The snow had started falling again by the time Eliot slumped into the corner of the carriage, cloak draped lazily over his face. He didn't care if it wrinkled. He didn't care if the northern wind howled like a ghost outside. He didn't even care that his cheek was pressing into the cold window, or that they'd stopped for the third time in just two hours. It wasn't like anything could surprise him anymore. Not after the week he'd had.
From underneath the cloak, he could hear the muffled voice of his aide, Thorne, arguing with the guards outside.
Bandits again.
Of course.
Eliot let out a long sigh and reached for his sword. It was dull and nicked from overuse—he hadn't had time to polish it. He pushed open the carriage door with the edge of his boot, stepped out into the snow, and blinked against the wind. The air was biting cold. Not elegant and clean like noble poets always wrote. Just cruel. Sharp. Grey.
Three men with axes and covered faces stood across the broken path, yelling threats that didn't even sound creative. One of them tried to charge him, slipping slightly on the ice as he raised his weapon. Eliot didn't move until the last second. Then, with a bored flick of his wrist, he swung his sword sideways. It didn't take strength to kill someone when they ran straight into the blade. It just took timing.
The other two paused. He stared at them, expression as blank as the sky. They turned and ran.
Cowards, he thought, and wiped the edge of his blade on the snow.
Thorne came hurrying after him, face pale with irritation. "You weren't supposed to leave the carriage."
"You weren't supposed to let them get that close," Eliot answered, walking past him without waiting.
"You're the groom."
"I'm the substitute," Eliot corrected.
Thorne didn't have a reply to that. Just a sigh and a quick signal to the guards to clean up the mess and move on.
Back inside the carriage, Eliot dropped onto the bench like a corpse returning to the grave. The sword clattered against the floor. He didn't bother to pick it up.
"How far are we?" he asked.
Thorne looked at the map and frowned. "Two more hours. If the roads don't ice."
"Perfect. Just enough time for a nap and an existential crisis."
"You've had four of those already."
"Then maybe just the nap."
The carriage rocked as they moved forward again. Eliot tilted his head back, eyes closing. His silver hair brushed the edge of the seat, long enough to get tangled in the buttons of his collar. His fingers twitched once, like they were still remembering the shape of the demon he fought last night. The way it screamed before it burned.
He didn't regret letting his sister go. Not once. Caelia had cried when she begged him. Her hands were shaking. She was terrified. And her knight, the man she loved, had called him brother with a smile and a bow.
They were idiots. Reckless. Stupid.
But they were in love.
Eliot wasn't.
He'd never had the time for something so luxurious. He was too busy cleaning up the filth left behind when people like his father smiled in public and plotted in private. He was too tired from carrying the weight of secrets no one wanted to admit existed.
They thought he was weak. Useless. The unawakened firstborn who had never once shown the magic that ran through his mother's bloodline.
Fine. Let them think that.
Let them ignore the corpses he buried beneath the city walls. Let them forget how often his boots were stained with things that didn't come out with soap. Let them keep mocking the boy with pretty eyes and soft smiles and a habit of wandering off into dangerous places.
It made life easier.
He woke up again when the carriage jerked to a stop.
They'd arrived.
The northern estate loomed like a monument to silence and war. Thick stone walls lined with sharp pillars, spiked rooftops dusted with snow, a fortress dressed as a manor. No warmth. No welcome. Just cold order.
Eliot stepped down into the slush, stretching his arms as he looked up at the sky. It was still snowing. Lightly now. Tiny flakes clung to his eyelashes and melted before he could feel them.
Thorne walked ahead, checking their names with the guards. Eliot didn't wait. He wandered slowly toward the entrance, brushing frost off his coat sleeve with a gloved hand.
Inside, it was worse.
Everything was too clean. Too quiet. Like a hospital that had forgotten how to treat patients and only remembered how to sterilize corpses.
A steward approached and bowed low. "Your Grace, your chambers are ready. The fitting has been prepared."
Eliot raised an eyebrow. "No dinner first?"
"There will be a small meal delivered to your room."
"Splendid."
