Chapter 1 — The Crimson Vow

The bridal chamber smelled of iron and gardenias—a vicious marriage of blood and perfume that made my hidden scars ache with memory. 

I stood by the window of the High Tower, my spine a rigid column of Northern basalt. Outside, the jagged peaks of the Blackthorn territories pierced a bruised purple sky, but I did not look at the view. I looked at my hands. They were encased in white silk, the fabric so pristine it seemed to glow in the dying hearth-light. Beneath that silk, my wrists pulsated with a rhythmic, searing heat. The wounds weren’t fresh—not in the physical sense—but the hemomancy that had carved them never truly slept.

A sharp, silver needle of pain lanced through my chest. I gasped, my hand flying to my throat. 

*The Peace Vow.*

It was the invisible tether connecting my heartbeat to the Treaty of Thorns. Every time my mind strayed toward dissent, every time I imagined plunging a glass shard into the jugular of the man I was sworn to wed, the magic punished me. It was a reminder that I was no longer a person; I was a bridge of meat and bone spanning a chasm of ancestral hatred.

"Regal correction," I whispered, the words a ghost of my mother’s voice. "A Voss woman does not bleed. She merely permits the world to see her color."

I remembered the way my mother had knelt before the executioner’s block, her neck bared, her expression so serene it was insulting to her murderers. She had survived her life by becoming a statue. I would survive this night by becoming a shadow.

The heavy oak doors groaned on their hinges. I did not turn. I did not give him the satisfaction of a flinch.

"Tragedy becomes you, Isabella," a voice drawled. It was a rich, dark baritone that felt like velvet pulled over a blade. "But pray, do try to look less like a martyr. It ruins the aesthetic of the room."

Damien Blackthorn. My husband. My jailer.

I felt his presence before I saw him. He didn’t walk so much as reclaim the space he moved through. He circled me, his footsteps silent on the stone floor, his predatory vitality a stark contrast to the stagnant air of the chamber. When he finally stepped into my peripheral vision, he was exactly as I remembered from the signing: dark hair swept back from a face of cruel, aristocratic angles, and eyes that held the terrifying clarity of a hawk’s.

"The festivities are over, Damien," I said, my voice steady, though each syllable felt like swallowing glass. "The Lords have had their wine, the Binding Ritual is sealed. Must we continue the performance?"

"Performance?" He stopped just behind me. I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "I thought we were just getting to the interesting part. The Treaty of Thorns is quite specific about the wedding night, is it not?"

"The Treaty demands a legal union and an heir," I corrected, turning slowly to face him. I kept my chin high, my hands folded demurely at my waist. "It does not demand conversation. Pray, do proceed with whatever duty you feel is most pressing."

Damien chuckled—a low, dangerous sound. He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from my cheek, before he instead traced the lace of my high collar. "A touch inconvenient, this frostiness of yours. My father, Lord Reginald, was quite insistent on the 'Unmarked Vessel' clause. He has a certain... obsession with purity. He believes the Voss bloodline is only valuable if the vessel is untainted by the very magic that makes it strong."

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The scars beneath my silk gloves began to weep. I could feel the dampness starting to soak into the lining. If he saw the etchings—the deep, jagged symbols of forbidden hemomancy—it would be a violation of the Treaty. It would give the Blackthorns the right to execute me as a heretic and seize my coven’s lands without a word of protest.

"I am exactly what the scroll defines," I said, my voice dropping to a wintry whisper.

"Are you?" Damien’s eyes dropped to my hands. His gaze stayed there, heavy and calculating. "Then why do you wear gloves to bed, Isabella? Is it a Nightbloom fashion I’m unfamiliar with, or are you hiding something my father would find... distasteful?"

"My hands are cold," I replied. "And your hospitality is lacking."

"A regal correction, as always." He stepped closer, invading my personal space until I was forced to look up at him. "But I find myself curious. The Peace Vow is humming tonight, isn’t it? I can see it in the way you hold your breath. It lashes you whenever you think of defying me."

He reached down and took my right hand. I tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron wrapped in silk. 

"Take them off," he commanded.

"Pray, do tell me what exactly the Treaty demands tonight," I snapped, my composure fraying. "Does it require you to play the part of a common thief, searching for flaws in a prize you’ve already stolen?"

