# Chapter 1: The Crimson Binding

The High Dais of Blackthorn Keep loomed like a throne carved from petrified night, where Isabella Voss stood bound not by chains, but by vows that pulsed crimson beneath her skin. The air in the Great Hall was thick with the scent of old incense and the metallic tang of dried blood, a sensory reminder of the Binding Ritual that had just concluded. 

Isabella clamped her teeth together, her jaw aching from the effort of maintaining a mask of regal indifference. Beneath the intricate lace of her sleeves, her silk gloves were beginning to feel heavy, the fabric drinking the slow, rhythmic seep from the fresh hemomantic scars on her wrists. Each beat of her heart felt like a dull needle pressing into the meat of her forearms. Use of the magic carried a price, and today, for the sake of her people’s survival, she had paid it in full.

A sharp, internal sting—like a whip made of ice and fire—lashed across her ribs. It was the Peace Vow. Her mind had dared to flicker toward a thought of driving her ceremonial dagger through Lord Reginald’s throat, and the magic of the Treaty had corrected her instantly.

*Steady,* she told herself, the word a silent mantra. *Blood for peace. Silence for survival.*

“The Annexation is complete,” Lord Reginald Thorne announced, his voice a gravelly boom that echoed off the vaulted obsidian ceiling. He stood at the center of the dais, his hands clasped behind his back, looking less like a witness to a wedding and more like a general surveying a newly conquered province. “The Nightbloom assets—land, tithe, and bloodline—are hereby absorbed into the Blackthorn Coven. Let the records show the debt of the Treaty is settled.”

A ripple of derisive laughter rose from the gathered Blackthorn Court. Isabella didn’t need to look at them to feel their eyes; she could sense the weight of their gaze like carrion birds circling a fallen deer. To them, she was a trophy. A biological asset. A vessel to be filled and eventually discarded once the "unmarked" clause had been satisfied.

Isabella turned her head slightly, her gaze fixing on a point just above the crowd’s heads. “Pray, Lord Reginald,” she said, her voice a cool silver thread that cut through the murmurs. “Since the ledger is balanced and the assets are secured, might we dispense with the theatrics? The salt in the air is doing little for my complexion, and I find the smell of triumphant desperation somewhat... cloying, is it not?”

Reginald’s eyes narrowed, the skin around his ancient, acquisitive eyes crinkling. He didn't answer, but the look he gave her was one of cold calculation. She was a resource to be harvested, nothing more.

“Always so sharp, little thorn,” a voice murmured near her ear.

Isabella didn't flinch, though every instinct screamed at her to recoil. Damien Blackthorn stepped into her peripheral vision, his presence a predatory heat against the chilled stone of the Keep. He moved with a vitality that made the very shadows seem to dance in his wake. He didn’t look like a man who had just stood through a grueling three-hour magical bonding; he looked like a wolf who had just finished a casual stroll through a slaughterhouse.

“You’re dripping, Isabella,” Damien whispered, leaning closer until the scent of cedar and iron-rich wine clouded her senses. 

Her heart hammered against her ribs. *Blood blood everywhere.* The thought sparked in the back of her mind, a frantic, repetitive beat. *Blood blood everywhere.*

“I’m sure I haven't the slightest idea what you’re implying,” she replied, her voice steady even as she felt a fresh bead of warmth soak into the lace of her left glove. She tucked her hands more deeply into the folds of her midnight-silk skirts, tracing the line of a scar through the fabric. “Unless you are commenting on the lack of refinement in your own kitchens. I hear the help is notoriously clumsy with the wine.”

Damien’s lips curled into a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes—eyes that were currently scanning the subtle twitch of her shoulders. “The wine is fine. But your composure is fraying. I can smell the copper, my lady. It’s quite potent. One might even call it... an inconvenience?”

“A touch inconvenient, perhaps,” she conceded, her tone dripping with mock boredom. “But then, I find most things in this Keep to be so. Your company included.”

“And yet, we are bound.” Damien reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from her arm, not quite touching, yet exerting a pressure that made her skin crawl. “Tell me, Isabella: how does it feel? To have the Voss legacy reduced to a signature and a scream?”

The Peace Vow lashed her again. *Dissent is forbidden.* Her vision blurred for a second, the obsidian floor tilting. She forced it back, her regal mask snapping back into place with a frigid click.

“Pray tell, Damien,” she said, her eyes meeting his with the sharpness of a razor. “How does one bind a heart with vows of crimson, only to watch it bleed defiance? You have my name. You have the contract. But do not mistake the silence of the Nightbloom for the stillness of the dead.”

Damien’s smile widened, flashing a hint of canine teeth. He was intrigued. She could feel the curiosity radiating off him like a physical weight, a dismantling force that sought the cracks in her armor. He knew she was hiding the severity of the hemomancy. He knew she was bleeding beneath the silk.

“We shall see,” he said softly. “The night is long, and the Keep has a way of making even the most stubborn tongues... wag.”

Reginald stepped forward again, interrupting the private duel. “The court has seen enough. To the chambers. The ‘unmarked vessel’ clause requires verification by dawn, and I expect the first signs of a viable heir within the quarter. We will not have the Voss bloodline wasted on pride.”

