The bridal veil felt more like a shroud.
Selene Armitage stood before the gilded mirror, her breath shallow beneath layers of ivory lace. The dress, silk imported from the Eastern Isles, stitched with silver thread, clung to her like a prison. The corset pressed against her ribs, not as tightly as the weight on her chest. Each stitch, each jewel sewn into the hem whispered betrayal.
She did not weep. Selene had not wept since they brought Thorne's blood-soaked crest to her doorstep six months ago.
Her maid, Greta, hovered nervously behind her. "My lady… You look beautiful."
Selene met Greta's reflection in the mirror. "Do I look like a widow marrying her brother's killer?"
Greta flinched. "I—I didn't mean—"
"Leave me." Selene turned away from the mirror. "Now."
The maid scurried out, skirts brushing the marble tiles.
Silence fell.
Selene's fingers grazed the carved pendant hanging from her throat. Her late brother, Thorne's last gift. An obsidian crescent moon wrapped in vines of gold. He had laughed when he gave it to her.
"You've always been the moon to my sun, Sel. Keep this. If anything happens to me, promise you'll never forget."
She hadn't forgotten. She would never forget.
And yet, in moments, she would bind herself to Damien Virelith, a man she should hate with every shard of her soul.
The doors of the ceremonial hall groaned open, revealing a corridor lined with crimson banners and golden braziers. Court musicians played a mournful hymn, its melody like a dirge wrapped in celebration.
Selene's steps echoed as she approached the hall. Her eyes fell on the guests—dukes, barons, foreign envoys, watching her like hawks circling a wounded dove.
She met their stares with steel in hers.
She would not let them see fear. Not for herself, and certainly not for Liora.
A small hand slipped into hers.
"Aunt Selene?" the girl whispered. Dressed in violet lace and clutching a rose, eight-year-old Liora looked up at her with eyes too old for her age.
Selene knelt, adjusting the ribbon in the girl's curls.
"Are you alright, my little dove?"
Liora nodded. "Is he... kind?"
Selene's smile was a lie, but it was gentle. "He will protect you. That is all that matters."
She pressed a kiss to the girl's forehead and nodded to the waiting steward.
The music swelled.
The ceremony took place before the Sunfire Altar, a symbol of unity and divine favor. At its foot stood Damien Virelith, tall and severe in obsidian robes. A silver sword rested at his hip, a weapon worn even to his wedding.
His face was as if carved from stone: sharp jaw, pale eyes, expression unreadable. His raven-black hair was bound at the nape, and his gloved hands were clasped behind his back as though bored.
Selene reached him and took her place by his side.
The High Seer raised his hands, voice echoing.
"By flame and stone, sky and sea, do you come here freely to bind your lives?"
Selene's lips barely moved. "I do."
Damien's answer was smoother, colder. "I do."
The Seer brought forth the ceremonial dagger, a relic. Both bride and groom were to cut their palms and let their blood drip onto a shared oath stone, a symbol of joined destinies.
Selene took the blade. Without flinching, she sliced across her palm and held it over the stone. Blood, red and glimmering, dripped.
Damien took the dagger next. But as he cut, his eyes never left hers.
"I do not regret this," he said softly, so no one else would hear. "And in time, neither will you."
Selene's blood turned to ice.
The ceremony concluded with applause, perfunctory and hollow. Wine was poured. Musicians played livelier tunes now, but few danced.
Selene and Damien stood apart from the revelry, watching the gathering with distant interest.
She sipped from her goblet, tasting nothing from it.
He studied her. "You haven't asked me why."
"Why did you agree to marry the sister of the man you supposedly murdered?" she said, eyes forward. "I assumed the reasons were political."
"You assume too little." He tilted his head. "You believe I killed Thorne?"
"I believe he is dead, and you rose in rank the moment he fell."
"Convenient. But not true."
Selene turned to him. "Then who did?"
Damien's pale gaze darkened. "That's what I intend to find out with or without your cooperation."
Her heart skipped. "You're saying you want justice?"
"I'm saying we have a common enemy. I just married his sister."
Later that night, the newlyweds retired to Virelith Manor, a towering fortress nestled in the hills beyond the capital.
The bridal chamber was vast, cold, and as elegant as a tomb. Moonlight poured in from the stained-glass windows. A fire crackled, but warmth never touched Selene's skin.
Damien removed his cloak and sat across from her in silence.
"I made no demands of you," he said. "This is a marriage in name. What you do, who you see, matters little to me so long as the girl is safe."
Selene swallowed. "And if I investigate Thorne's death?"
Damien looked at her then, something unreadable in his eyes.
"I expect it."
Hours later, Selene sat by the window, still in her wedding dress, cradling a journal. It was Thorne's.
She had found it tucked beneath a false bottom in his study weeks after his funeral.
Only one passage was legible, written hastily in smudged ink:
"They know. I've gone too far. If anything happens to me, protect Liora. Trust no one at court, not even Elias."
Her breath caught.
Elias.
Thorne's closest friend. Her former betrothed. Now, sworn to Damien's service.
She looked up at the moon.
This marriage may have been a pact with the devil, but the devil might be the only one with the key to the truth.