Chapter 1: Bonds of Shadow and Spite

  The Hall of Echoing Vows was a cavernous chamber of obsidian and gold, its vaulted ceiling strung with luminescent vines that pulsed like arteries. Nobles from both houses sat on pews carved from petrified amber, their murmurs swallowed by the hum of ancient magic. At the centre of the dais, a silver basin brimmed with liquid starlight—a relic of the First Dynasty, said to bind souls to oaths.

  Aldrich Ravencliff stood rigid in his ceremonial garb: a black doublet embroidered with black roses, symbols of his house's dark magic legacy. His fingers twitched at his sides, betraying none of the calm his face wore. Across from him, Lady Celestia's gown shimmered like trapped moonlight, its collar high and unyielding as her gaze, her family's crest—a winged serpent devouring its tail—glowed faintly on her chest, a bloodline awakened but leashed.

  The priestess, her skin etched with verminit tattoos that writhed like live wires, chanted in a tongue dead for millennia. She dipped two rings into the starlit basin. They emerged transformed: one a band of frozen flame, the other a coil of shadow.

  "Place the rings upon the Temples of Accord," the priestess intoned.

  Aldrich hesitated, then lifted the shadow-ring. His hand trembled imperceptibly as he pressed it to Celestia's left temple. The metal hissed, fusing to her skin like a brand. She flinched but did not cry out. When her turn came, she jammed the flame-ring onto his temple with deliberate force, her eyes sharp enough to draw blood.

  The crowd leaned forward, breath held. Tradition demanded the Kiss of the Veil—a touch of lips to seal the alliance. Celestia's father, a mountain of muscle clad in armour said to have been forged from dragon bone, gripped the hilt of his sword.

  She turned her face away.

  Gasps rippled through the hall. Aldrich's elder brother, seated in the front row with a mage's staff across his knees, smirked. Let the fool handle this, his expression said.

  "It's fine," Aldrich said, his voice carrying across the now-silent hall. The words tasted of ash and starlight.

  The feast that followed was a pantomime: roasted quail served on plates of enchanted ice, wine that shifted flavors with each sip. Aldrich picked at his food, his fingers occasionally brushing the protective amulet hidden beneath his collar.

  When the moon reached its apex, marked by the ceremonial timekeeper's chiming bells, servants led the newly wedded couple to Aldrich's wing. The corridor twisted through the ancient manor like a serpent's spine, each turn marked by floating orbs of witch-light that cast no shadows. Their footsteps echoed against stone worn smooth by centuries of noble feet.

  Aldrich's private chambers occupied the manor's western tower—a space he'd claimed and transformed over the past year. As the heavy ironwood door swung open, Celestia's eyes widened despite her attempt at indifference. The chamber was a testament to controlled chaos: three rooms merged into one vast space, with ceiling-high blackboards covered in arcane formulae and diagrams that would have looked more at home in a mathematician's fever dream than a noble's quarters. Working desks lined one wall, their surfaces cluttered with leather-bound journals and curious devices that ticked with otherworldly precision. Full-length mirrors stood like silent sentinels, their frames etched with runes that gleamed in the ambient light.

  Through an arched doorway, the bathroom stretched like a private bathhouse, dominated by a pool that seemed to capture and hold moonlight in its depths. Wooden benches lined one wall, while modern fixtures that seemed almost out of place in this magical realm occupied another corner.

  The moment the door closed behind them, Celestia whirled to face him, her bloodline magic crackling in the air around her like static before a storm. "Don't touch me," she warned, her voice carrying the bite of winter frost.

  A noble's daughter through and through, Aldrich thought, but she'll need more than pride to survive this game. He exhaled slowly, unfastening his coat with deliberate precision. "You wound me, wife. Is that any way to begin our union?"

  She did not flinch, but he saw the tension in her stance, the way her fingers curled as if grasping for an unseen dagger. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in exits, distances, advantages. Not just a spoiled noble then. She's been trained.

  Then, his expression shifted, a mask sliding into place. "Who do you think you're talking to?" His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. "Do you imagine I need your permission?" He let his eyes trail over her with calculated insolence. "How... presumptuous."

  She stiffened, but her mind raced behind those sharp eyes. If he was truly base, that would be one thing. But this... this is performance. But why?

  "Your speed won't save you," he continued, voice silken with threat. "When I decide to take what's mine..." He left the threat hanging, watching her pulse quicken at her temple where the shadow-ring pulsed.

  He's trying to unbalance me, she realized. But he's too deliberate. Too precise in his actions.