Isabella felt the panic rise—a cold, oily tide. *Unmarked. Heir. Blood blood blood.* The words looped in her mind, a frantic internal prayer. If Reginald saw the scars, if he realized how much the hemomancy had already claimed of her skin, the Treaty could be declared void on the grounds of damaged goods. Or worse, he would accelerate his plans to dispose of her once the child was born.

She felt Damien’s hand settle on the small of her back. The touch was firm, possessive, and surprisingly warm. He steered her toward the exit of the High Dais, away from the derisive sneers of the court.

“You look as though you’re about to faint, wife,” he remarked, his voice loud enough only for her. “That would be quite the scandal. I’d have to carry you, and I’m far too tired for heroics.”

Isabella straightened her spine, the motion sending a fresh wave of agony through her wrist. “I shall manage my own weight, pray believe it. I have spent a lifetime carrying the burdens of my house. A few steps to a prison cell will hardly break me, is it not?”

“A prison cell?” Damien chuckled, a dark, rich sound that vibrated in the air between them. “Such a lack of imagination. It’s a bridal suite, Isabella. Complete with velvet, wine, and several very large, very locked doors.”

They moved through the corridors, the walls of Blackthorn Keep closing in like the ribcage of a giant beast. Every shadow seemed to hold a witness, every flickering torch a reminder of the eyes watching the vassal-bride. Isabella kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, her fingers obsessively tracing the vow-sealed locket she wore beneath her high collar, the cold metal a small anchor in the storm of her own terror.

Damien stopped in front of a pair of heavy oaken doors guarded by two silent, armored sentries. With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed them. 

“A moment, Isabella,” he said, turning to face her as the guards retreated. He took a step into her space, his predatory vitality overwhelming the narrow hallway. “The Bindings are done. The court is gone. Why don’t you show me what you’re hiding under those gloves?”

The Peace Vow hummed at the base of her skull, a warning. To refuse a direct request from the head of the house could be interpreted as dissent. 

“My hands are cold, Damien,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous silk. “And I find your sudden interest in my wardrobe to be quite tiresome. Must we begin our ‘happily ever after’ with a lesson in fashion?”

“I have no interest in fashion,” Damien said, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out and caught her right wrist. He didn't squeeze, but his thumb brushed over the spot where the lace was darkest, where the blood had begun to crust. “I have an interest in truth. You’re leaking, little witch. And if my father sees those scars, he won’t stop at the Annexation. He’ll cut the magic out of you himself to see how it works.”

Isabella pulled her arm back, a flash of genuine fury breaking through her mask. “Pray, do not pretend your concern is anything other than the preservation of your prize. You want a vessel. You want a legacy. You do not want a woman who is already half-hollowed out by the oaths of her ancestors.”

“Perhaps,” Damien said, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Or perhaps I simply dislike seeing good blood go to waste.”

He pushed the doors open, revealing a chamber draped in deep crimsons and heavy shadows. A massive bed dominated the room, its canopy carved with the thorny vines of the Blackthorn crest. It looked less like a place of rest and more like an altar.

Isabella stepped inside, the click of her heels on the stone floor sounding like a death knell. She felt the internal lash of the Peace Vow one last time as she crossed the threshold—a final reminder that she was no longer her own. 

She turned to face him, her chin tilted up in a final, defiant regal correction. “I shall survive this night, Damien. And the night after. I have the template of my mother’s death to guide me, and she was far stronger than any Blackthorn ever born.”

“Survival is a low bar, Isabella,” Damien said, stepping into the room and pulling the doors shut behind him. The heavy thud of the latch echoed through the chamber. 

**SCENE A**

Inside the suite, the silence was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against Isabella’s lungs. The space was cavernous, illuminated only by the dying embers in a hearth carved from the same black stone as the rest of the Keep. She walked toward the center of the room, her movements stiff, every muscle taut with the effort of not trembling. The hemomantic exhaustion was a living thing now, a grey fog rolling through her mind, threatening to extinguish her focus. She could feel the dampness of her gloves cooling, the silk beginning to stiffen as the blood dried. 

*Blood blood everywhere.* The thought was no longer a panic; it was a rhythmic pulse, a clock ticking down the seconds until her composure finally shattered. She reached for the silver locket at her throat, her fingers fumbling against the cold metal. It was a talisman of old oaths, a relic of the Nightbloom women who had come before her, each of whom had bled to keep their coven alive. Her mother had been the last, her execution a spectacle of broken vows and crimson spray. Isabella could almost see her now, standing in the shadows of this Blackthorn bedroom, a ghostly reminder of the price of failure. 

The Peace Vow hummed again, a low-frequency vibration that set her teeth on edge. It didn't lash her this time, but it lingered, a velvet leash that reminded her that even her silence was no longer hers to command. She looked at the bed, the "altar" where the Blackthorn heir was to be conceived. It was a mockery of every dream she had ever dared to whisper to the wind. To Reginald, she was a harvestable resource. To the court, a conquered trophy. To Damien... she didn't know what she was to Damien, and that was the most dangerous part of all. His intrigue was a dismantling force, a slow, methodical peeling away of her layers. 