The Peace Vow flared in response to my anger. A white-hot bolt of agony shot through my spine, threatening to buckle my knees. I gasped, my body trembling, but I refused to fall. I stared into his eyes, my teeth gritted until I tasted copper.

Damien’s expression shifted. The mockery didn’t vanish, but it was joined by something else—a sharp, piercing interest. He didn't let go of my hand. Instead, his thumb brushed over the silk covering my wrist, right where the deepest scar lay.

"You’re fighting it," he murmured, his voice losing its edge. "The Vow is trying to break you, and you’re standing there insulting me instead of screaming. How... fascinating."

"I do not scream for Blackthorns," I bit out.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't." He released my hand, but he didn't move away. He began to pace again, a wolf measuring the dimensions of a new cage. "Let us make a wager, little bird. My father wants his Unmarked Vessel tonight. He wants me to verify the goods and begin the process of securing his 'harvest.' But I find the idea of a forced inspection... tedious."

I watched him, wary. "What are you proposing?"

"A game of shadows," Damien said, stopping by the hearth. He watched the flames dance in his dark eyes. "I will give you three nights. Three nights to play the part of the dutiful bride. Three nights to convince me that there is nothing beneath those gloves but pale skin. If, by the end of the third night, you haven't revealed your secrets to me voluntarily, I will strip them from you myself. And believe me, Isabella, I am much less gentle than the Vow."

"And what do I gain from this 'game'?"

"Time," he said simply. "Time to pray. Time to think. Perhaps even time to realize that I am the only thing standing between you and my father’s 'sanctioned' interrogation."

He walked toward the door, his predatory grace making the heavy stones of the tower seem to lean in his wake. At the threshold, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.

"Do try to rest," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate promise. "Tomorrow, I will not be so courteous. I expect a wife who can at least pretend she doesn't want to murder me. It makes the lie so much more palatable."

The door clicked shut, the heavy bolt sliding into place from the outside.

I was alone. 

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, my legs finally giving way. I sank to the rug, my chest heaving as the Peace Vow’s aftershocks rumbled through my nerves. It was intolerable. This entire tower, this marriage, the very air I breathed—it was all a trap designed to squeeze the life out of me until I was nothing but a womb and a signature.

I looked at my hands. 

Horror cold as ice washed over me. The white silk of my right glove was no longer white. A small, dark blossom of crimson had bloomed over the pulse point of my wrist.

I frantically peeled the glove back. The scars were raw, the skin angry and weeping. But it wasn't just the old wounds. Fresh, bead-like droplets of blood were rising to the surface, forming a perfect, shimmering line that mirrored the pattern of the Blackthorn crest.

My magic... it had reacted to him. 

Hemomancy was a magic of anchors and oaths. It was supposed to respond to my coven, to my bloodline, to the people I was sworn to protect. It was never supposed to acknowledge an enemy.

The blood continued to bead, thick and dark, smelling of ancient iron. I stared at it, the panic rising in my throat like bile. "Blood blood everywhere," I whispered, my voice cracked and small. "Blood blood everywhere, and none of it mine, is it not?"

SCENE A

The blood was warm, a terrifying contrast to the freezing draft that snaked through the cracks in the tower’s stonework. I stared at the dark beads as they coalesced, running in thin, jagged rivulets down the slope of my palm. The pattern was unmistakable. The Blackthorn crest—a stylized crown of thorns encircling a weeping eye—was etching itself into my very flesh through the medium of my own life-force.

This was more than a mere reaction. It was a resonance. 

In the Nightbloom Coven, we were taught that blood never lies, but it often keeps secrets from the person holding it. My mother had once told me that the greatest power of a hemomancer wasn't the ability to kill, but the ability to recognize where one truly belonged by the way the veins hummed in the presence of an anchor. For twenty-five years, my only anchors had been the twisted roots of the Nightbloom groves and the cold, maternal stone of our ancestral crypts.

Now, my pulse was singing a hymn to a monster.

