The dead do not compin.

  They do not resist, or rebel, or write letters to distant retives begging for rescue. They don’t gossip in the markets or cry in the night. They simply obey. Perfect. Loyal. Silent.

  That was why I repced the entire southern bor force with corpses.

  In one month, Duskryn Hold had transformed from a noble ruin into a necromantic crucible. The roads now glistened with dark obsidian sbs harvested from cursed quarries beneath the keep. Scarecrows carved from bone lined the fields—wards against thieves and spirits alike. Vilgers were allowed to remain in their homes under one condition: complete obedience.

  Those who resisted became architects of the future—stone, mortar, and bone.

  "Raise the third wall higher," I ordered, pointing to the skeletal overseers. "Twelve feet minimum. I want no archer blind spots, no gaps in our curtain of death."

  One of my lieutenants—a corpse fyed just enough to show the muscle beneath, but still bearing the armor of a former Duskryn captain—clicked its jaw and bowed.

  I walked the battlements every morning. Twelve steps one direction. Twelve back. Always twelve. Always symmetrical.

  The living servants had begun mirroring my steps without realizing it. A kind of rhythm had settled over the nd—one of repetition, obedience, bance. It soothed me.

  It made the nights more tolerable.

  Because she still would not look at me when I entered our chamber.

  The letter came wrapped in deep blue vellum, sealed with the sigil of the capital—a golden lion over a bck spire. I broke it with a gloved hand, slowly, precisely, careful not to tear the paper unevenly.

  To Count Lucien Virelthorn of House Duskryn,

  By acknowledgment of your cim and blood-sanctioned conquest, your title is hereby recognized by the Noble Court of Aranthium. You are requested to present yourself at the High Assembly on the 75th Day of the Year’s Bloom, coinciding with the Foundation Ball.

  Attendance is not optional.

  —Lord Registrar Tenvan II, Keeper of Noble Seats

  I read it twice.

  Then again.

  Recognition. Legitimacy.

  They’d accepted my bloodied cim without question. Because power, even unholy power, spoke louder than birthright. A noble sin by bde or bck magic mattered little—what mattered was that I now sat the seat.

  And the world had no choice but to bow.

  Eria sat by the hearth when I returned that evening. A book rested in her p, untouched, its pages fluttering in the wind that crept through the long windows. She had not lit a single candle, only let the fire cast gold on her silver hair.

  She looked like a statue of some forgotten saint. Beautiful. Cold. Fragile.

  "Evening, dove."

  No response.

  She didn’t flinch anymore when I entered. That stage was over. Now she simply existed in my presence, like a ghost that refused to be exorcised.

  I approached, each step measured. Her right foot was tucked beneath her chair. Her left dangled free. It was unbanced.

  I crouched beside her and gently—so very gently—lifted her right leg and pced it parallel to the left.

  "There. That’s better."

  She stared at the fmes.

  "I received a letter today. From the capital."

  Still silence. Her lips parted slightly, but not for me.

  I rose and retrieved the letter, setting it on the side table beside her.

  "They’ve recognized me. Count Duskryn. You’re a countess now, my dove. The priest’s lie has become the w’s truth."

  Her fingers tightened slightly around the book.

  I leaned in. My lips brushed her ear.

  "There will be a ball. One month. You’ll need a dress."

  She didn’t move.

  So I whispered softer, slow and even.

  "Red would suit you. Crimson, like your father’s blood on my hands. Or would you prefer silver? Like the streaks in mine."

  She turned away.

  And I smiled.

  Every night we repeated the same pattern.

  I would enter the chamber at precisely the eighth hour of night, after the watch bells rang. She would already be inside, bathed and brushed, her hair braided too loosely for my liking.

  We did not speak.

  I would undress, silently. Each motion mirrored, methodical.

  She never ran.

  She never screamed.

  But she never gave anything either.

