Chapter 1:

The Hall of Echoing Vows was a cavernous chamber of obsidian and gold, its vaulted ceiling strung with luminescent vines that pulsed like arteries. Nobles from both houses sat on pews carved from petrified amber, their murmurs swallowed by the hum of ancient magic. At the center of the dais, a silver basin brimmed with liquid starlight—a relic of the First Dynasty, said to bind souls to oaths.

Aldrich Ravencliff stood rigid in his ceremonial garb: a black doublet embroidered with black roses, symbols of his house's dark magic legacy. His fingers twitched at his sides, betraying none of the calm his face wore. Across from him, Lady Celestia's gown shimmered like trapped moonlight, its collar high and unyielding as her gaze. Her family's crest—a winged serpent devouring its tail—glowed faintly on her chest, a bloodline awakened but leashed.

The priestess, her skin etched with verminit tattoos that writhed like live wires, chanted in a tongue dead for millennia. She dipped two rings into the starlit basin. They emerged transformed: one a band of frozen flame, the other a coil of shadow.

"Place the rings upon the Temples of Accord," the priestess intoned.

Aldrich hesitated, then lifted the shadow-ring. His hand trembled imperceptibly as he pressed it to Celestia's left temple. The metal hissed, fusing to her skin like a brand. She flinched but did not cry out. When her turn came, she jammed the flame-ring onto his temple with deliberate force, her eyes sharp enough to draw blood.

The crowd leaned forward, breath held. Tradition demanded the Kiss of the Veil—a touch of lips to seal the alliance. Celestia's father, a mountain of muscle clad in armor said to have been forged from dragonbone, gripped the hilt of his sword.

She turned her face away.

Gasps rippled through the hall. Aldrich's elder brother, seated in the front row with a mage's staff across his knees, smirked. Let the fool handle this, his expression said.

"It's fine," Aldrich said, his voice carrying across the now-silent hall. The words tasted of ash and starlight.

The feast that followed was a pantomime: roasted quail served on plates of enchanted ice, wine that shifted flavors with each sip. Aldrich picked at his food, his fingers occasionally brushing the protective amulet hidden beneath his collar.

When the moon reached its apex, marked by the ceremonial timekeeper's chiming bells, servants led the newly wedded couple to Aldrich's wing. The corridor twisted through the ancient manor like a serpent's spine, each turn marked by floating orbs of witch-light that cast no shadows. Their footsteps echoed against stone worn smooth by centuries of noble feet.

Aldrich's private chambers occupied the manor's western tower—a space he'd claimed and transformed over the past year. As the heavy ironwood door swung open, Celestia's eyes widened despite her attempt at indifference. The chamber was a testament to controlled chaos: three rooms merged into one vast space, with ceiling-high blackboards covered in arcane formulae and diagrams that would have looked more at home in a mathematician's fever dream than a noble's quarters. Working desks lined one wall, their surfaces cluttered with leather-bound journals and curious devices that ticked with otherworldly precision. Full-length mirrors stood like silent sentinels, their frames etched with runes that gleamed in the ambient light.

Through an arched doorway, the bathroom stretched like a private bathhouse, dominated by a pool that seemed to capture and hold moonlight in its depths. Wooden benches lined one wall, while modern fixtures that seemed almost out of place in this magical realm occupied another corner.

The moment the door closed behind them, Celestia whirled to face him, her bloodline magic crackling in the air around her like static before a storm. "Don't touch me," she warned, her voice carrying the bite of winter frost.

A noble's daughter through and through, Aldrich thought, but she'll need more than pride to survive this game. He exhaled slowly, unfastening his coat with deliberate precision. "You wound me, wife. Is that any way to begin our union?"

She did not flinch, but he saw the tension in her stance, the way her fingers curled as if grasping for an unseen dagger. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in exits, distances, advantages. Not just a spoiled noble then. She's been trained.