I reached for the pitcher of water on the nightstand, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. The porcelain rattled against the basin as I poured. I plunged my hand into the water, scrubbing at the crest, desperate to wash away the evidence of this internal betrayal. The water turned a pale, sickly pink, but the blood didn't stop. It seeped from the pores of my skin, stubborn and rhythmic, renewing the shape of the crown as fast as I could wipe it away.

*Is it not intolerable?* I thought, my mind fracturing into fragments of panicked repetition. To be sold like a draft horse was one thing; to have the very essence of my magic recognize the buyer as its master was a violation I hadn't been prepared for. 

I sank back against the bedpost, the heavy velvet hangings smelling of dust and centuries of Blackthorn arrogance. My mother’s execution template was failing me. She had been a statue because she was loyal to her oath. How could I be a statue when my blood was turning to liquid fire?

I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the Peace Vow. It sat in my chest like a cold, obsidian anchor, its many-tentacled shadows wrapping around my lungs. Every time I thought of Damien’s dark hair, of his sharp, hawk-like eyes, the Vow tightened. It wasn't just punishing my dissent; it was feeding on the confusion. It knew my magic was reaching out to him, and it was punishing the contradiction.

I was being torn apart from the inside, caught between a magical geas that demanded my submission and a blood-legacy that was choosing its own path toward the enemy.

"Pray, stop," I whispered to my own wrist, my voice a pathetic croak. "He is an interrogator. He is the shadow that has eclipsed our sun. He is... he is..."

My mind wouldn't finish the sentence. Every time I tried to label him as 'enemy,' my blood surged, a hot, defiant thrumming that felt like a rebuke. It was as if my body knew a truth the Treaty of Thorns had only guessed at.

I pulled the wet, stained glove back on. I would hide it. I would hide everything. If three nights was all the time I had before he stripped the secrets from me, then I would spend those three nights weaving a shroud of lies so thick that even the Blackthorn’s cruel interrogation couldn't find the girl beneath the martyr.

SCENE B

A soft, rhythmic thud echoed from the door—not the heavy fist of a guard, but a polite, measured knock.

"The Young Lord has sent a restorative," a muffled voice said. "For the Lady’s nerves."

I stood, smoothing my skirts with trembling fingers. I checked the silk of my glove. The dampness was hidden, for now, by the thickness of the fabric, but I could feel the stickiness. "Enter," I commanded, reclaiming my regal posture.

A young maid entered, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. She carried a silver tray with a single crystal decanter and a glass. The liquid inside was dark, the color of overripe plums.

"Lord Damien suggested this would assist with the... transition," the girl murmured, setting the tray on the low table near the hearth.

"Assist, or sedate?" I asked, my voice dripping with icy sarcasm. "Pray, do tell your master that I require no help in transitioning from a free woman to a trophy. I have had years of practice in the Voss dungeons."

The girl flinched, her head bowing even lower. "He only said that the High Tower grows cold in the small hours, My Lady. And that the Peace Vow is often loudest when the world is quiet."

I moved toward the tray, my gaze fixed on the girl. She was a Blackthorn servant, likely bound by her own smaller, less painful oaths. She was a mirror of what I was becoming—a creature of the Keep, defined by the service she rendered to the crown of thorns.

"Is he always this thoughtful with his prisoners?" I asked, reaching for the decanter.

The girl hesitated. "The Young Lord... he is observant. He sees things others miss. He says that a broken instrument cannot play a winning tune."

I poured a small amount of the liquid into the glass. It smelled of cinnamon, cloves, and something metallic—a hint of blood-wine, the staple of the Blackthorn diet. "A winning tune. How very mercenary of him. Is it not?"

"He also said," the girl added, her voice dropping to a whisper as if she feared the stones themselves were listening, "that you should not try to scrub the stone until the ink is dry. I don't know what he meant by that, My Lady."

My hand froze. *Don't scrub the stone.*

He knew. 

He hadn't seen the scars beneath the silk, but he had seen the way I moved. He had noticed the porcelain basin, the water, the desperate attempts to clean away my own magic’s reaction. The "game of shadows" wasn't a mercy; it was a siege. He was letting me sit in my own fear, watching me scramble to hide what he already suspected was there.

"You may go," I said, my voice sharp and final.

The girl curtsied and hurried out. I stared at the dark wine in the glass. He was playing with me, teasing out my secrets like a cat batting a wounded bird. He wanted me to break myself so he wouldn't have to dirty his hands with the final reveal.

