The castle had never been so quiet. Not even the wind dared move through Veyrhold's walls on Binding Night—the ancient ritual that would seal the High Lord's seven alliances and mark Kaelira's fate forever.
She stood before the mirror, breath steady, heart wild. The gown they'd given her was a deep shade of crimson—not the bright red of blood, but the darker hue of memory. The fabric was etched with runes too old to read and too sharp to be decorative. Each one hummed softly when she touched them.
She wasn't sure if they were meant to protect her—or bind her soul. Behind her, Marek waited, tense.
"Once the blade leaves your hand," he said, "it's done. Strike at his throat. Not his chest. The heart of a vampire is stronger than steel."
"And if I can't do it?"
"Then he wins. And we lose you."
---
The Grand Rotunda, where the ceremony took place, looked nothing like the rest of the castle. It was alive—veins of glowing crystal wrapped around the ceiling like roots. A thousand candles floated in perfect stillness. At the center stood a black stone altar shaped like a circle broken by one crack—symbolizing unity and fracture. The brides entered one by one, in order of selection.
Kaelira was sixth. As she approached the center, she could feel the weight of eyes—nobles, clan leaders, rebels, ghosts. Everyone who mattered in this crumbling world.
And then there was Dorian. Clad in ceremonial armor made of obsidian and shadow, he stood before the altar like a monarch sculpted from dusk itself. He said nothing as she reached him. Just looked at her. And then, softly, offered his hand. She took it.
---
"By ancient pact," the priest intoned, "let the Sixth Bride be bound to the Blood Crown, in presence and promise."
Kaelira's hand tightened.
In her other hand, the blade hid in her sleeve, cool against her skin. The priest handed her a ceremonial chalice. "Drink."
Inside was wine, black and gleaming. She lifted it to her lips—and paused. For a second, she swore she saw fire reflected on the liquid's surface. A girl's face screaming in the flames. Her face.
She drank. Then passed the chalice to Dorian. He drank, too.
"Now, the offering," the priest said.
Kaelira turned toward Dorian. Her fingers slid beneath her sleeve. She felt the dagger.
This was it. Do it. Her fingers curled. His throat was exposed. She saw the exact spot where the blade should go. But then—he stepped forward and pressed his forehead to hers.
Not part of the ritual.
Not expected.
Whispers echoed around them. And he said—so quietly, only she could hear:
"I would rather you kill me for the truth… than bind yourself to me for a lie."
Her fingers trembled. The dagger fell. Clattered to the floor between them. The silence was absolute. Then someone screamed.
---
The final bride had arrived. But she wasn't human. Bride Seven stepped into the chamber like a storm given form—tall, cloaked, eyes glowing like molten gold. She threw back her hood. A hiss rippled through the crowd. Her skin was cracked obsidian. Her smile, all teeth.
A Shade. Born of darkness. Forbidden by treaty. Thought extinct. She spoke in a voice layered with echoes:
"The Binding is broken. The Blood Pact is a lie. And I've come to burn down your house of ash."
Dorian moved like lightning, stepping in front of Kaelira as the Shade raised her hand. The ground beneath the altar cracked open. Flames roared to life. And Kaelira heard the name again. Screamed by something old inside her chest.
"Anira."