Thorne gave him a look that screamed behave. Eliot returned one that whispered try and stop me.
He followed the steward up a flight of narrow stairs, down two long corridors, and into a guest room that smelled like pine and cold stone. The fireplace wasn't even lit. He lit it himself with a snap of his fingers.
The staff started setting up the tailoring equipment immediately. Boxes of silk, silver, embroidery, shoes, belts, gloves, necklaces, and an entire row of cloaks were brought in and laid out like armor for a war he wasn't sure he'd survive.
He removed his cloak and coat wordlessly, standing in just his undershirt and boots as the tailors bustled around him. His expression never changed. Not when they touched his arm to measure. Not when they noted the scar along his collarbone or the roughness of his palms. Not when someone politely asked if he could try smiling for the ceremonial portrait.
"I'm allergic," he said.
They didn't ask again.
Eventually, they decided on the simplest option. Dark velvet. Silver thread. Black gloves. No crown. A formal blade. Polished boots. High collar.
He looked like a war widow and a diplomat's bastard child, all wrapped in elegance and regret.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror, then rubbed a smudge from his cheek.
He looked… fine.
Pretty, even.
A little tired. A little pale. Still alive.
He wondered if that was enough.
Thorne stepped inside quietly and closed the door behind him.
"It's done," he said.
Eliot nodded, not moving.
"Your groom hasn't arrived yet."
"Not surprising."
"You don't want to know who he is?"
Eliot tilted his head, eyes half-lidded. "What's the point?"
"Curiosity."
"Deadly sin."
Thorne didn't smile. "You'll meet him tomorrow."
"Can't wait."
"You don't seem nervous."
"I'm exhausted."
Eliot finally stepped away from the mirror and collapsed onto the armchair near the fire. He poured himself a small glass of wine from the bottle left on the tray. Swirled it. Took one sip.
It was bitter.
He liked it that way.
Thorne hesitated, then crossed the room to set down a packet of folded parchment. Eliot didn't ask what it was. He knew. Schedules. Vows. Instructions. Names of nobles to greet. Warnings about spies. Lists of things he wouldn't read.
He stared into the flames instead.
Tomorrow, he would marry a stranger.
Tomorrow, he would play pretend.
A lovely groom. A perfect alliance. A quiet ceremony.
And after five years, they could divorce peacefully with a signed treaty and a banquet.
That was the agreement.
That was the expectation.
But Eliot knew better than anyone—nothing ever stayed quiet for long.
He drained the rest of the wine, set the glass down gently, and reached into his coat pocket for a single enchanted ring.
*****
The hall was too bright.
That was Eliot's first thought when the music began.
He didn't want to be here. Not in this grand hall. Not in this snow-drenched empire. Not walking toward a man whose face he hadn't seen.
And definitely not wearing a veil.
His fingers tightened slightly at his side as he walked forward. Each step echoed through the massive marble aisle. The suit was tailored to perfection—black with silver lining, sharp collar, soft gloves, boots polished so well they reflected the overhead chandeliers. His long silver hair was pinned loosely at the back of his head, and a thin ceremonial veil was clipped over his forehead, falling softly past his shoulders.
He looked like a groom. But he walked like a bride.
A few steps behind him, two attendants carried the long black cloak trailing from his shoulders, whispering nervously among themselves.
Eliot didn't care.
He didn't look at the crowd.
He didn't listen to the whispers.
He didn't even glance at the man waiting at the altar.
He just wanted to get this over with.
He could still hear the faintest gasps as he passed by.
"Is that a man?"
"That's definitely a man—"
"Why's he wearing a veil?"
"Wait, isn't he the Valerian heir?"
"Did they really substitute him in at the last minute—?"
"Scandalous—!"
Eliot stared straight ahead.
Of course people talked.
A man walking to the altar as a bride? Wearing the heirloom of House Valerian? Last-minute change of partner? The empire had probably broken out in gossip already.
Still, no one said anything aloud.
No one dared interrupt an imperial ceremony.
He reached the front. The carpet ended. His shoes clicked softly against the stone floor.