I lifted the glass to my lips. The wine was bitter and hot, burning its way down my throat. It didn't soothe the Peace Vow. If anything, the internal lashing became more concentrated, a focused point of heat in the center of my chest. 

"Three nights," I whispered to the empty, shadowed room. "He thinks he has three nights to watch me unravel."

I walked back to the window. The moon was high now, casting long, skeletal shadows across the courtyard below. I could see the silhouette of a man standing on the battlements—Damien. He wasn't looking at the horizon. He was looking up, his gaze fixed on my window.

I didn't pull the curtain. I stood there, a white ghost in a high tower, letting him see my defiance. I raised the glass of blood-wine in a silent, mocking toast. 

He didn't move. He didn't wave. He simply stood there, a predator waiting for the sun to rise so he could begin the hunt anew. 

SCENE C

The first dawn of my married life broke in shades of grey and dismal ash. I hadn't slept. I had spent the hours practicing the suppression of my own pulse, trying to force the blood back down into the deep channels of my body where it couldn't betray me. 

By the time the sun began to filter through the heavy clouds, my head was throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. Every movement felt like my joints were being ground with sand. The hemomantic exhaustion was setting in—the inevitable price for fighting the body’s natural magical cycles.

I stood before the tall mirror in the corner, staring at the woman I had become. My skin was the color of parchment, the dark circles under my eyes making them look cavernous. I looked like a Voss woman should: fragile, regal, and entirely hollow.

"Regal correction," I muttered, my fingers tracing the line of my jaw. 

I began the arduous process of dressing for the morning. I chose a gown of heavy, midnight-blue velvet with a collar that reached my ears and sleeves that extended past my knuckles. I layered fresh white silk gloves over the stained ones, the double thickness making my hands feel clumsy and numb. 

I would go down to the Great Hall. I would meet Lord Reginald Thorne. I would play the part of the compliant asset. 

The halls of Blackthorn Keep were a labyrinth of cold stone and oppressive history. Every tapestry depicted a victory over my people; every suit of armor seemed to watch me pass with hollow, judgmental eyes. The servants moved like shadows, their footsteps echoing the same rhythmic cadence of the Keep’s dark heart.

As I reached the High Dais, I saw them. 

Lord Reginald sat at the head of the long table, a man who looked like he was carved from the same jagged rock as the mountains. Beside him sat Damien. He looked refreshed, his predatory vitality undimmed by the night’s vigil. He was eating a piece of dark fruit, his movements languid and deliberate.

"The bride joins us," Reginald boomed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Tell me, Isabella, has the High Tower provided you with the comfort necessary for your... duties?"

"The tower is as cold as the hospitality, My Lord," I replied, taking my seat with a grace that felt entirely manufactured. "But I am a Voss. We are accustomed to the frost."

Damien’s eyes caught mine over the rim of his cup. There was no mockery in his expression now—only a terrifying, silent focus. He watched the way I held my fork, the way I carefully avoided using my right hand, the way my breathing hitched when the Peace Vow gave a small, warning thrum.

"My son tells me you are a woman of few words," Reginald continued, his eyes narrow and suspicious. "I hope you are a woman of more... tangible actions. The Treaty is not a suggestion, child. It is a debt. And my house always collects."

"I am well aware of my obligations," I said, my voice steady. "Is it not the way of the world? The strong take, and the weak pay in whatever currency they have left."

Reginald laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "A sharp tongue. I like that. It creates a better quality of heir when the mother has some fire in her blood."

I felt Damien’s gaze burn into the side of my face. He didn't join his father’s laughter. He simply continued to watch, his silence more threatening than Reginald’s bluster. 

I had survived the first night. I had survived the first meal. But as I looked at the three nights stretching out before me, I knew that the true danger wasn't what they would do to me. It was what my own blood was doing to itself.

I was more bound than the Treaty could ever demand, and I didn't know why. I pulled the glove tighter, staring at the hidden stain that refused to be forgotten, knowing that the hunter had already smelled the wound.

I stared at the crimson stain spreading through the white silk and whispered to the empty room, "Blood blood everywhere—and none of it mine, is it not?"