Chapter 1: The Wedding Night

The heavy oaken door of the Bridal Chamber thudded shut behind Damien Blackthorn, sealing Isabella Voss within the gilded cage of Blackthorn Keep’s High Tower. 

The sound pulsed through the stone floor, vibrating up through the soles of Isabella’s silk slippers. It was a finality—the mechanical click of a trap. She remained standing by the heavy velvet drapes, her spine a column of obsidian, refusing to acknowledge the man who now shared her air. To her left, a silver-framed mirror offered a glimpse of a woman she barely recognized: a pale specter in ivory lace, her throat encased in a high collar of seed pearls that felt less like jewelry and more like a garrote.

Underneath the fine silk of her gloves, her wrists burned.

The hemomantic scars, fresh and weeping from the afternoon’s rituals, throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Every pulse of blood against the raw tissue was an exquisite agony. It was a touch inconvenient, the way the body insisted on reminding one of its fragility. She traced the edge of her left glove with a thumb, feeling the dampness of the fabric. If the Elders—if Reginald—knew that the "Unmarked Vessel" had already been etched by the very magic she was meant to suppress, the Peace Vow would be the least of her concerns.

A sharp, phantom lash of heat bloomed in her chest.

Isabella gasped, her hand flying to her heart. The Peace Vow. It sensed her internal dissent, the flicker of pure, unadulterated hatred she harbored for the man standing behind her. The vow didn’t merely bind the covens; it policed the spirit. *Submission is peace,* the ritual had whispered. But Isabella’s peace was a frozen lake, beneath which a dark tide churned.

"The silence in here is quite heavy, wouldn't you say?" 

Damien’s voice was a low, melodic rasp. It lacked the stilted formality of the wedding chapel, shedding the veneer of the dutiful groom for something far more predatory. Isabella didn't turn. She watched his reflection as he moved across the room with a discarded lethality, shedding his heavy fur cloak. 

"I find silence to be the only thing of value in this house," Isabella said, her voice a cool, melodic chime. "Pray, do not feel obligated to ruin it with your observations."

Damien chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering over a tombstone. He stepped into the light of the candelabra, his dark eyes fixed on the back of her neck. "A conquered trophy usually has more to say for herself. Or perhaps less. My kinsmen downstairs are placing bets on how long it takes for a Nightbloom witch to wither in a Blackthorn garden."

"Your kinsmen are as unimaginative as they are boisterous," she replied. She finally turned, her chin lifted to an angle that spoke of centuries of Voss pride, even as her insides felt like they were being restructured by the Vow’s invisible fire. "And I am no trophy, Damien. I am a signatory. There is a distinction, is there not?"

"A distinction written in your family's blood," Damien said, closing the distance between them. He was tall, his presence an atmospheric pressure that made the room feel smaller, the shadows longer. He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from the high lace of her collar. "You look as though you’re being strangled by your own dignity, Isabella. It’s a fascinating choice for a wedding night."

Isabella felt the fragmented panic beginning to claw at the base of her throat. *Blood, blood everywhere,* her mind whispered—a frantic echo of her mother’s final moments on the block, the red staining the white lilies of the courtyard. She forced the image down, locking it behind a "regal correction."

"My dignity is perfectly intact," she said, though her breath hitched as he leaned closer. "If you find my attire 'fascinating,' perhaps you should spend more time with your tailors and less with your taunts. It is... intolerable... to be scrutinized like a mare at auction."

"But you were auctioned," Damien reminded her, his voice dropping to a jagged silk. "Reginald traded you for the survival of your coven. A fair exchange, he thought. Voss assets for Blackthorn protection. And in exchange, I am owed a legacy."

His gaze dropped to her hands. Isabella’s thumb was digging into her wrist again, a tell she couldn't suppress. The silk of her glove was darkening—a tiny, crimson stain blooming like a crushed petal.

Damien’s eyes sharpened. The predatory curiosity flared into something more clinical, more dangerous. "You’re trembling. Is the Peace Vow so unkind to you, or is it the prospect of fulfilling your obligation?"

"The Treaty of Thorns mandates a union, not a performance," Isabella snapped. The pain in her chest spiked again, a white-hot needle. She felt the hemomantic power in her veins surge—a desperate, instinctive reaching for the Crimson Oath Lash to strike him back, to bind his tongue, to make him *stop.* 

A bead of blood squeezed from her hidden scar, soaking through the glove.

"Pray tell," she whispered, her voice fracturing as she stepped back, hitting the cold stone of the window embrasure. "How does one bind a heart with vows of crimson, only to watch it bleed defiance? You want a legacy? You want an heir? You have my name. You have my lands. Do not presume to have my comfort."

Damien didn't recoil at her outburst. Instead, he stepped into her space, his hand catching her wrist before she could hide it. His grip was firm, not cruel, but the heat of his palm against the damp silk made her stomach plunge.

"You're bleeding," he said. It wasn't a question.

"A scratch," she lied, the words coming out in a sharp, brittle fragment. "The lace... it is coarse. Blood. It is just... blood."

Damien looked at her then, through the mask of the tormentor. For a fleeting second, the mockery vanished, replaced by an intensity that wasn't quite protection but felt like a recognition. He looked at the glove, then up at her face, seeing the beads of sweat on her upper lip and the glassy defiance in her eyes. The Binding Ritual hummed between them—a low-frequency vibration that reminded them both they were no longer two separate entities, but two halves of a single, jagged whole.

"The Unmarked Vessel clause," Damien whispered, his thumb grazing the blood-stain. "If the Elders see this, Isabella, they won't see a bride. They’ll see a defect. A breach of contract."

"Then let them see it," she breathed, though the terror slammed into her ribs. "Let them see what your peace looks like."

Damien’s expression hardened, his thumb pressing firmly against the source of the leak, as if trying to stem the flow of her secrets. "I am many things, little witch, but I am not a fool. My father wants a harvest. Reginald wants a vacancy. I? I want to know why a woman who is supposed to be 'unmarked' is weeping red through her wedding finery."

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his breath a warm, terrifying contrast to the cold stone at her back. "Hide it better. Tomorrow, the scrutiny begins in earnest. If you cannot play the part of the pristine bride, I cannot ensure the 'protection' your coven sold you for."

He released her wrist abruptly, the loss of contact leaving her skin feeling strangely chilled. He turned toward the door, his shadow stretching long across the ornate rugs of the Bridal Chamber. He stopped at the threshold, not looking back.

"Try to sleep, Isabella. You look like a ghost, and I’ve never had much taste for the dead."

He stepped out, the door latching with a heavy, final thud. 

Isabella stood frozen, the silence of the room rushing back in to suffocate her. She slowly peeled back the silk glove, her breath hitching as the fabric tore away from the clotted blood. The scars were there—jagged, angry lines across her veins, the price of every oath she had ever kept. They were a violation of the treaty, a death sentence if discovered. 

She looked at the locket at her throat, her fingers trembling as she touched the cold gold. She had survived the annexation. She had survived the ritual. She would survive this night.

"It is only a vow," she whispered to the empty, opulent room, her voice shaking. "And vows are meant to be endured, is it not?"

As the echo of the latch settled into the stone, Isabella realized the true vow had only just begun to bleed.