all day, or just until I trip?" she teased.
Horror responded with nothing more than a low grunt and a slow, unreadable blink before easing his pace, falling back a step or two.
He was the closest thing Y/N had to a companion. Not a friend—never that—but a constant presence. They spent nearly every waking hour together, and over time, she had learned to amuse herself by prodding at his stoic nature. Her teasing never earned more than a grunt or a sidelong glance, but he never raised a hand to her. He simply endured it, as he did everything else—silently.
Finally, Y/N completed her slow lap around the garden and drifted toward the cluster of four marble benches encircling the grand fountain. She swept the folds of her gown to the side and lowered herself gracefully, folding her hands in her lap. Horror took up his usual post against the nearest wall, cleaver resting beside him, his stance rigid and unyielding. His gaze never strayed from her—steady, almost unblinking—but Y/N had long since stopped noticing. Nothing could disturb the peace this little sanctuary offered her.
Some days, she spent hours here, losing herself in the quiet hum of life. She'd watch the birds wheeling high above, naming the ones she recognized aloud and sketching those she didn't to identify later in her books. Sometimes she read, sometimes she skipped along the paths, and on rare nights when Nightmare allowed her beyond her chamber after sunset, she would stargaze. That had always been her favorite. She'd count the stars until her head spun, then turn to Horror and ask how many he saw. He never replied, but he would glance up at the heavens, and somehow, that silence felt like an answer.
Those nights were gone now. Since her escape attempt, stargazing was confined to the balcony of her locked room, with Horror looming behind her like a shadow.
Today, though, there would be no reading, no idle wandering, and hardly any peace. The ceremony awaited, and even without a word from him, Y/N could feel Horror's awareness of the passing time, his gaze tracking the slow crawl of the sun. She knew it too, though she lingered in denial, dreading the moment she'd have to leave the garden behind once again.
She spent the next half hour admiring her rose bushes—their rich colors, the delicate layers of each petal, the careful symmetry of the vines that cradled them. She traced every hue and shape into memory, determined to hold onto them when she returned to her cold, gilded cage.
Then came the familiar sound of Horror clearing his throat. That was her cue. With a reluctant sigh, Y/N rose to her feet, brushed the dirt and petals from her gown, and murmured a quiet farewell to her garden. As she stepped inside, she glanced back once more, catching a final glimpse of sunlight on marble before Horror locked the glass doors behind them.
He led her through the winding corridors in silence until they reached the grand dining hall—a cavernous space nearly six times the size of her childhood home. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, scattering fractured light across the polished table set with elaborate silverware and ornate decorations. Y/N stopped just outside the entrance, standing beside Horror in the shadowed corridor, waiting until she heard the familiar parade of footsteps that indicated Nightmare and his court were approaching.
Nightmare—Y/N's husband-to-be, the king of this dark kingdom—was difficult to describe in any way that felt real. His form was cloaked in a shifting layer of black, tar-like substance that never seemed to stain anything it touched, as if it obeyed only him. From his back sprouted several long, writhing tentacles, each one moving with a slow, deliberate menace that made even his courtiers keep their distance. Atop his head rested a grand, jagged crown of obsidian and gold, its design mirrored in the smaller, far less impressive version Y/N was forced to wear.
Nightmare gave Horror a brief nod—permission granted. Y/N moved to his side without a word as they stepped into the grand dining hall, the low hum of conversation fading into a flurry of movement as nobles turned their heads toward the royal pair.
A young servant boy dressed in red lifted a small brass horn and blew a shrill, slightly off-key note before clearing his throat. "His Royal Highness, Nightmare, and his betrothed," he announced, his voice cracking midway through the proclamation.
Nightmare's grip closed tightly around Y/N's arm, yanking it into position so it appeared she was holding onto him willingly, like a devoted bride. With his other hand, he gave a sweeping, regal wave to the gathered courtiers as their procession began. Together, they crossed the length of the hall beneath the glittering chandelier, Y/N's steps measured and silent. When they reached the table, Nightmare took his place at the head, and Y/N was guided to the seat beside him—close enough to be displayed, yet far enough to remind her she was nothing more than decoration.
Dinner was as dull as ever. The food was flavorless, heavy on the tongue, and Y/N could barely force herself to swallow more than a few bites. Her appetite had long since vanished—three months of tension and dread had seen to that—but Nightmare's remained as voracious as ever. He ate with unrestrained pleasure, tearing into each course while laughing and trading lively talk of war and wealth with his advisors.
As the meal drew to a close, Nightmare's hand clamped around Y/N's arm once again, hauling her to her feet beside him. She forced her expression into something neutral, raising her glass only when he raised his.
"I thank you all for gathering here tonight to celebrate my betrothed!" Nightmare declared, his voice booming through the hall. "Soon, we shall be wed, and I shall make her my bride. Huzzah!"