I must not break, she thought. I must be the stone. I must be the ice. She took a deep breath, the scent of cedar and iron-rich wine—Damien’s scent—filling her throat. It was the scent of her captivity, the scent of the man who now held the key to her life and her death. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the darkness of the room swallow her whole. In the quiet, the sound of her own heartbeat was like a drum, steady and defiant, a drumbeat for a war that had only just begun.

**SCENE B**

Damien remained by the door, his silhouette a sharp-edged shadow against the dark wood. He didn't move to approach her, yet his presence filled the room as effectively as a flood. “You’re tracing that locket again,” he said, his voice cutting through her internal fog. “Is it a prayer, Isabella? Or a longing for a grave that hasn't been dug yet?”

Isabella turned, her mask of regal correction firmly in place, though her eyes were bright with a feverish exhaustion. “Pray, Damien, do you spend all your leisure time cataloging my nervous habits? I should think a man of your... vitality... would find better ways to occupy his mind. Or is the Blackthorn interest in the Voss bloodline so singular that even my jewelry demands your undivided attention?”

“Your jewelry is a trifle,” Damien replied, taking a slow step toward her. His movements were fluid, predatory, the grace of a man who had never known the weight of a leash. “It’s the woman beneath the metal that interests me. The one who bleeds while she insults her betters. The one who thinks she can hide a dying magic with a few yards of silk and a sharp tongue.”

“I have no betters in this room,” she snapped, her voice cracking for the briefest of seconds before she smoothed it over. “And the magic is not dying. It is merely... selective. It does not perform for the amusement of thieves who steal legacies through contracts and threats.”

Damien’s eyes flashed, a spark of genuine amusement dancing in the darkness. “Thieves? We are architects, Isabella. We are building a future from the ruins of your coven’s pride. You should thank us. Without this marriage, you’d be a memory in a shallow grave, not a queen in a velvet room.”

“A queen?” Isabella let out a short, sharp laugh that sounded like breaking glass. “Pray, do not insult us both. I am a vassal-bride, a biological asset, a vessel. Lord Reginald made that quite clear, is it not? I am here to produce a child and then vanish into the shadows of your history.”

Damien reached her then, stopping just a breath away. The heat from his body was an assault on her chilled skin. “My father sees resources. I see a challenge. He wants an heir, Isabella. I want to see if you’ll actually survive the process of giving him one.” He reached out, his hand hovering near her face, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to brush a stray hair from her forehead. “You speak of your mother’s death as a template. Is that what you want? To be a martyr for a dead coven?”

“I want to keep my blood where it belongs,” she whispered, her hyper-vigilance flaring as his hand moved closer. “And I want to see the Blackthorn name crawl into the dirt before I am through.”

The Peace Vow flared, a scorching pain that tore through her chest. She gasped, her knees buckling for a fraction of a second before she caught herself. Damien’s hand shot out, steadying her by the waist. The contact was electric, a jolt of unwanted warmth that made her vision swim. 

“Careful,” he murmured, his grip tightening. “The Vow doesn't like it when you dream of treason.”

**SCENE C**

He didn't let go, and for a moment, they stood locked in a silent struggle of wills. The Keep around them seemed to hold its breath, the very stones waiting for the first sign of a crack in their shared armor. Isabella’s hemomancy pulsed in her wrists, the fresh scars throbbing in time with the Peace Vow’s punishing heat. She looked up at him, her defiance a cold, hard thing in her eyes. 

“Release me,” she said, her voice a low command. “Unless you wish to add ‘clumsy guard’ to your list of roles.”

Damien looked at her for a long beat, his gaze searching her face for something she wasn't ready to give. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he withdrew his hand. He stepped back, the predatory smile returning to his lips. “As you wish, wife. But do not think the night ends with a simple command. The dawn comes early in Blackthorn Keep, and my father expects a report.”

“Then report that I am as difficult as you expected,” Isabella said, turning away from him toward the large, ornate window that looked out over the jagged peaks of the Blackthorn lands. “And tell him that the Voss bloodline is not so easily harvested.”

She didn't look back as she heard him move toward the secondary door of the suite, the one leading to his own personal quarters. The sound of the latch clicking shut felt like the final seal on her new life. 

The next twenty-four hours would be a test of endurance unlike any she had ever known. She had to clean the wounds on her wrists before the blood soaked through her gown and into the silk sheets. She had to find a way to mask the scent of hemomancy from the Elders who would undoubtedly come to inspect the "unmarked vessel" for any signs of magical fatigue. And most of all, she had to face Damien again, the man who saw too much and cared too little. 

Isabella slowly peeled the silk gloves from her hands. The fabric was stuck to her skin in places, the dried blood acting like a cruel adhesive. As the last of the lace came away, she looked down at the fresh, angry scars tracing the lines of her veins. They were beautiful in their own terrible way, a map of her defiance written in her own life force. 

*I will not break,* she whispered to the empty room. *Is it not?*

As the chamber doors sealed behind them, Damien's fingers brushed her gloved wrist, a predator's smile promising to unravel every hidden scar before dawn.