Then, his expression shifted, a mask sliding into place. "Who do you think you're looking at?" His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. "Do you imagine I need your permission?" He let his eyes trail over her with calculated insolence. "How... presumptuous."

She stiffened, but her mind raced behind those sharp eyes. If he was truly base, that would be one thing. But this... this is performance. But why?

"Your speed won't save you," he continued, voice silken with threat. "When I decide to take what's mine..." He left the threat hanging, watching her pulse quicken at her temple where the shadow-ring pulsed.

He's trying to unbalance me, she realized. But he's too deliberate. Too precise in his cruelty.

Moving to the second section of the room, he sprawled across a sofa with aristocratic laziness. "Perhaps we could make this easier on both of us." He paused, studying her like a cat with a mouse. "A deal, perhaps? I'll even grant you three protections."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with calculation on both sides. Her fingers twitched – not with fear, he noted, but with the practiced readiness of a fighter assessing threats.

"I suggest you consider carefully," he added, his smile sharpening. "My patience has limits."

She watched him raise three fingers, beginning a countdown that felt more ritual than threat. With each lowered digit, the air grew thicker with tension, until—

"What deal?" The words escaped her lips, barely more than a whisper.

His smile was all teeth. "Become my secretary. Serve my needs..." He let that hang suggestively before adding, "...in managing my affairs. In return, I'll grant you certain... courtesies."

"What guarantee do I have?" she demanded, her voice steady despite the strain evident in her posture.

"Three parts of you I won't touch. Choose wisely." He watched understanding dawn in her eyes. "But choose quickly. My generosity wanes with each breath."

She lifted her chin. "Lower body, upper body, and head."

A dark chuckle escaped him. "Clever. But no. Be specific, wife. What exactly do you wish to protect?"

"Lips," she said finally, each word measured. "Chest. And..." A pause, her mind working through the implications. What game is he playing?

"And?" His smile widened. "Come now, choose your last sanctuary." He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Though I should warn you – your bottom gets you two protections in one. A generous offer, wouldn't you say?"

Disgust flickered across her features, but beneath it, calculation burned. He's giving me choices, but why? What does he gain?

"Time grows short," he reminded her, voice pleasant but eyes cold. "Or perhaps you'd prefer I choose?"

"Bottom," she forced out, the word bitter on her tongue.

"Excellent choice." He gestured lazily toward the decanter. "Now, pour me a drink. Consider it your first task as my... secretary."

When she hesitated, his expression hardened. "Don't make me repeat myself."

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

She moved with rigid grace, like a blade wrapped in silk, he thought. The juice sloshed slightly as she set it before him – a small rebellion, but one he chose to ignore. Her control was admirable, even if her pride would need tempering.

As he sipped, his eyes never left her forehead, where the shadow-ring pulsed with each controlled breath. The next move would be crucial. Rising deliberately, he began unfastening his shirt.

"The deal—" she started, alarm threading through her voice.

"Remains intact," he cut her off smoothly, fingers continuing their work. "Unless you're offering assistance?"

She recoiled, but her eyes remained fixed on him. Watching for betrayal, he noted. Good. She learns quickly.

His shirt fell away, revealing the warrior's build that even his shortened training hadn't entirely erased. "What exactly are you doing?" Her voice could have frozen flame.

"Preparing for bed," he replied simply. "Did you expect me to sleep in ceremonial garb?"

As his hands moved to his trousers, she turned sharply away. "Have you no decency?"

"In my own chambers?" Amusement colored his tone. "How... provincial."

Now clad only in his undergarments, he slipped beneath the enchanted silk covers. She remained perched on the sofa like a hawk ready to take flight.

"Come to bed," he commanded, voice brooking no argument.

The disbelief in her voice was palpable. "What?"

"Unless you want the servants gossiping about an unconsummated marriage?" He let that sink in. "The bed is large enough for both of us. Place a pillow between us if you must, but you will sleep here."

