# Chapter 1: Crimson Vows

The High Dais of Blackthorn Keep gleamed under torchlight veined with hemomantic runes, but beneath her blood-soaked silk 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—the smell of a Hemomancer who had recently drawn power. 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 gloved 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.

**SCENE A**

Isabella leaned against the cold masonry of the corridor long after the echoes of Damien’s footsteps had died away. The silence of Blackthorn Keep was not empty; it was a hungry, vibrating thing that seemed to pulse in time with her own failing heart. She looked down at her hands. The gloves were ruined beyond salvage, the silk now a stiff, blackened crimson where the blood had begun to dry. She felt a hysterical laugh bubble in her throat—*blood, blood everywhere*—but she suppressed it with the practiced ease of a woman who had watched her world burn without shedding a tear.

The Peace Vow was settling now, the active "lashing" receding into a dull, throbbing ache. It was no longer a whip; it was a collar. She could feel the magical boundaries of the spell tracing the perimeter of her awareness, a set of invisible iron bars that would punish any intent of escape or violence against her new "kin." Her mind drifted, despite her efforts, to the image of her mother. Elara Voss had stood on a similar dais, though her hands had been bound in iron rather than silk. She remember the way her mother had looked at her—not with fear, but with a terrifying, stoic demand. *Survive the oath, Isabella. The blood is the only thing they cannot truly own.*

But they did own it now. The Binding Contract was more than a legal document; it was a hemomantic siphon. She could feel her connection to the Nightbloom Coven being systematically dismantled, replaced by the heavy, predatory resonance of the Blackthorn line. It was as if her very soul was being re-indexed. She was no longer a daughter of the moon-wrought gardens; she was an annex of this stone-cold fortress. Every breath she took felt heavier, laden with the dust of centuries of Blackthorn conquests. She traced the locket at her throat, her fingers trembling. The silver was cold, but it felt like a burning coal against her skin. It was the only thing that remained "un-annexed," a small, jagged piece of herself that she had managed to tuck away beneath the lace and the lies.

**SCENE B**

The North Tower was a spire of isolation, accessible only by a winding stair that seemed designed to exhaust anyone who wasn't born to the altitude. When Isabella finally reached the chamber doors, she found two sentries standing guard—men with the pale, washed-out eyes of low-tier vampires, their loyalty bought and sealed with Blackthorn draughts. They did not bow. They simply stepped aside, their silent derision a reminder of her status.

Inside, the room was a masterpiece of cold opulence. It was filled with heavy velvet hangings in the Blackthorn colors—charcoal and deep violet—and a bed that looked more like a funerary bier than a place of rest. Sitting on a velvet settee near the hearth was a figure Isabella recognized with a jolt of renewed vigilance.

"You look like a ghost that has forgotten how to haunt, Isabella," a voice said.

It was Lady Elara’s former protégé, now a turncoat advisor to Reginald, named Julian. He didn't rise, instead swirling a glass of dark liquid that smelled faintly of rosemary and copper.

"Pray, Julian, do you spend all your time lurking in the private chambers of hostages? Or is this a new duty assigned by the Elders?" Isabella said, her voice regaining its melodic, cutting edge. She walked past him to the washbasin, careful to keep her ruined gloves hidden in the folds of her skirt.

"I am here to ensure the transition is smooth," Julian replied, his eyes following her every move. "Reginald is concerned about your... vitality. He noted the way you leaned on the young Lord during the ritual."

"I leaned on no one," Isabella snapped, a regal correction that made the air in the room crackle. "The ritual was merely... efficient. Hemomancy of that scale is meant to be felt, is it not?"

"It is meant to be endured," Julian corrected. He stood up, approaching her with a gliding grace. "The Blackthorns do not value endurance for its own sake, Isabella. They value results. If you cannot provide the heir they require, or if your blood proves too thinning for their lineage, they will not keep you in a tower. They will return you to the earth, just as they did your mother."

Isabella turned to him, her eyes flashing with a sudden, icy fire. "My mother died for a vow she chose to break. I am here because of a vow I chose to keep. Do not mistake my compliance for weakness, Julian. I am a Voss. We thrive in the dark. Now, pray leave me. I have a wedding night to survive, and your presence is becoming... intolerable."

Julian smiled, a thin, paper-cut of a gesture. "As you wish, my Lady Blackthorn. Sleep well. If you can."

**SCENE C**

After Julian left, the chamber fell into a suffocating quiet. Isabella moved to the basin and finally peeled away the gloves. They tore at the scabs on her wrists, drawing fresh beads of crimson that rolled down into the water, clouding it like wine in a carafe. She washed her wounds with a grim, methodical focus, watching as the runes etched into her skin pulsed with a faint, dying light. 

She spent the next few hours in a state of hyper-vigilance, listening to the sounds of the keep. The distant revelry of the court downstairs was a muffled roar, a celebration of their victory and her subjugation. She watched the moon climb toward the zenith through the narrow slit of the tower window. Her mind worked tirelessly, cataloging every exit, every guard rotation she had seen, every weakness in the Blackthorn's imperial facade. She was a prisoner, yes, but she was a predator's daughter. 

As the candle flickered low, a shadow crossed the threshold of the outer room. Isabella didn't need to look to know who it was. The air itself seemed to tighten, the metallic tang of his presence filling the space before he even spoke.

"The water is cold, Isabella," Damien said from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, his coat shed, his shirt open at the throat to reveal the pale, hard lines of his chest. He looked less like a groom and more like a jailer coming to check the locks.

"I prefer the cold," she replied without turning. She was wearing a thin dressing gown of white silk, her neck exposed, her wrists bare and raw. "It keeps the senses sharp. Is it not why you Blackthorns live in a tomb of stone?"

Damien walked into the room, his footsteps silent on the rugs. He stopped just behind her, his reflection appearing in the dark glass of the window. He didn't touch her, but the heat radiating from him was a provocation.

"I came to see if you had finished leaking," he murmured. 

"I am functional," she said, her voice a fragment of glass. 

"Functional is a boring word for a woman who manages to defy an Elder to his face while her soul is being rearranged," Damien said. He reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder. "The night is long, Isabella. And the Vow is very, very patient."

He let his hand drop, his fingers brushing the silk of her sleeve. 

Damien’s hand on her scarred wrist (glove piercing), whispering a promise that blurs torment and temptation, as Peace Vow pulses—leaving survival UNRESOLVED.