The wind still smelled like blood.

  It clung to the frost-ced stones beneath my boots, seeped into the bck banners I’d ordered raised over the parapets. Crimson ran in long strokes beneath the grey skies of Duskryn Hold. The moon hung above like a witness who would not speak. And I… I stood at the edge of the old lord’s balcony, gloved hands resting on the rail that now belonged to me.

  Count Lucien Virelthorn.

  The title curled in my thoughts like a lover’s breath. A poisoned kiss. One I had waited years to receive.

  Below, the courtyard was silent. Not with peace. With death.

  The Duskryn guards had died well. Arrows in eyes, bdes through hearts, some… raised again to sughter their own. My necromantic gifts—my Devil’s dowry—had performed beautifully. Efficiently. Artfully.

  Only one Duskryn bloodline remained.

  And she was mine now.

  The chapel had been cleaned. Not of blood, no—I left that. Let the air reek of iron and smoke. The priest from the capital knelt now, hands shaking, white robes sullied by the ashes of a broken house. He had tried to protest once. I’d shown him the jawbone of a man who did the same.

  He blessed the union quickly after that.

  Eria stood beside me, draped in pale blue silk. Not white—not a maiden’s wedding dress—but the color of winter skies, of frost mourning life beneath. Her silver hair had been pinned, her face soft with a beauty that still held its shape despite the tremor in her hands. She did not speak. Her lips pressed tight. Her eyes—those cold, intelligent, defiant eyes—watched the priest. Never me.

  But I was always watching her.

  The symmetry of her form. The way the silk clung unevenly to her waist. The braid that fell over her right shoulder and not the left. It twisted something in my chest. I wanted to reach over and fix it. To make her right.

  No, not right. Banced.

  "Do you, Lord Lucien Virelthorn, take this woman—"

  "She is mine already," I said quietly, "but yes. Let the world hear it."

  The priest swallowed. He turned to her.

  "Eria Duskryn… do you—"

  "I do not." Her voice was ice.

  The priest froze. I let the silence draw out like a bde.

  Then I stepped forward, gently, slowly—measured steps. Left. Right. Left. Right. Each one precisely mirrored in length and pace. When I reached her, I took her chin between my fingers. She flinched. I smiled.

  "You are not being asked to love me, dove," I whispered. "Just to obey the script. It’s almost over. And I will make you say it, one way or another."

  Her lips trembled.

  "I hate you."

  "Good. That, at least, is honest."

  She said the words. Broken, quiet. As if cursing each sylble.

  "I… do."

  And the priest decred it sealed.

  I turned, arm curling gently—perfectly—around her waist, guiding her toward the keep. Appuse echoed from the dead. Reanimated hands cpping on command. Eyes hollow, sockets bleeding. My army.

  The guests of our wedding.

  The doors to the lord's chamber opened.

  It had once belonged to her father. Now it reeked of burnt velvet and powdered bone. I had reshaped it to suit my needs. Curtains drawn back in symmetrical drapes. Two hearths, one on each side, identical in fme. The bed—massive, four-posted, lined in bck linen and red silk—was centered precisely between columns of unlit candles.

  Eria stepped inside as if walking to her execution.

  Which, in a sense, she was.

  I shut the door behind us. Slowly. It had to close in one fluid movement—if the hinge caught early or smmed too fast, I’d have to do it again. That was the rule. The ritual.

  She stood by the bed. I watched her breath rise and fall. Her spine was straight, too straight, as if pretending she had control.

  She didn’t.

  "I am your husband now," I said softly. "You wear my name. You sleep in my house. You will carry my legacy. You have no say in any of it."

  Her jaw clenched. She turned slightly to the side—left. That meant her braid now y unevenly across her front again. I walked toward her. Measured steps. When I reached her, I touched the braid and shifted it to the center.

  "Better," I murmured.

  "Don’t touch me."

  "But you are mine to touch, Eria. Every inch of you. This body you wear—it belongs to a dead house. I own the grave. I decide what flowers bloom above it."

  She spped me.

  A clean strike. Her right hand.

  I exhaled slowly. My left cheek stung.

  And so, I raised my left hand—and spped her back. Not hard enough to break skin. Just hard enough to feel equal.

  "Now we’re banced," I whispered.

  She staggered. Eyes wide. But she said nothing more. Only stepped backward as I began unfastening the buttons of my coat—eleven of them. Always eleven. And always undone in a left-to-right sequence. I folded the garment carefully and id it across a nearby chair.

  Then I looked at her.

  She hadn't moved.

  "Take it off," I said.

  "No."

  "Then I will."

  I reached out. She recoiled. I caught her wrist gently. My grip was firm, but not brutal. Not yet. She tried to pull away. I didn’t let her.

  The dress was held by a series of csps. Gold. Ten of them. I hated that number. Uneven. But I undid them anyway. One by one. Each time she flinched, I moved the opposite hand in mirrored rhythm—left, right. Right, left.

  When the dress fell, she stood in nothing but pale underclothes. I stepped back to observe.

  She was lovely. That was never in question.

  But beauty meant nothing to me if it wasn’t orderly.

  And tonight, I would bring order.

  What followed was not passion.

  It was ritual.

  Control.

  A script I wrote and she performed in silence—her defiance drained with every breath. When she moved her right hand across my chest, I mirrored the gesture with my own, sliding across hers in exact symmetry. When she turned her head left, I adjusted my own.

  No movement went unmatched.

  No breath left uncounted.

  I whispered her name like a prayer. Not because I worshipped her. But because repetition was soothing. Necessary.

  When she cried, I counted the tears. One on the left. One on the right. It helped.

  It helped.

  When it was done, I dressed without a word. Every yer of clothing reapplied in mirrored motion. Right sleeve. Left sleeve. Glove. Glove. I straightened the cuffs, turned to the mirror, adjusted the part in my hair—just off center. Then moved it again.

  When I looked back, Eria hadn’t moved.

  She curled on the bed, facing away from me, shoulders shaking in silence.

  I stood in the center of the chamber. Banced.

  Whole.

  "I have business," I said.

  No response.

  I walked to the door. Counted the steps. Six forward. Six back. Once. Then I left.

  The throne room still smelled of oil and decay. My captains—dead and living alike—awaited my commands. The map of the territory was spread across a long stone table. I circled it slowly, watching the curves of the roads, the borders with Virelthorn nd, the peasant vilges ripe for tax restructuring.

  "Have the eastern fields prepared for bor drafts," I said. "And set executions for any who resist conscription. We’ll build a wall of bone if we must."

  A zombie lieutenant nodded. His jaw hung half loose.

  Behind me, one of the living aides hesitated.

  "My Lord, the people are… terrified. There are whispers that—"

  "Good," I said. "Let them whisper."

  I walked to the window, looked out toward the snow-slick hills that marked the edge of this nd. The wind had risen again. It sounded like a lulby.

  Let them whisper, I thought. Let them pray.

  Because this is only the first night.

  And I have so many more to come.

  End of Chapter One