  Moving to the second section of the room, he sprawled across a sofa with aristocratic laziness. "Perhaps we could make this easier on both of us." He paused, studying her like a cat with a mouse. "A deal, perhaps? I'll even grant you three protections."

  The silence stretched between them, heavy with calculation on both sides. Her fingers twitched – not with fear, he noted, but with the practiced readiness of a fighter assessing threats.

  "I suggest you consider carefully," he added, his smile sharpening. "My patience has limits."

  She watched him raise three fingers, beginning a countdown that felt more ritual than threat. With each lowered digit, the air grew thicker with tension, until—

  "What deal?" The words escaped her lips, barely more than a whisper.

  His smile was all teeth. "Become my secretary. Serve my needs..." He let that hang suggestively before adding, "...in managing my affairs. In return, I'll grant you certain... courtesies."

  "What guarantee do I have?" she demanded, her voice steady despite the strain evident in her posture.

  "Three parts of you I won't touch. Choose wisely." He watched understanding dawn in her eyes. "But choose quickly. My generosity wanes with each breath."

  She lifted her chin. "Lower body, upper body, and head."

  A dark chuckle escaped him. "Clever. But no. Be specific, wife. What exactly do you wish to protect?"

  "Lips," she said finally, each word measured. "Chest. And..." A pause, her mind working through the implications. What game is he playing?

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  "And?" His smile widened. "Come now, choose your last sanctuary." He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Though I should warn you – your bottom gets you two protections in one. A generous offer, wouldn't you say?"

  Disgust flickered across her features, but beneath it, calculation burned. He's giving me choices, but why? What does he gain?

  "Time grows short," he reminded her, voice pleasant but eyes cold. "Or perhaps you'd prefer I choose?"

  "Bottom," she forced out, the word bitter on her tongue.

  "Excellent choice." He gestured lazily toward the decanter. "Now, pour me a drink. Consider it your first task as my... secretary."

  When she hesitated, his expression hardened. "Don't make me repeat myself."

  She moved with rigid grace, like a blade wrapped in silk, he thought. The juice sloshed slightly as she set it before him – a small rebellion, but one he chose to ignore. Her control was admirable, even if her pride would need tempering.

  As he sipped, his eyes never left her forehead, where the shadow-ring pulsed with each controlled breath. The next move would be crucial. Rising deliberately, he began unfastening his shirt.

  "The deal—" she started, alarm threading through her voice.

  "Remains intact," he cut her off smoothly, fingers continuing their work. "Unless you're offering assistance?"

  She recoiled, but her eyes remained fixed on him. Watching for betrayal, he noted. Good. She learns quickly.

  His shirt fell away, revealing the warrior's build that even his shortened training hadn't entirely erased. "What exactly are you doing?" Her voice could have frozen flame.

  "Preparing for bed," he replied simply. "Did you expect me to sleep in ceremonial garb?"

  As his hands moved to his trousers, she turned sharply away. "Have you no decency?"

  "In my own chambers?" Amusement colored his tone. "How... provincial."

  Now clad only in his undergarments, he slipped beneath the enchanted silk covers. She remained perched on the sofa like a hawk ready to take flight.

  "Come to bed," he commanded, voice brooking no argument.

  The disbelief in her voice was palpable. "What?"

  "Unless you want the servants gossiping about an unconsummated marriage?" He let that sink in. "The bed is large enough for both of us. Place a pillow between us if you must, but you will sleep here."

  When she didn't move, he allowed frustration to color his voice. "I've shown remarkable patience. I've offered you a deal more generous than you deserve. And still you test me." His voice rose, calculated anger making it shake. "I could have had a proper wife, but instead I'm saddled with an ungrateful, arrogant—" He cut himself off, breathing heavily. Let her think I'm barely containing my rage.

  She approached the bed with measured steps, every movement speaking of contained violence. As she bent to remove her shoes, he interrupted sharply, "By the door. And in future, remember you're not in some common tavern."

  Her eyes flashed, but she complied. Another small victory, he noted.

  "Remove your outer garments," he instructed, turning away. "Let them find evidence of our... enthusiasm. But keep your undergarments. I honor my deals." A pause. "For now."

  The rustle of fabric filled the silence. "Remember," he added, "you're my secretary now. And in public, we're a happily wedded couple. Fortunately for you, I rarely leave these chambers."

  With a twist of the enchanted dial, the witch-lights dimmed to a soft glow. In the darkness, he felt her weight settle on the far edge of the bed, rigid as a drawn bowstring. Another piece had moved into place on his carefully constructed board, though the price of victory – her fear, her hatred – left an unexpected bitterness in his mouth as he turned on his side.

