Chapter 1: Crimson Vows

The High Dais of Blackthorn Keep gleamed under torchlight veined with hemomantic runes, but beneath her gloves, Isabella Voss felt only the insistent lash of the Peace Vow, demanding her silence. It was a rhythmic, searing pulse that radiated from her sternum to her throat, a phantom whip of thorns that tightened every time her mind strayed toward thoughts of rebellion. To the gathered court of the Blackthorn Coven, she was a statue of ivory and midnight lace. To herself, she was a vessel under high pressure, leaking from the seams.

She stood perfectly still, her chin tilted at the precise angle of a woman who was a sovereign in her own right, even as she was being bartered like a border province. The air in the Great Hall was thick with the scent of ozone and old, iron-rich dust. Below the dais, the Blackthorn nobility watched with eyes that were cold, hungry, and fundamentally derisive. They did not see a bride; they saw a trophy of the Nightbloom Coven, a conquered witch whose bloodlines were being tapped for their own enrichment.

“The alignment is perfect,” Lord Reginald Thorne murmured, his voice a dry rasp that carried across the hushed hall. He stood to her left, his presence like a looming shadow. He peered at Isabella through spectacles that seemed to magnify his clinical greed. “The lineage of Voss is ancient, though notoriously... unstable. We shall see if the Blackthorn soil can tame such wild growth.”

Isabella felt a warm, sickening dampness spread further across her palms. The silk of her gloves was already saturated, the deep crimson fabric hiding the fact that her own skin was weeping. The ritual of the Peace Vow, combined with the stress of the morning’s preparations, had reopened the scars on her wrists—the etchings of previous oaths that had been the price of her mother’s life and her own temporary safety. Each drop of blood she lost was a word of her family’s history being erased.

“Pray tell, Lord Reginald,” Isabella said, her voice a calm, melodic chime that betrayed none of the fire in her lungs, “does the Blackthorn Coven always treat its guests with such clinical fascination? Or is this scrutiny reserved solely for those you fear might still possess a spine?”

Reginald’s eyes narrowed. “A vessel must be undamaged to hold the weight of our future, Isabella. The contract specifies an ‘unmarked vessel’ for the production of the heir. We would be remiss if we did not ensure the quality of the... acquisition.”

Isabella’s hand moved instinctively to the lace at her throat, her fingers brushing the Vow-Sealed Locket hidden beneath her collar. It was the only thing she had left of her mother—a small, silver talisman that vibrated with a faint, ghostly resonance. She traced the metal, using the small sharp edge of the latch to ground herself.

“I assure you, my Lord, my ‘marks’ are entirely internal,” she replied, her tone sharpening into a regal correction. “The Nightbloom do not break under pressure; we merely refine. Is that not what your archives suggest? Or have the Blackthorns forgotten how to read anything other than ledger books and execution warrants?”

A ripple of low-muttered insults rose from the court below. *A conquered bird still chirps,* one voice whispered. *She will learn the silence of the grave soon enough,* laughed another.

Reginald didn’t answer. His attention shifted toward the heavy oak doors at the far end of the Great Hall. The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. The derisive murmurs died, replaced by a heavy, expectant tension that made the hair on Isabella’s neck stand up.

Damien Blackthorn entered with the stride of a man who owned the shadows he walked through. He did not wear the ceremonial robes of his station; instead, he wore charcoal-hued leather and silk that clung to a frame built for violence. There was a predatory vitality to him that made the ancient stone of the keep feel fragile. His eyes, dark and flicking with a cruel sort of amusement, locked onto Isabella’s immediately.

He bypassed the traditional path of the procession, cutting a direct line through the center of the hall. He ascended the dais with a grace that felt like a threat.

“The vassal-bride looks pale, Reginald,” Damien said, his voice a silken menace that seemed to vibrate in Isabella’s very marrow. He didn't look at the Elder; he kept his gaze on Isabella’s face, tracing the line of her jaw with the intensity of a man memorizing a weakness. “Has the Peace Vow been biting? Or is she simply overwhelmed by the... magnificence of her new home?”

“She is composed,” Reginald said, though he stepped back, yielding the space to Damien. “The ritual is ready. The binding must be completed before the moon hits its zenith.”

Damien stepped closer to Isabella, encroaching on her personal space until she could smell the scent of cedarwood and a faint, metallic tang. He leaned down, his lips inches from her ear.

“You’re bleeding,” he whispered, a sound meant only for her.

Isabella’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. “A touch inconvenient, perhaps. But hardly your concern.”

“Actually, it is my only concern,” Damien replied, his eyes dropping to her hands. He noticed the way the silk clung too tightly, the way a dark stain was beginning to creep toward her lace cuffs. “To the Elders, you are a vessel. To me... you are a puzzle. And you are currently leaking pieces all over the floor.”

“Pray, do shut up and finish the theater,” Isabella snapped, her composure flickering for the briefest second. She tried to pull her hand away, but he was faster.

