Chapter 1: Crimson Vows

The Peace Vow’s magical pulse thrummed through Isabella’s veins like a silken noose, tightening with every flicker of defiance she dared to entertain amid the derisive murmurs of the Blackthorn Court. It was a rhythmic, agonizing reminder of the blood already spilled and the blood yet to be owed. Under the heavy, suffocating weight of her ceremonial robes, each heartbeat felt like a hammer striking an anvil of glass.

I am a masterpiece of composure, she told herself, the internal mantra a thin shield against the predatory eyes of the High Dais. 

Isabella stood perfectly still, her spine a column of frozen iron. Beside her, Damien Blackthorn was a shadow given flesh—vital, predatory, and entirely too satisfied. The Binding Ritual had just concluded, the air still thick with the metallic tang of sanctified blood and the ozone of the Treaty of Thorns. Below the dais, the Blackthorn nobility gestured with fans and wine goblets, their laughter like the clicking of beetle wings. Across from them, the Nightbloom delegation remained a wall of stony silence, their faces as pale as the moon-flowers they were named for. They had traded her like a centerpiece to buy their own survival.

Her fingers, encased in white silk gloves, twitched. She felt the warmth there—the slow, rhythmic seep of blood from her wrists where the hemomantic scars had split during the final incantation. The silk was becoming heavy, the crimson bloom spreading across her palms, hidden only by the dark embroidery and the fact that she kept her hands clasped rigidly at her waist. 

*Pray, let the fabric hold,* she thought, the sarcasm of her own mind a bitter tonic. *It would be a touch inconvenient to bleed out before the toast.*

Lord Reginald Thorne stepped forward, his presence as commanding as a winter storm. He was the architect of this annexation, a man who viewed the world as a series of accounts to be settled and harvests to be reaped. He looked at Isabella not as a woman, nor even as a daughter of a rival house, but as a vessel.

"The union is sealed," Reginald announced, his voice carrying to the rafters of Blackthorn Keep. "The Voss bloodline and the Blackthorn legacy are now one. By the terms of the Treaty, the Nightbloom assets are formally annexed, and the Peace Vow remains the eternal warden of our harmony."

A ripple of applause broke out, sharp and mocking. 

Reginald turned his gaze toward Isabella, leaning in close enough for her to smell the aged parchment and dry cloves on his breath. "A historic day, Isabella. You bear the weight of your mother’s legacy quite well. Tell me, the Unmarked Vessel clause... you have remained diligent in your purity? No stray magic? No... internal complications?"

The internal lash of the Peace Vow flicked against her ribs, a warning sting. Isabella met his eyes with a gaze she had practiced in the mirrors of her mother’s vanity since the day of the execution.

"Lord Reginald," she said, her voice a liquid silk that betrayed nothing. "I am exactly what the Treaty requires. To suggest I would gamble with such a sacred obligation is a regal correction I find myself forced to offer. I am as unmarked as the dawn, is it not?"

Reginald’s eyes narrowed, searching the porcelain mask of her face for a crack. He didn’t care for her health; he cared only for the viability of the heir she was contracted to produce. Once that heir breathed, Isabella knew she would be a discarded rind.

"See that it stays so," Reginald whispered, his hand momentarily hovering near her arm. "The Elders have little patience for defective goods."

He moved away to greet a cluster of sycophants, leaving her in the gravitational pull of the man she now legally called husband.

Damien Blackthorn hadn't moved. He had been watching the exchange with a cruelly intrigued expression, his head tilted like a wolf considering which part of the deer to bite first. He stepped into her personal space, breaking the formal distance required by the ceremony.

"He looks at you like a prize mare," Damien murmured, his voice low and vibrating against her ear. "But I see the way you’re standing, Isabella. You’re favoring your left side. And your hands..." 

He glanced down at her clasped fingers. Isabella’s heart lunged against her ribs. 

"The excitement of the ceremony is merely... exhausting," she replied, her sentences shortening as the pain in her wrists flared. "The Vow demands much."

"The Vow demands peace," Damien corrected, his eyes dark with a dangerous intelligence. "It doesn't demand that you turn into a statue. Or is it that you’re hiding something beneath all that Voss pride? I suspect there’s a great deal of red lurking under that white silk."

"Pray, do shut up, Damien. Your concern is as hollow as your house’s honor."

He chuckled, a dark, rich sound that made the fine hairs on her neck stand up. "Honor is for those who aren't currently winning. You owe me an heir, Isabella. And you owe this house your total containment. If you’re broken, you’re of no use to me."

He reached out, his fingers grazing the fabric of her glove. Isabella flinched, the Peace Vow lashing her internally for the surge of loathing she felt. The pain was an explosive white light behind her eyes. 

*Blood, blood, everywhere,* her mind whispered, a panicked refrain that she crushed beneath a layer of icy resolve.

"I am quite whole," she managed, her voice tight. "Focus on your own obligations. Protection was promised. Containment is... expected."

"Oh, I will contain you," Damien said, his eyes flashing with a predatory vitality. "Starting tonight."

The court began to disperse, the grand feast moving to the lower halls, but Isabella knew she would not be attending. The protocol was ancient and rigid. The bride was to be escorted to the private chambers of the Blackthorn Spire, there to wait for the consummation that would begin the process of asset integration.

As the guards fell into formation and Reginald gave a final, triumphant nod, Damien took her arm. He didn't offer it; he claimed it. His grip was firm, just above the wrist, carefully avoiding the saturated silk of her gloves but asserting a terrifying proximity.

They walked through the vaulted corridors of the Keep, the walls adorned with the mounted skulls of things the Blackthorns had hunted to extinction. Every step was a fresh agony. The Peace Vow sensed her internal dissent—her hatred for the man beside her, her terror of the room they were approaching—and punished her for it. The lashes felt like searing wires wrapping around her heart.

She used her mother’s execution as a template. Her mother had stood on the pyre with that same regal tilt of the chin, even as the ropes bit into her skin and the fire began to climb. She hadn't screamed. She had simply existed until she didn't. 

*Survival is a performance,* Isabella thought. *And I am the finest actress the Nightbloom ever bred.*

They reached the doors of the primary suite—heavy oak reinforced with iron, etched with the Blackthorn sigil of a crown of thorns. The guards bowed and retreated, leaving her alone with the shadow-husband.

The silence of the hallway was worse than the derision of the court. It was heavy, expectant. 

Isabella stepped into the room, the scent of crushed lilies and cold stone greeting her. The fire in the hearth was high, casting long, dancing shadows across the massive bed. She stood by the window, looking out at the jagged peaks of the Blackthorn territories, her hands trembling despite her best efforts.

"You can stop the act now," Damien said, his voice closer than she expected. He had closed the door, the heavy thud of the bolt sounding like a guillotine blade falling.

Isabella didn't turn. "I don't know what you mean. The ceremony was a success. The treaty is secure. Is it not?"

"I mean the bleeding, Isabella. I smelled it the moment you stepped onto the Dais."

He was behind her now. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, a sharp contrast to the chill in her own bones. She tried to pull her hand away, to hide the wrist in the folds of her gown, but he was faster.

His hand closed around her gloved wrist, his grip iron-tight. Isabella gasped as the pressure forced more blood into the silk, the damp warmth finally becoming visible as a dark, wet stain on the white fabric.

Damien leaned down, his breath ghosting against her neck, his whisper slicing through her remaining defenses.

"Let us see what vows bleed beneath the silk, my bride."