  I don't understand him, Celestia thought in the darkness, her mind racing despite her exhaustion. He threatens like a brute but plays like a noble. He demands submission but offers choices. She stared into the dimness, where complex mathematical formulas still gleamed faintly on the blackboards. What game are you really playing, Aldrich?

  POV Celestia

  The chamber was a scholar’s nightmare disguised as a sanctuary. There were blackboards—many of them—covered in formulae so intricate they made my head hurt just looking at them. Were they glowing? No, that was probably my brain trying to escape through my eyes.

  This wasn’t the lair of some brutish noble with more muscles than sense. No, this was the domain of a scheming mind, and somehow, that was worse.

  I squinted at the symbols. Some of them were recognizable—advanced arithmancy, far beyond what noble daughters were expected to learn. Others looked suspiciously like something I once saw in a book titled “Forbidden Studies: Why You Should Absolutely Not Read This.” Interesting.

  And then there was him.

  Aldrich Ravencliff, sprawled across his sofa like a cat that had just committed tax fraud and gotten away with it. His threats still hung in the air, but something was… off. His words were precise, his posture studied. This wasn’t the careless cruelty of a tyrant; this was a performance.

  Oh, gods. He was acting.

  I’d told him not to touch me. He hadn’t even tried. His eyes hadn’t so much as flickered below my neck despite his earlier theatrical nonsense. So I behaved how he expected me to. Do you take me as retard? This is some low level manipulation.

  “Pour me a drink,” he’d ordered, like a man testing if his furniture had opinions.

  Fine. I poured him a drink. He hadn’t even blinked when I deliberately gave him the smallest possible amount, barely covering the bottom of the glass. A true villain would’ve thrown a fit. He just smirked.

  The mirrors in the room caught my eye next. Their rune-etched frames weren’t for decoration. Scrying, containment, transformation—either he was planning to study me like an exotic animal, or this was his actual workspace. If the latter, then I was a piece in whatever absurd chess match he was playing.

  Then came the bed situation.

  Oh, I had no illusions about what people expected. The servants were probably taking bets on whether I’d strangle him before dawn.

  “Sleep,” he’d said, in that insufferably confident way of his along with some empty words he thought put fear in her. No, they did not.

  I lay in the massive bed, my back rigid against the silk sheets, while he settled in as if this was just another Tuesday. The blackboards still glowed mockingly in the dim light, their equations whispering of absurd levels of overcompensation.

  Aldrich Ravencliff was up to something. And I would figure out exactly what.

  POV Aldrich

  There is no scheme. There is no grand plan. There is only one goal: confuse Celestia so thoroughly that she assumes I have one.

  Everything had to be deliberate. The formulas on the blackboards? Nonsense scribbles. The journals? Empty. The ambiance? Impeccable.

  The rumors said she was brilliant. The type of brilliant that got you kicked out of mage academies for violence against professors and then immediately sent back an invitation for next year. I had to use that against her if I wanted to survive this marriage.

  Make her think I’m mysterious. Make her think I have an elaborate goal. Make her think she’s figuring me out.

  Reality? I just needed an assistant. A very competent one. And if she thought she was the one manipulating me? Perfect. Let her.

  Besides, I could barely hold a conversation in this language without rehearsing it ten times in my head. If I tripped up, I could just stare enigmatically into the distance, and she’d assume I was thinking deep thoughts instead of panicking internally.

  She was still awake. So was I.

  I shifted uncomfortably. I usually slept naked, but given my current situation—and the distinct possibility that Celestia would stab me if I so much as breathed wrong—I had opted for clothes. They felt restrictive. I refused to admit that I missed my stupidly soft pillows from my old room.

  She turned over, and our eyes met across the pillow wall she had constructed like some sort of marital Berlin Wall.

  I pretended not to flinch under her gaze. Why did she look more calculating than usual? Oh no. Was I overplaying it? Had I crossed from ‘intriguingly enigmatic’ to ‘suspiciously theatrical’?

  Better not risk it.

  I grabbed a pillow, hugged it, and buried my face in it with great enthusiasm. If I couldn’t see her, she couldn’t see me. That’s how invisibility worked, right?

  Sleep eventually claimed me, but not before one final, traitorous thought.

  She really was breathtakingly beautiful.

  …Which made it even more baffling that they just married her off to me.

  Maybe they thought she could control me?

  Well, joke’s on them. I was barely controlling myself.