Damien caught her wrist. He didn't squeeze, but the contact was a shock. Through the silk, he felt the heat of her skin—and the wetness. His thumb brushed over the hidden scars beneath the fabric, a slow, deliberate motion that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated terror through her. He knew. He could feel the jagged lines of her defiance.

“The Binding Contract,” Reginald announced, oblivious to the silent war on the dais.

A slab of obsidian was brought forward, the Hemomantic artifact pulsing with a dull, red light. It was etched with the legalities of her annexation—the terms of the peace, the transfer of Nightbloom assets, and the requirement of an heir. It was a tombstone for her freedom.

“Place your hands upon the stone,” Reginald commanded.

Damien didn't let go of her wrist. Instead, he guided her hand toward the obsidian, his own hand covering hers. As their palms touched the cold stone, the runes roared to life. 

The pain was instantaneous. It wasn't the sharp lash of the Peace Vow, but a heavy, dragging weight—a sensation of chains being tightened around her soul and anchored to the Blackthorn line. Isabella’s breath hitched. The exhaustion she had been fighting rose up like a tide, threatened to pull her under. 

*Blood. Blood everywhere,* a voice panicked in the back of her mind. *The gloves won't hold it. The stone is drinking me.*

She gritted her teeth, refusing to collapse. She looked directly at Damien, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of hatred and forced composure. “Is this... meaningful enough for you?” she gasped. “Or should I... bleed a little faster for the court’s... entertainment?”

Damien’s expression shifted. The mocking light in his eyes vanished, replaced by something dark and unreadable. He felt the tremor in her arm, the way her magic was fraying under the strain of the Peace Vow’s punishment. He leaned in again, his grip tightening just enough to stabilize her.

“Hold it together, Isabella,” he hissed. “If you fall now, Reginald will take more than just your name. He will take your mind to find out why you’re broken.”

“I am not... broken,” she whispered back, her vision blurring at the edges. “I am refined. Is it not... exactly what you wanted?”

The runes flared one last time, a blinding crimson flash that seared the contract into the spiritual fabric of their lives. Isabella felt the finality of it—the closing of a trap. She was no longer Isabella of the Nightbloom. She was a Blackthorn asset. The transition was complete. 

The court erupted into polite, predatory applause. To them, the war was over. To Isabella, the real siege was just beginning.

Reginald looked satisfied. “The union is sealed. The bride will be escorted to the North Tower to prepare for the night. The heir is the next obligation.”

Damien finally released her hand. Isabella’s arm dropped to her side, leaden and cold. She could feel the blood dripping from her fingertips inside the gloves, pooling in the tips of the silk. She needed to leave before the stains became visible to the Elders.

“Go,” Damien said, his voice returning to its silken, public mask. “The transition has been... taxing for my bride.”

Isabella turned without a word, her movements stiff and regal as she descended the dais. She didn't look back, but she felt Damien’s gaze on her spine like a physical weight. She walked through the derisive glances of the court, her head high, the Vow-Sealed Locket burning against her skin.

She reached the threshold of the Great Hall, her sanctuary of the North Tower only a few hundred yards of cold stone away. But as she stepped into the shadows of the corridor, a hand shot out and caught her by the shoulder, spinning her around.

It was Damien. He had moved with a speed that defied the heavy atmosphere of the keep. He shoved her back against the tapestry-lined wall, his body a barrier of heat and shadow.

He didn't speak. Instead, he reached down and grabbed her right hand. Before she could protest, he peeled back the edge of her silk glove.

The lace was ruined, soaked through with fresh, bright blood that welled from the jagged, glowing scars on her wrists. The Peace Vow hissed in her mind, punishing her for even thinking of striking him. 

Damien looked at the wounds, his thumb hovering just above a particularly deep mark that looked like a crown of thorns. He looked up at her, his eyes dark with a terrifying intensity. 

“A vessel with no marks,” he quoted, his voice a low growl. “You’ve lied to my father. You’ve lied to the Vow. You’re a walking blasphemy of blood magic, Isabella.”

“And what will you do?” she spat, her facade finally cracking as she leaned her head back against the stone. “Turn me in? Execute me like my mother? Pray, do it now and save us both the tedium of a wedding night.”

Damien’s hand shifted. He didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers slid up to her palm, his touch ghosting over the open wounds. He leaned in, his breath warm against her cold skin.

“No,” he whispered, a promise that sent a different kind of shiver through her. “I think I’ll keep your secrets. But every drop you bleed in this house belongs to me now. This isn't a marriage, Isabella. It’s a containment. And I intend to see exactly how much pressure you can take before you finally... shatter.”

He pressed his thumb directly into the center of her weeping scar. Isabella gasped, the pain and the strange, dark intimacy of the gesture forcing her eyes shut. The Peace Vow pulsed one final, agonizing time, leaving her gasping in the dark.

“Survival is a messy business, is it not?” Damien murmured, his face inches from hers. 

He let go of her hand, leaving the blood smeared across his own skin, and walked away into the shadows of the hall, leaving Isabella alone with the silence of the keep and the terrifying realization that her nightmare had only just begun.