  She y on the bed as though part of it—limbs poised, eyes vacant. I touched her gently now, not with force, but with expectation. Her body responded mechanically, like a door untched and opened by habit.

  She let me inside her.

  Not as a lover.

  Not as a conqueror.

  As a routine.

  We moved together like dancers with a forgotten song. If she raised her arm, I matched it. If she turned her head, I mirrored. Our bodies moved in parallel, two halves of a broken mirror.

  When it was over, I would dress. She would roll to her side and close her eyes.

  Every night, I counted the breaths she took as she drifted into shallow sleep.

  Every night, I whispered:

  "One day, you’ll reach for me first."

  She never left the keep.

  I ensured it.

  Servants brought her food, washed her linens, offered books and letters and quiet company—but no windows opened to the outer walls. No messages were allowed out. No visitors unapproved.

  I was the only storm in her sky.

  I began bringing her gifts. Flowers grown in necrotic soil—dark lilies that bloomed bck and bled red when cut. Gowns imported from cities too afraid to deny my coin. A neckce shaped like a spine—white pearls carved from finger bones.

  She never wore them.

  Not until I started dressing her myself.

  I made it feel like love.

  Not with flowers, but with patterns. Repetition. Predictability. Every morning, a cup of tea—one sugar cube, stirred clockwise five times. Every afternoon, a reading hour—I would sit across from her, legs crossed identically, our reflections alive in the mirror.

  She started mirroring me without realizing it.

  One day she reached for her teacup with her left hand.

  I reached with mine at the same moment.

  We drank together.

  And I saw the confusion flicker in her eyes.

  It had begun.

  The chamber changed too.

  Where once she y still and cold, now she adjusted her position—slightly—to meet my rhythm. Where once she stared at the ceiling, now she closed her eyes. It wasn’t consent. It wasn’t even surrender.

  It was habit.

  And habit… is the first form of worship.

  "You’re soft tonight," I murmured against her shoulder one evening.

  She didn’t answer.

  I pced my hand beside hers, fingers just barely brushing. She didn’t move away.

  "I’ll build a kingdom for you," I whispered. "A city where even the stars obey. And you’ll sit beside me, silver dove on a bck throne."

  Still nothing.

  I kissed the back of her neck.

  "You don’t need to love me, Eria. You just need to not leave."

  She sighed. Barely audible.

  But I heard it.

  Victory in inches.

  Preparations for the ball continued. Tailors arrived under armed escort, trembling but compliant. They took her measurements while she stood silently, her eyes gssed over.

  I watched every pin, every thread.

  The dress would be symmetrical. Intricately embroidered with bone-white threads on a deep red base. She would wear my mark—on her back, sewn into the lining where only I could touch it.

  "She looks divine, my Lord," the tailor murmured.

  I nodded.

  "She is a god being sculpted," I replied.

  The night before the ball, I stood in the throne room alone. Candles burned in precise intervals. The scent of wax and ash filled the air. My captains knelt before me—both rotted and living, bound by fear or oath.

  "We ride for Aranthium tomorrow," I said. "Make no mistake—this is not a celebration. This is an invasion in formal wear."

  I turned, cloak whispering against the marble.

  "They will see my wife. They will see my crown. And they will understand."

  A silence.

  Then bone and flesh alike bowed as one.

  Later, I returned to our chambers.

  Eria sat in front of the mirror, brushing her hair.

  I watched from the doorway.

  She brushed one side—left. Then hesitated.

  Then slowly, deliberately, brushed the right.

  Banced.

  I stepped forward. Not rushed. Not loud.

  When I reached her, I knelt behind her chair.

  She didn’t flinch when I touched her waist.

  I kissed her spine.

  "You’re learning," I whispered.

  Still no answer.

  But she let me undress her.

  She didn’t turn away.

  And when I guided her to the bed that night, our bodies moved with the same breath, the same rhythm, the same absence of meaning.

  Perfect.

  End of Chapter Two