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Her jaw clenched; her mouth resisted the dull push of the strings to accept.
“Serie, do you accept?” Maître demanded.
She forced herself to look directly at Maître, pushing her fear of him aside. She would not let him control her any more.
“No, I do not,” Serie declared.
The square was silent.
“Are you disobeying orders? Do you dare defy your strings? Defy my bidding?”
Serie looked straight into Maître’s eyes, reciprocating his fury in hers.
“Answer me!”
The strings wanted to push her to the ground, they wanted to make her weak. She stayed strong and resisted their collapse.
“Defying the bidding of the strings will lead to death, Serie.”
“Kill me then.” Serie’s voice echoed around the silent crowd. “But I know that I can live a life without these strings.”
“My strings are the only thing that keeps you alive. Even if you could live without them, you don’t know how to survive,” Maître said. He stepped off his platform, standing directly in front Serie.
She could see his puppets watching with the same placid expressions as if none of this meant anything to them. The only movements came from his guards, who were edging closer to where she stood. Her strings forced her to the spot. Her eyes darted back to Maître. His hand slipped in his coat pocket producing his control bar. Her breath was forced from her lungs as his fingers curled around the wooden cross.
She had witnessed de-stringings countless times before. Never at a wedding, but there was a first time for everything. In that moment, she could feel pride swell inside her; she had stood up to Maître.
She waited for her skin to lift from its bones, her ligaments to be pulled in different directions. She prepared herself for the agonising pain that Maître would decide if she kept inside of her or let her screams ring in the ears of those watching.
“You ungrateful girl. How dare you destroy this happy day with your insolence?” Maître said.
His control bar took over her. She was forced to kneel at Maître’s feet. Her head bowed, so all she could see was his black polished shoes. The shoes she had spent ages polishing the day before. Though she knew her punishment was imminent, she had no fear. The strings had complete control of her body, and yet her mind had never been clearer. She didn’t raise her head when Maître spoke again.
“Never have I witnessed such behaviour at a wedding ceremony. A day that is full of joy and excitement. After everything I have done for you, Serie: I gave you a job in my palace, I matched you with one of my prized knights. And as I give you to him, you refuse.”
“I am not something that can be given away, Maître,” Serie said through gritted teeth. She felt the back of a staff hit her in the head, pushing her to the ground.
“Lord Maître, Serie. Where are your manners?”
The strings pulled her up again. She ignored the throbbing of the back of her head. She didn’t speak but focused all her energy against the control bar’s power. It was pushing its way into her mind and attempted to cover it in haze. It made her body rigid, but from the inside she was bursting with energy.
“I could tear you apart, Serie, and leave Flynn alone, without a wife of his very own. I could leave one of my best fighters to live in shame, for his wife was torn apart on their wedding day.”
Serie felt the strings lift her head to face Maître. Flynn stood next to him; his glassy eyes flecked with sorrow.
Her body throbbed with rage. She could feel the voice of the strings telling her to grovel for forgiveness.
“What does Tristian think he’s doing?”
Serie stared at Maître. How did he know that Tristian had caused the change in her behaviour?
Maître laughed, coming so close to Serie she could smell his breath.
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