The Crimson Spires towered above the darkened land like monstrous fangs tearing into the bleeding sky. From the tallest turret of the Sangrelle Covenant, Princess Saphira D'Noir stood poised before an obsidian mirror, her gown of living silk clinging to her like a second skin. The fabric shimmered crimson under the flicker of candlelight, whispering as it moved, as if alive. Her eyes, twin embers of violet and flame, bore into her reflection without emotion.
Tonight, she would be married—not by love, but by blood.
Behind her, Queen Virelle D'Noir paced in slow, deliberate circles. The Queen's presence was like ice creeping across the skin: regal, elegant, and utterly merciless.
"You look every bit the queen you were bred to become," Virelle said, her voice a silken dagger. "Let's hope you don't die like one."
Saphira's jaw tensed. She adjusted the high collar of her gown and replied coolly, "He will kneel before me."
"Or break you," Virelle murmured, her gaze settling like a stormcloud. "Half-bloods are unpredictable."
A knock echoed through the marble chamber. Heavy, deliberate.
"Enter," the Queen commanded.
Two royal guards opened the double doors. Commander Kael Ravyn strode in, his presence commanding immediate silence. Dressed in weather-beaten armor bearing gashes and burns from the battlefield, Kael carried the scent of rain, ash, and blood. His midnight hair was wet, swept back from a face that was all sharp edges and scars. His eyes—cold silver split with shards of black—locked onto Saphira like a predator sighting prey.
She hadn't expected him to be handsome.
He was supposed to be a savage, a mutt, a symbol of the rebellion's desperation. But there he stood, statuesque and radiating deadly restraint.
"So," Kael said, gaze trailing the length of her body. "This is the peace we bleed for? A silk-wrapped dagger?"
Saphira's smile was knife-thin. "And you're the mongrel we chained with a crown."
A flicker of something dark twisted his lips. Not anger. Amusement.
"Charming," he said.
"Romantic," the Queen deadpanned. "Shall we begin?"
The chamber swelled with nobles and soldiers, the blood of Sangrelle nobility on one side, the hardened Ravynborne warriors on the other. Magic pulsed in the air tense, volatile.
A high priest in crimson and bone stepped forward, chanting ancient verses that coiled like smoke. The altar had been prepared in the center of the room, adorned with bloodfire candles and a chalice carved from the skull of a slain prophet. Runes glowed faintly beneath it.
Kael approached first, his gauntlet falling to reveal a scarred palm. The priest sliced it with a dagger of dragon bone. He didn't flinch.
Saphira stepped forward. Her hand trembled, not from fear, but rage. The priest hesitated, sensing it. She narrowed her eyes.
"Do it," she hissed.
The blade bit deep. Her blood was thick, dark, noble. It mingled with Kael's in the chalice, and the room dimmed as if the world held its breath.
The priest lifted the cup, voice booming: "By ancient law and sacred blood, let the bond be sealed. Let their fate be one."
They drank together.
Fire lanced through Saphira's veins. Her knees nearly buckled. Something ancient awoke in her—feral, electric. Her heartbeat throbbed in places where it should not. Her senses sharpened until she could hear Kael breathing, feel the heat of his body without touching.
The runes burst into light. A violent wind swept the hall. They were bound.
Kael stepped forward, his voice a low growl. "You belong to me now."
Saphira met him with a smirk. "Only in war, Commander. Never in bed."
Yet the words felt like smoke. Her skin still burned from where their blood had mixed. Her fangs ached. Her body knew what her mind refused to admit.
Kael's eyes darkened. "We'll see."
From behind a pillar, Elira D'Noir watched with narrowed eyes. Her older sister's beauty, her power, her throne, it all should have been hers. And now this half-blood brute. The jealousy in her heart twisted into something darker.
She whispered to herself, "Soon."
The grand hall was transformed into a banquet of uneasy celebration. Gilded goblets spilled with thick bloodwine. The music was haunting and slow. Dancers moved like shadows along the walls.
Saphira sat stiffly at the high table, Kael at her side. Every time she turned her head, his presence unsettled her.
He reached for her goblet before she could.
"Testing for poison?" she asked.
"Ensuring survival," he replied, sipping. "You think you're the only one they want dead?"
"Touché."
Their banter was a duel of barbed glances and layered meaning.
"You're staring again," she said.
"You're tempting," he murmured. "That's dangerous."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with heat.
Later, in her private chambers, Saphira peeled off her ceremonial gown and stepped into a steaming bath scented with bloodrose petals. Her skin still tingled from the ritual. Her lips remembered the heat of the chalice and the hunger in Kael's eyes.
She submerged herself fully, hoping the water would cool her. But the fire inside only grew.
Kael stood alone atop a tower balcony, the storm-wracked horizon reflecting in his silver eyes. His men were celebrating in the Ravynborne camp below, but he couldn't join them. Peace was a myth. This union was a lie. But the feel of her blood on his tongue as it was real. And it haunted him. He closed his eyes, expecting silence but he heard her name in the wind.
Far below the Crimson Spires, in the forbidden catacombs, Elira stood before a cracked altar. She lit a black candle and whispered forgotten spells. Shadows coalesced around her. The Veilhunters had heard her call.
"It begins," she said. "Let the blood queen fall. Let them all fall."