The throne room of Iris Palace, carved from shimmering obsidian and lined with burning crystal torches, felt more like a cathedral for ancient gods than a hall for men. At the end of its grand aisle, Darius Regulus, King of Tharamid, sat upon a throne of fused dragonbone and silver, flanked by his advisors and guards in enchanted armor that shimmered with dormant runes.

Cecil Lance stood before him, blood still drying on his gloves, the scent of serpent ichor clinging to his black uniform. His chest rose and fell slowly, the only hint of fatigue after his week-long hunt for the Drelvyr Serpent—a creature said to have swallowed villages whole. Now, its head was displayed on the gates of Ravenrow.

The king’s voice boomed through the chamber.  

“You have done Tharamid a great service, Duke Lance. The Drelvyr has tormented our lands for decades. Ask what you will. A vault of gold? A title beyond Duke? Command of your own fleet?”

Cecil lowered his gaze, bowed slightly—not out of humility, but calculation. His voice was steady, but too smooth, like ice on glass.  

“There is only one reward I desire, Your Majesty. Your blessing… to marry Lady Marianne Abel of House Vere.”

A silence fell—so immediate it was deafening. Whispers slithered through the court like snakes. The Marquess of Vere, seated near the edge of the court, shifted uneasily. His face turned a ghostly shade. He hadn’t been told. Not yet.

And then came the voice of Crown Prince Philip.

He stepped forward from his father’s right side, silver-clad and sun-haired, handsome in a way that made his scowl appear noble rather than petty.  

“Father,” he said, tight-lipped. “Lady Marianne is—”

The king raised a hand, silencing him without turning.

“She is not yours, Philip,” the king said, sharp as steel. “Nor was she ever promised.”

A single breath. A pause. And then the king gave a small, bemused smile.  

“So be it. You shall have my blessing, Duke Lance. I’ll notify the Abel family at once.”

Philip’s jaw clenched, the prince’s fists curling at his sides. But he said nothing more.

And Cecil—Cecil only smiled, slow and unreadable. Not with relief, but satisfaction. As though the hunt had only just begun. Behind his storm-gray eyes, something flickered. Not joy. Not even love.

Possession.

And from that day, the rumors twisted like vines:  

That Philip and Marianne had shared secret letters, maybe more.  

That the Duke had chosen his prize not from affection, but obsession.  

And that Marianne Abel would not be asked. She would be claimed.

---

Marianne Abel did not cry when she was told of her engagement.

She did not scream.  

She did not plead.

She simply nodded, her pale lashes casting a faint shadow over tired eyes, and accepted the decree of her fate as if it had always been carved into the stone of her lineage. The daughter of the Marquess of Vere was no stranger to duty. But even duty had never felt so final.

The first time she laid eyes on Cecil Lance was beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Grand Chapel of Sovia, facing the priest with trembling fingers hidden in silken gloves.

He was already looking at her.

A tall man with broad shoulders, wrapped in ceremonial black and silver, his long light-blue hair tied neatly behind him. His face was all edges and precision, his silver eyes sharp enough to flay truth from pretense. He smiled as though they shared a secret. She only looked at him once—and then back to the altar.

“…You may kiss the bride.”

She flinched.

He stepped forward with slow grace, lifted her veil. His gloved fingers were careful as he tilted her chin up. His lips met hers, gentle but assured. She stiffened, her first kiss stolen in front of gods and nobles. She swayed, knees trembling—he steadied her without faltering. And then, without a word more, he took her hand and led her from the cathedral like a man returning home with a prized heirloom.

The carriage to Lance Manor was silent, save for the hum of magic threading through the wheels. He looked at her not like a stranger, but like a long-awaited dream made flesh.

“I heard your family calls you ‘Mer’? May I call you that?” he asked, tone soft, casual.

She kept her gaze on the window.  

“Of course. You're my husband.”

He smiled, satisfied. “That’s great. Thank you, Mer.”

She said nothing more.

---

The Lance estate was vast and quiet, lit with floating lanterns and rows of stone gargoyles perched like silent witnesses. A dozen maids and butlers greeted them with practiced bows, their eyes glancing but never lingering. She was taken to the master chamber—her chamber now.

They prepared her in silence. The robe they gave her shimmered faintly in the candlelight, nearly translucent. She sat on the edge of the bed in the immense room, arms wrapped tightly around herself, more shrine than bride.

The door creaked.

He entered, wearing a black silk robe that swept around him like liquid midnight. She stood instinctively.

He kissed her again. Not as soft this time.

One hand cradled the back of her head, the other found the curve of her waist. She flinched beneath the weight of his touch, pressing back lightly, uncertainly. But he was gentle—too gentle—as he laid her onto the bed, pulling at the sash of her robe, and then his.

She turned her face away, covering her eyes.

He took her hands, lowered them just enough to see her expression. He kissed her again—this time, hungry, reverent.

“Mer,” he whispered, “my wife…”

Her breath caught.  

That night, he worshipped her with quiet hunger. With the patience of a man who had dreamed this moment a thousand times in silence. Who needed no permission now that he had her name and ring.

And when dawn rose, she lay still beside him—wide-eyed, no longer a girl.

That night was the first.  

And the last.