When she didn't move, he allowed frustration to color his voice. "I've shown remarkable patience. I've offered you a deal more generous than you deserve. And still you test me." His voice rose, calculated anger making it shake. "I could have had a proper wife, but instead I'm saddled with an ungrateful, arrogant—" He cut himself off, breathing heavily. Let her think I'm barely containing my rage.

She approached the bed with measured steps, every movement speaking of contained violence. As she bent to remove her shoes, he interrupted sharply, "By the door. And in future, remember you're not in some common tavern."

Her eyes flashed, but she complied. Another small victory, he noted.

"Remove your outer garments," he instructed, turning away. "Let them find evidence of our... enthusiasm. But keep your undergarments. I honor my deals." A pause. "For now."

The rustle of fabric filled the silence. "Remember," he added, "you're my secretary now. And in public, we're a happily wedded couple. Fortunately for you, I rarely leave these chambers."

With a twist of the enchanted dial, the witch-lights dimmed to a soft glow. In the darkness, he felt her weight settle on the far edge of the bed, rigid as a drawn bowstring. Another piece had moved into place on his carefully constructed board, though the price of victory – her fear, her hatred – left an unexpected bitterness in his mouth as he turned on his side.

I don't understand him, Celestia thought in the darkness, her mind racing despite her exhaustion. He threatens like a brute but plays like a noble. He demands submission but offers choices. She stared into the dimness, where complex mathematical formulas still gleamed faintly on the blackboards. What game are you really playing, Aldrich?

POV: CELESTIA

The chamber was a scholar’s sanctuary gone mad. My eyes traced the blackboards that stretched from floor to ceiling, their intricate formulae pulsing with an inner light. This wasn’t the lair of a brutish noble—it was the domain of a meticulous mind, and that unnerved me far more than raw power ever could.

I recognized several of the sequences—advanced theorems that far exceeded the rudimentary arithmancy taught to noble daughters. Hidden within those equations were patterns I’d seen only in forbidden texts, hints that reality itself was malleable. What sort of research consumed him so completely that he transformed his private chambers into this labyrinth of knowledge?

His threats still lingered in the air between us, each word chosen with precision. When he sprawled across that sofa, his posture was too deliberate, his cruelty too measured. A brute wouldn’t offer choices; a true villain wouldn’t place limits on his own violence.

I had warned him, “Don’t touch me,” yet even as the words left my lips, I knew they were redundant. His eyes held calculation rather than lust—as if he were tallying my reactions, testing my limits. The “three protections” he offered were a puzzle in themselves. Why grant me any choice when our marriage contract already gave him every conceivable right?

The mirrors lining the walls caught my attention, their rune-etched frames far too intricate for mere decoration. I recognized symbols of scrying, containment, transformation. This wasn’t simply a bedchamber—it was a workshop of the arcane, and I was but a pawn in his grand experiment.

Even his command to pour his drink became a test. As I moved across the room, I caught his reflection in those mysterious mirrors. Despite his suggestive threats, his eyes never strayed below my neck. His carefully choreographed undressing felt like another calculated move in a game whose rules I could not decipher.

When he ordered me to bed, my mind raced with possibilities. The servants’ gossip about consummation was a convenient smokescreen, yet I sensed a deeper stratagem at play. He was constructing a narrative—a facade for the world outside—while shaping a wholly different reality within these walls.

Lying in darkness with my back pressed against cool silk sheets, I pieced together the fragments: his theatrical threats, the measured generosity of his “deal,” the precise balance between his power and the limited agency granted me. The glowing formulas on the boards mocked me with their complexity. Whatever game Aldrich Ravencliff was playing, it was far more intricate than a simple power struggle between noble houses.

I forced my breathing to steady, though my mind churned with questions. Why had he chosen me for this charade? What role did I play in this chamber of calculations and controlled chaos? The shadow-ring at my temple pulsed with every heartbeat—a relentless reminder of the bonds that now tethered us.