He thrust his glass high into the air, and the crowd followed suit in a deafening chorus of huzzahs. Crystal clinked, voices echoed, and Y/N stood motionless beside him, her glass trembling faintly in her grasp.
♕
"God, that was horrible," Y/N muttered, holding her breath as lukewarm water cascaded over her head. She sat curled up in a small marble tub, knees to her chest, while one of her handmaidens—a woman named Antoinette—worked beside her.
"I take it dinner weren't too pleasant, eh?" Antoinette said, her voice rough but kind. She dipped a coarse sponge into the water and began scrubbing gently at Y/N's arm.
Antoinette was one of the few servants who actually spoke to Y/N, and the only one who ever dared to treat her like a person. She often talked out of turn, without fear or formality, and somehow, that familiarity brought Y/N more comfort than any of the silken gowns or jeweled crowns ever could.
"Terrible," Y/N sighed, correcting her. "It was absolutely horrendous. I think I might be sick."
Antoinette let out a soft hum, nodding as she rinsed the sponge. "Aye, well, it's all over now, innit? You'll be off to bed soon enough, m'lady. Bit o' rest'll do ya good."
A second bucket of lukewarm water splashed over Y/N, rinsing the soap from her skin. She hummed softly, blinking the droplets from her eyes. "Busy day tomorrow?" she asked. Antoinette always seemed to know the castle's affairs long before she did.
Antoinette shook her head, her frizzy curls bouncing. "Nah, m'lady. Far as I been told, yer free of duties come mornin', if me little birdies ain't lied to me," she said with a grin. She helped Y/N rise from the tub, wrapping her in a thick white towel. "Means you an' that great hulkin' guard dog o' yours can have a proper day in that garden o' yours," she added, flashing a toothy smile as she began rubbing the towel briskly over Y/N's shoulders.
Y/N let out a long sigh of relief. "Finally. I've been so busy lately. So many speeches, so many appearances—it makes my head spin."
"Oh, you poor princess girl, you," Antoinette chuckled, her tone dripping with good-natured teasing. She reached for Y/N's silk nightgown, hanging it over her arm. "Come now, you eat well, you've got more books than kingdom come, and the figure of a childless woman. You oughta count yer blessings, m'lady. Appreciate the little things, eh?"
Y/N didn't argue. Even her closest confidant had no idea what her 'arrangement' with Nightmare truly entailed. So instead, she offered a soft smile and changed the subject. "How's your husband doing?"
Antoinette pursed her lips as she rolled up the nightgown and slipped it carefully over Y/N's head. "Aye, he fights hard and he fights well," she said with a sigh, smoothing the silk down over Y/N's shoulders, "but Lord above, his ailments never seem to quit." She guided Y/N to sit on the small stool before the vanity, resting her hands on the back for a moment. "Keep him in yer prayers, m'lady. Heaven knows he needs 'em," she added, offering a weary smile.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Y/N murmured, her voice gentle as Antoinette began brushing through her damp hair. "If you ever need money for medicine, I'm sure I could convince—"
Before she could finish, Antoinette's hand shot forward, gripping Y/N's chin firmly and tilting her face upward. "No," she said, her voice sharp but not unkind. "Don't you go pickin' fights with that stubborn king o' yours for the likes of us." She released Y/N's chin and gave a small shake of her head. "We'll manage well enough on our own, dear. Your thoughts're plenty."
Y/N frowned but said nothing. Antoinette was right—there was no point in asking Nightmare for favors. It would only earn her another punishment, and perhaps one for Antoinette too.
Antoinette guided Y/N out of the bathing room, where Horror stood waiting in his usual, motionless stance by the door. "You have yerself a good night now, m'lady," Antoinette said softly, her voice warm as she offered a smile that felt almost maternal. "Sleep well, eh?"
"Thank you, Antoinette. You too," Y/N replied, dipping her head politely before turning toward the corridor. Horror fell into step beside her, silent as ever, as he escorted her back to her room.
Back in her bedroom, Y/N stood on the balcony, her elbows resting against the cold stone banister, her head cradled in her hands. She whispered a quiet prayer—to freedom, to Antoinette, to something that might resemble hope—before lifting her gaze toward the dark horizon. Her garden sprawled beneath her, glistening faintly in the moonlight, though the clouds above smothered any chance of stargazing tonight.
Behind her, she could feel Horror's steady presence—silent, unmoving, always watching.
Her throat burned, a raw ache that made her cough into the silk handkerchief she kept tucked in her sleeve. When she pulled it away, crimson flecked the pale fabric. She stared at it for a long moment before speaking, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Do you ever think about leaving?"
Silence.
A small, bitter smile tugged at her lips. "Didn't think so."