[Lior's POV—Later That Night—The Chamber]
I didn't realize how exhausted I was until the door closed behind me.
SLAM!!!!
The sound was soft, almost polite—and somehow that made it worse.
The chamber swallowed me whole again. Firelight flickered weakly along the walls, shadows stretching and recoiling like they had opinions. My stomach was warm now, heavy in a way that felt unfamiliar, almost wrong after so long without food.
I stood there for a moment, unsure what to do with myself.
Then my legs gave out.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, hands braced against the mattress, breath coming shallow. Eating had taken more out of me than I expected. My body felt sluggish, overstimulated—like it didn't trust the warmth yet.
'...I cannot sleep, not yet...what if suddenly he comes....'
Sleeping meant vulnerability.
I kicked Alaric's shoes off carefully and tucked my feet beneath me, curling inward. The fur cloak still rested around my shoulders, heavy and faintly warm—not clean, not scented, but undeniably his.
That thought made my chest tighten.
He'd said he loved me.
The words replayed in my head, flat and impossible.
I fell in love.
He said those words without hesitation, no shame, and...no softness either. I pressed my fingers into the blanket until the fabric bunched beneath my grip, nails biting into my skin as if pain might keep my thoughts from spiraling.
That wasn't love.
Not the kind I knew, not the kind that chose. Love didn't feel like a verdict passed down from a throne.
This was something colder, something decided, or...there had to be a reason, a motive. What could someone like me possibly offer the Grand Duke of the North? I was powerless. Discarded. Sold. A burden no one wanted to keep.
So why me?
I lifted my hand to my mouth, worrying at my fingers, teeth catching skin as my thoughts unraveled.
"Did he really fall in lov—"
SLAM—!
The sound cracked through the room like thunder. I flinched violently, heart lurching into my throat as heavy footsteps crossed the threshold. The door stood open, and there he was.
Grand Duke Alaric Morvael.
I scrambled to my feet at once, bare soles biting into the cold stone as panic rushed through me as I stammered, "S-sir—? What… what are you—"
He removed his coat without looking at me, his movements unhurried and controlled as he said calmly, "This is my room. Of course I'm here."
The words hit harder than a blow as my eyes widened. "Y-your… room? B-but I—"
He draped the coat over the back of a chair and finally looked at me, silver eyes sharp and unreadable as he said, "Didn't I tell you? You will be the next Grand Duchess of Morvael."
My breath stuttered.
"And a husband and wife," he continued coolly, "sleep under the same roof. Under the same authority."
I stepped back instinctively, my spine hitting the edge of the bed.
"But—we aren't married," I said quickly, fear spilling into my voice. "And there's no law that allows two men to—"
He cut me off by stepping closer, too close. The air thickened as he closed the distance until our faces were inches apart, his presence overwhelming and inescapable as he said quietly, "Skeldryn may belong to the Valerith Empire, but it does not kneel to Valerith law."
My heart thundered.
"This territory," he went on, voice dropping into something absolute and merciless, "is ruled by me."
His gaze pinned me in place.
"My word is law here."
Then—PULL—!
He dragged open the drawer behind me, the sudden movement making me flinch, and retrieved a rolled parchment. He stepped away at last, crossing to the fireplace, unrolling it with deliberate care.
"This," he said, setting it down on the table, "is the marriage document; come and sign it."
My vision swam.
A… marriage?
I stared at the parchment as if it might dissolve if I refused to acknowledge it. My body trembled, cold and shock locking my joints as I whispered, "B-but—This is—"
He placed a pen beside the parchment as he ordered, "Sit, and sign it. Quietly."
My throat closed and Yet I tried to show the dare. "C-can I—can I say—"
"NO."
There was complete silence before he said, "You can't say no."
The words struck like iron as he continued, his voice low and lethal, "Do not forget, you were sold to me. Your consent was never part of the transaction."
Something inside me went very still. No tears came this time. There was nothing left for them to carry. I might like men—but I had never wanted this. Never wanted marriage forced like a chain around my throat. Never wanted to belong to anyone this way.
He took a seat near the fire, lighting his cigar with effortless precision. Smoke curled through the air as he leaned back, watching me with cold patience.
"Do not waste any more time, Lior," he said evenly. "I have matters far more important than waiting for you to accept the inevitable."
The message was clear.
If I refused, I would not leave this room alive. If I ran, there was nowhere to go. If I fought, I would be crushed.