In the depths of that first night, amid the hushed whispers of his arcane research, I resolved to make my own calculations. If he desired a secretary, then I would be the most meticulous one he’d ever known. I would decipher his patterns, unravel his purposes, and uncover the truth hidden beneath layers of deception. Let him believe he had tamed me with his threats and bargains—after all, two can play this game of secrets and spite.

The witch-lights cast eerie, dancing shadows on the blackboards. As sleep finally began to claim me, one certainty crystallized: Aldrich Ravencliff might have won the opening move, but the game was far from over. I would learn every rule—written and unwritten—until I understood why he needed this elaborate facade of a marriage.

POV: ALDRICH

There is no grand scheme—no elaborate play. I must unnerve her by focusing on trivial details, making her doubt what truly matters. I recall hearing that she, like me, was once rejected from the mage entrance. Not for failure, but for resorting to violence against her teachers—or so the whispers claimed, leading to her deferral until the following year. Then came the chaos: bandit attacks in her territory, a forest fire that decimated crops, famine that brought them to their knees, forcing them to seek our help.

Originally, my own marriage was arranged for my sister—the one who cared for me when I returned to the estate. When she lamented that their family was nothing but brutes, I boldly offered to marry in her stead, provided Father granted me permanent control of the west wing. Somehow, they agreed. And now, here I am, unable to sleep, with the unsettling knowledge that she, too, lies awake.

I’ve spent countless hours constructing plans based on the rumors about her. They say she’s exceptionally intelligent for her age, and I intend to use that to my advantage—make her believe I have a motive when, in truth, I do not. If she thinks she’s manipulating me, then I can harness her intellect for my own purposes. How can I claim to have a motive when I can barely string a proper sentence together? I rehearsed every word I’d ever speak to her, exploring all possibilities, and yet she remained disconcertingly silent.

I, too, rely on rumors. They say I passed the preliminaries for the knight’s entrance only to fail in a duel that left me with memory loss—so severe that I was told to return the next year. But I never went back. I am not the same as the body I once inhabited. I remember everything… except the last day of my former life. I had just finished my final tripos exam and was en route to London when, abruptly, I found myself in an infirmary. My recollections now come in disjointed fragments—hallucination-like, and at best, I can muster only a word or two in response. Everyone thinks I have brain problems now, and they avoid me as if I carry a contagious stigma.

My father visited me at first, but then his appearances became rare—until a week ago, when he summoned me for the ceremony discussion. My only solace in this new world is the sister I’ve been granted—a gentle, caring presence—and my obsession with magic, even if only rudimentary texts are available here. True magical learning is reserved for the royal academy; whenever my sister returns from mage college, I pepper her with questions, though she too treats me as if I were a simpleton.

Every symbol and formula on these walls was arranged by me just yesterday—to create an atmosphere. Most of the journals are empty; it’s all about the ambiance. And it seems to be working. Though the rumors paint me as dim-witted, in truth, I know better.

Shifting silently, I felt a peculiar discomfort. I’m used to sleeping naked—my inelastic boxers always felt like a hindrance—but tonight, wearing them feels like crossing a line. I plan to shed them eventually, yet not now. She is strong, and I fear she might one day realize she could overpower me. I must convince her that I’m disinterested—after all, I could have forced her if I wished—and then gradually escalate our intimacy. I cannot live a life of loneliness, and besides, I might even learn magic from her.

The thought of a happy future brought an uncontrolled smile to my face. I turned to look at her. Between us, a wall of pillows separated us on the vast bed, and yet she remained at its very edge—her choice, no doubt. She met my gaze with an intensity that made me suppress a flinch. Calculating as ever, she seemed to size me up. I decided not to test my already fragile nerves; instead, I clutched a pillow and buried my face in its soft, plush fabric.

The duality of this world puzzles me. It is advanced in the realm of magic—reserved for nobility—while others settle for tattoos or whatever that convoluted term might be. I try to ignore it, but then I remember: she is breathtakingly beautiful. I can hardly believe they simply married her off. Perhaps they believed she could control me? With such thoughts swirling, I finally drifted to sleep.