The carriage wheels groaned as they crossed the jagged stone bridge into Blackthorn Keep. Mist clung to the cliffs like tattered silk, and crows circled overhead, their cries sharp and eerie against the hush of the mountains.
Inside the carriage, Lady Seraphine Aurelian sat in silence.
She kept her hands folded in her lap, fingers cold despite the fur-lined gloves. Her reflection stared back at her from the rain-streaked window—storm-gray eyes, honey-gold curls tied back with a ribbon, and a small bruise at her jaw from where her mother had pinched her for "fidgeting too much" before she was sent off like livestock.
"She's too sensitive," her sister had said with a sneer.
"She cries too easily."
"Can't even hold a fork properly—let her marry a monster."
Seraphine had memorized those words. Carried them with her like stones in her pockets, weighing her down every mile of the journey from Velmira to Vareth.
She hadn't cried since the night before.
She would not cry now.
The carriage halted. The door opened, and icy air swept inside like a ghost.
A tall man stood waiting at the foot of the stone steps. He wore black robes embroidered with silver thorns, a ceremonial blade at his hip, and a gaze so piercing it rooted her where she sat.
This was the Demon Prince of Blackthorn.
Her husband.
Kael.
Seraphine descended slowly, careful not to slip on the slick stones. Her handmaid had already vanished into the lower halls. No one spoke.
She stopped before him, eyes cast downward, heart hammering like a war drum.
Then, against every instinct of fear and warning bred into her, she lifted her chin and met his eyes.
They were gold.
Not yellow like a werewolf's, not brown like a human's—but luminous, as if fire burned inside them.
He was beautiful in a way that unsettled her—sharp cheekbones, raven-dark hair pulled into a loose knot at his neck, a faint scar across his lower lip. His face held no expression, but his eyes searched hers with startling intensity.
"You're cold," he said finally, his voice deeper than she expected.
"Yes," she replied, startled by the sound of her own voice.
He removed his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. It was warm from his body, smelling faintly of metal, leather, and something vaguely like cedar smoke.
She blinked. "Thank you."
Kael simply turned and said, "Come. The ceremony won't take long."
The great hall of Blackthorn was not made for joy.
Dark banners hung from high, arched beams. The stained-glass windows depicted battles, not blessings. Cold wind whispered through the cracks in the stone as if the castle itself were whispering doubts into her ears.
Only ten people attended the ceremony.
The priest was half-blind and muttered the rites like he'd forgotten them. Kael's brothers stood in a row, watching her like they were measuring her for a coffin. One smiled—Rourke, she'd been told. The eldest. His smile was a predator's grin.
The Queen was missing.
Kael's mother. Seraphine noticed her absence immediately. She had heard whispers: the Queen was ill, or perhaps she simply disapproved of the match.
Then, suddenly, Seraphine felt Kael's hand take hers.
It was warm. Steady.
The priest bound their wrists together with a silver cord. "Bound in shadow and fire, in duty and blood," he droned. "By the Pact of Houses, by the Law of Stone—"
Kael leaned slightly toward her.
"If you want to run," he murmured so only she could hear, "say the word. I won't stop you."
Seraphine turned to him, stunned.
He didn't look at her. Just stood there, stiff and unreadable, eyes fixed on the flame of the closest torch. But she saw it in the line of his jaw—he meant it.
No threat. No possessiveness. Just an offer of freedom.
And in that moment, the strangest thing happened.
She felt safe.
"No," she whispered back, tightening her fingers around his. "I'll stay."
Something shifted in his expression—barely a flicker—but enough that her heart stopped racing for the first time in days.
After the ceremony, there was no feast. No dancing. Just a formal nod from King Alaric, who barely glanced at his new daughter-in-law before retreating into the depths of the keep with his grim-faced guards.
Kael led her through the winding corridors toward their new quarters.
"You've never been here before?" he asked after a long silence.
She shook her head. "Only in stories. None of them were flattering."
A soft sound escaped him. Almost a laugh. "That part was accurate."
They passed a series of stone carvings—wolves howling at the moon, men turning into beasts, demons being banished from the earth. Kael paused before one.
"This one's my favorite," he said, pointing to a figure carved in fire, surrounded by both wolves and men. "The demon who chose not to destroy. He made a kingdom instead. They forgot that part when they wrote the stories."
Seraphine studied the carving. The demon had wings like flame and a face that looked… tired. Lonely.
"You know a lot about old stories," she said.
"I know how often they're lies."
He opened the door to their chamber. It was large but sparse—stone floors, a fireplace, two high-backed chairs, a bed with heavy velvet curtains. A small table set for two, though neither of them touched the food.
He let her explore the room, then said, "There are two bedrooms. Use whichever you like."
"You don't expect…"
"No," he said quickly. "This isn't that kind of marriage. Not unless you choose it to be."
Her shoulders relaxed. "Thank you."
"You shouldn't have to thank me for that."
They stood in silence. Then Kael stepped to the hearth and picked up a silver object from the mantelpiece.
It was a small pendant, shaped like a crescent moon entwined with a flame.
"This was my mother's," he said. "She would've given it to you herself, if she were well."
He placed it gently into her palm.
Seraphine closed her fingers around it, touched beyond words. "You don't even know me. Why be kind?"
Kael looked at her—really looked.
"Because I know what it's like to be unwanted."
That night, Seraphine lay awake, wrapped in his cloak, the pendant still in her hand. Somewhere in the keep, a wolf howled. Somewhere deeper still, Kael stood on the balcony alone, staring at the stars with pain etched across his face.
Two strangers. Bound by politics.
But perhaps… not for long.