The wedding ceremony passed in a haze. Amelia stood at the altar, a heavy lace veil concealing the tears that rolled silently down her cheeks. She barely heard the priest’s words, mechanically reciting vows that sounded like a death sentence. The cold gold of the ring on her finger felt like shackles.

Everything passes, she repeated to herself like a mantra. This too shall pass. I will find a way to live with it.

After the ceremony, the lavish wedding feast began. The palace halls thundered with music and laughter, but for Amelia, it was all just white noise. She sat at the head table beside her aged husband, smiling mechanically at the guests, feeling like a ghost at her own celebration.

At one point, Queen Isolde gave a subtle signal. She, King Alaric, Marquis Hawke, and a few of the highest-ranking court ladies left the hall without drawing attention, proceeding to a specially prepared private chamber. Clara, as the First Lady-in-Waiting, followed her mistress.

Here, in the silence, amidst heavy tapestries and the scent of wax, the final formalities were to be discussed.

"Now that the union is sealed before gods and men," the Royal Chancellor began, "only the final tradition remains, so that the marriage may be recognized as consummated and unbreakable. The Consummation."

Marquis Hawke nodded; his gaze was cold and businesslike.

"My personal secretary will be my witness; I trust him."

The Chancellor looked at the ladies on the bride's side. A heavy, awkward silence hung in the room. The court ladies, who just an hour ago had been loudly praising the "brilliant match," now shamefully lowered their eyes and fidgeted with their fans. No one wanted to participate in this farce; their silence was more eloquent than any words.

"What is this childish sentimentality?" Queen Isolde’s imperious voice shattered the silence. "This is an act of state, not a romantic tryst. The tradition must be observed."

She swept the ladies with a commanding gaze, ready to issue an order. But a quiet, firm voice beat her to it.

"I will be the witness."

Clara stepped forward. She bowed low to the Queen and the Marquis.

"Your Majesty, Marquis Hawke. The Princess will need a loyal person by her side in her new life. I beg you to allow me to continue serving her as her Lady-in-Waiting in your household."

The Marquis, indifferent to what servants would surround his young wife, gave a lazy nod. The Queen, wishing to end the unpleasant scene quickly, also gave her consent. Clara had won a small but crucial victory.

The journey north, to the Hawke estate, was long and silent. The castle greeted Amelia with oppressive silence and the smell of old stone. The place looked more like a grim fortress than a home. Her new chambers were vast and furnished with heavy, old-fashioned luxury, but they held not a drop of comfort. It was a room for a high-ranking guest, not for the lady of the house.

Later, in this cold and alien bedroom, Amelia sat before the mirror in a snow-white silk nightgown. Clara slowly brushed her long dark hair—the only familiar and soothing action in this strange place. Their conversation was quiet, like the rustling of leaves.

"Have you heard about them, Clara?" Amelia broke the silence. "About his past wives?"

Clara froze for a moment, then resumed brushing, her voice becoming barely audible.

"There are rumors, Your Highness. They say... they all died. In childbirth. Birthing the third, the fourth... the next child."

She paused and added with horror in her voice:

"They say... he is obsessed with the idea of leaving behind as many heirs as possible. That he sees wives merely as... vessels for procreation."

Cold fear pierced Amelia. To be sold was one thing. To be sold for slaughter, like breeding stock, was something else entirely. And in that moment, at the very bottom of despair, a saving thought—absolutely alien to this world—flashed in her mind.

The Calendar.

She stood and went to her travel bag, retrieving a small, leather-bound diary reinforced with silver. It was her personal journal, kept since she had learned to write in this world. Inside, amidst her thoughts, were pages she had meticulously hand-ruled into months and days.

This wasn't just a grid of dates. It was a complex, encrypted map of her own body. A red dot marked the start of a cycle. A small crescent—days of unexplained melancholy or irritability. A wavy line—mild cramping. And a whole system of tiny crosses and checkmarks describing internal changes understandable only to her.

It was a science she had brought with her from another world—knowledge of fertility, of days when seed could bear fruit, and of days when it was absolutely powerless.

She quickly flipped to the necessary page. Her heart pounded with fear and desperate hope as her finger slid across the grid, deciphering her own secret signs.

And then she froze, finding today's date.

Empty. Clean.

According to her records, the danger period was still far off. A barely noticeable, but completely sincere smile of relief appeared on her lips. She exhaled deeply and noisily, shedding the unbearable tension from her shoulders.

Today was a safe day.

A safe day... What irony, she thought. In a world without technology, ruled by kings and superstitions, I was just saved by simple knowledge of biology from my past life. Today... today he will not get an heir. And this is my first small victory in this war.

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