I clenched the fabric of my shirt so tightly my knuckles burned, then—slowly—I stepped forward, because I had no choice, because survival sometimes meant bowing your head and waiting for the moment you could breathe again.
Because if I lived…I could still plan, and if I died—it wouldn't matter at all.
I took my seat, and the chair felt too solid beneath me, too real, like the room wanted to make sure I understood this wasn't a nightmare.
The parchment lay open on the table.
At first glance, it looked ordinary—aged vellum, faintly yellowed, edges worn smooth with time. Ink was already dried across it in elegant, merciless strokes.
His signature was there.
Alaric Morvael.
The moment my eyes touched his name, something tightened in my chest. The parchment was normal.
And yet—it wasn't.
It felt… watchful.
As if it knew I was there.
My fingers curled around the pen. My hand shook, but nothing stopped me. No voice. No miracle. No sudden rescue.
So I signed.
The instant the last letter left the page—YANK!
"Ah—!"
Pain shot up my arm as he grabbed my wrist and dragged my hand toward him with crushing force. My breath hitched as he leaned close, grip iron-tight.
"This will sting," he said calmly.
I barely had time to frown before he reached to his collar and removed the brooch pinned there—dark metal, sharp-edged, old, and ancient.
"W-Wait—!"
STAB!—!
The sharp point pierced my finger. I gasped as blood welled instantly, warm and bright, sliding down my skin and dripping onto the parchment. Before I could even react, he did the same to himself—no hesitation, no flinch.
His blood fell beside mine, and then—the parchment moved, not fluttered, not glowed like holy magic.
It drank.
The blood didn't spread or stain—it vanished, pulled into the vellum as if the page were starving. The ink trembled, and the air grew thick and heavy, pressing against my lungs.
Something crawled through me, not pain, not heat. Something cold and invasive, slipping beneath my skin, threading through bone and breath, curling tight around my heart like a patient hand.
'What...what was that?'
I sucked in a sharp breath; light flared at my wrist. I looked down, trembling, and a mark was forming—slow, deliberate. A half moon, pale and silver-white, etched into my skin as though it had always been waiting there.
My breath came apart, then I looked at him; the same mark was burned into his wrist, but his was different.
Pitch black, not shadow—absence, like the moon itself had been swallowed by night.
"What—what is this?" I whispered, panic crawling up my spine. "What did you do?"
He released my wrist and leaned back as if this were nothing more than a formality completed as he said calmly, "This is the blood-bound marriage sigil."
My stomach dropped.
"It is proof," he continued, voice steady, "that the union is recognized, not by the Empire, not by the Temple."
My pulse thundered in my ears.
"But by the North."
By something older than law.
Older than gods.
"You are bound to me," he said simply. "So am I."
I stared at the mark on my wrist, my skin still buzzing faintly beneath it, like something beneath the flesh had awakened.
This wasn't marriage; this was a curse dressed in ceremony.
A pact sealed in blood, and as the room fell silent again, the fire dimmed slightly, shadows leaning closer as though listening. I swallowed hard, my voice barely holding together when I asked the only question that mattered.
"What happens," I whispered, "if one of us breaks this marriage?"
For a moment, I thought he hadn't heard me, then his eyes lifted to mine. Silver. Cold. Unreadable. He didn't answer, not with words. He turned away instead, stood, and moved toward the bed as if the question itself were insignificant.
"Go to sleep," he said calmly. "You will sleep on the bed. So will I."
My breath caught.
Then, as though offering mercy he had already decided was unnecessary, he added, "Do not worry. I will not touch you without your consent."
That… did nothing to ease the tight knot in my chest, because he still hadn't answered me. He hadn't told me what would happen if one of us broke the bond. Hadn't told me the price. Hadn't told me whether it would be death—or something worse.
I looked down at the parchment again.
At the blood that had vanished into it, at the mark glowing faintly against my skin, because it feels as if this marriage hadn't been witnessed by gods. It hadn't been blessed by saints or sealed by law.
It felt older.
Hungry.
As if something unseen had leaned in close, accepted our offering, and smiled.
Alaric extinguished the lights with a single motion. Darkness settled thick and absolute, broken only by the low crackle of dying embers.
I lay stiff beside him, eyes open, heart pounding, wrist burning faintly in the dark.
Whatever had bound us—It was not holy, and whatever price it demanded… I knew, deep down, it would not be kind.