The emperor sat high above on his gilded seat, expression calm, eyes unreadable. Just beside him stood Duke Valerian, Eliot's own father, who looked ready to combust.
Eliot did not look at him.
He stood still.
Waiting.
Waiting for the voice.
"Today," the emperor spoke, voice low and commanding, "we gather under the divine decree of unity and peace, to witness a sacred bond between two houses, two nations, and two sovereign paths. The groom, chosen heir of the Northern Empire. The bride… House Valerian's gift to the realm."
Eliot rolled his eyes under the veil.
Gift, was it?
The Duke gave a short speech. It was dull. Mostly about sacrifice, unity, and "the honor of family." Eliot tuned it out. He only perked up when he heard the word "substitute" cleverly hidden behind layers of formality.
He half expected someone to object. The ceremony was unusual at best, laughable at worst. A noble son of the West walking in lace-lined formality to marry the cold warhound of the North?
Yet not one objection came.
No one moved.
No one questioned the empire.
Because both families had already made their deals.
And Eliot?
He was a pawn they all believed wouldn't last a year in the marriage anyway.
"Proceed," the emperor declared.
The groom stepped forward.
Eliot didn't look up. Not fully. Just the hands. Just enough to see a taller figure, cloaked in military black and silver, gloves removed for the ritual. The man's hand reached for his.
Eliot held his breath.
The vow magic began, swirling in faint golden glimmers between them, like thin threads of fire dancing through the air.
He could feel the oath humming in his bones.
The man spoke first. A deep voice. Calm. Steady.
"I vow to guard, to stand beside, and to honor this bond. In duty. In name. In peace."
Eliot blinked.
That voice…
He'd heard it before.
But his own turn came.
He raised his chin slightly.
"I vow to accept, to walk beside, and to uphold this alliance. In law. In path. In pact."
The golden shimmer solidified, wrapping around their hands. Magic flickered briefly behind their fingers.
Everyone clapped.
Servants brought forward the ceremonial rings.
Eliot held out his left hand, still gloved.
The man before him gently reached for it. Eliot didn't flinch at first. He wasn't nervous. He wasn't scared.
Until he saw the other hand.
Dark gloves. Removed now.
And on the middle finger, a ring. Dark purple. Gleaming metal set with a faint engraving only visible when the light hit just right.
A noble's ring.
Nothing rare.
Nothing unique.
Except...
Eliot knew that ring.
His breath caught.
No. It couldn't be.
He kept still.
The man's hand hesitated for a moment as if noticing the change, then resumed moving. He slipped the ring gently onto Eliot's finger. Not rushed. Not rough. Just… calm.
Comforting.
As if he understood Eliot's sudden stiffness.
"It's fine," the man whispered low under his breath. "I won't drop it."
Eliot froze.
That voice again.
That voice.
That same calm, cold, damnably familiar voice.
Oh no.
He kept his face neutral. His fingers barely twitched. The man still held his hand for the closing vow.
He felt the stare.
The weight of it.
The man wasn't letting go.
He was looking at Eliot's right hand now.
At the signet.
At the ring worn only by one person.
The Sovereign of the East.
The symbol only his closest knew.
The one the underworld feared.
The man inhaled.
Eliot heard it. Quiet. Sharp.
Realization struck both at once.
Eliot's mind screamed.
No. No. No. NO.
Not him.
Not HIM.
This couldn't be real.
He clenched his jaw as the final command came from the emperor.
"You may lift the veil."
The man raised a hand.
Eliot almost stopped him.
Almost.
But it was too late.
The veil lifted.
And there he was.
Lucien.
The northern sovereign himself.
Tall. Cold-eyed. Broad-shouldered. Face like it had been carved from war itself. The man Eliot had nearly stabbed two nights ago.
The same man who had nearly exorcised him mid-fight by mistake.
The same man who'd told him to get out of the North or he'd personally drag him back to the East in a sack.
Lucien looked at him.
Straight into his eyes.
And sighed.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Eliot blinked once.
Then said the only thing he could.
"…Fuck."