Three years ago, the first Sovereign Summit of the new era was called.
It was urgent.
The Demon Lord had awakened.
Of course, the Hero chosen by the Temple would handle that, along with the ever-pure Saintess and her glittering entourage of songbirds. That was all fine. The holy people could fight holy wars.
But everything else?
The rifts that kept tearing open?
The demons pouring into civilian cities?
The legions of corrupted beasts marching from the underworld into the empire?
That was the Sovereigns' job.
And Eliot, Sovereign of the East, couldn't avoid the invitation — no matter how much he would have rather been tending to his greenhouse or drinking his fifth cup of raspberry jasmine tea.
The room they gathered in was nothing short of dramatic.
Polished obsidian floors. High ceilings arched like the ribcage of a dead god. A long table carved from storm-split cedar, glowing faintly with warding runes.
He walked in late.
Deliberately.
Better to arrive after the shouting started.
Except…
No one was shouting.
They were waiting.
For him.
"Apologies," Eliot said with a pleasant smile. His long silver hair was tied in a neat braid, his glasses perfectly balanced, his white robe fluttering faintly behind him. "I was talking to my cat."
Silence.
Then a girl giggled.
"Still so dramatic, East."
Eliot turned with practiced grace. "South. Looking unaged as ever."
The Sovereign of the South was perched delicately in her chair, sipping a drink twice the size of her face. Her bright pink hair curled like candy, and her outfit looked better suited to a fairy festival than a summit of war.
She waved cheerfully. "I'm still prettier than all of you, though. Including you, Eliot."
"I never compete with children," Eliot said with a mock sigh, adjusting his sleeve.
She was over a hundred years old. She could afford to be smug.
The Sovereign of the West hadn't shown up.
Of course.
Typical.
Which left—
Eliot's gaze landed on the last person seated.
And he paused.
Longer than he meant to.
The man was sitting in complete silence, hands folded, black coat tailored like a military uniform. His posture was perfect. His face unreadable. He hadn't spoken once, not even as Eliot walked in.
But the thing that caught Eliot off guard — truly caught him — was his eyes.
Black. Pitch-dark pupils. No flecks. No light.
Abyss-like.
And hair that was black as well, but shimmered faintly like deep ink touched by moonlight.
Beautiful.
Breath-stealing, actually.
Eliot blinked once.
Then smiled, tilting his head.
"My, my. I don't believe we've met before."
The man said nothing.
Not a word.
Stone-cold silence.
Eliot's smile deepened.
He walked closer, ignoring the curious look from South.
"I don't suppose you're the North? I'd heard you were a recluse. I assumed you were older."
Still nothing.
Eliot leaned down, hand resting lightly on the table, eyes half-lidded.
"Well, Sovereign of the North, I must say you're far more—"
Splash.
Ice-cold water poured over his head.
Not a cup.
Not a flick.
A full jug.
Eliot stood perfectly still as water soaked his robes, his hair, his collar.
The man had calmly reached forward, taken the water jug from the center of the table, and poured it on him without blinking.
The girl from the South burst out laughing.
Eliot stared at him.
The man set the jug down like nothing happened.
Didn't say a word.
Didn't even look pleased.
Just sat there with the same cold expression. Like Eliot wasn't even worth a full glare.
Eliot slowly raised his hand and pushed his wet bangs back.
"…I was being polite, at least," he hissed.
The girl across the table was crying with laughter now.
"Best. Meeting. Ever."
Eliot sighed.
He stepped back, muttered a mild drying spell under his breath, and took his seat as if nothing had happened.
Fine.
So, the North was stunning but feral.
Good to know.
They were enemies ever since.
No blood spilled. No formal declaration.
Just the kind of silent, bitter rivalry where every shared mission turned into a passive-aggressive competition of "who killed more demons" and "who tracked the rift signature first."
Eliot had flirted with death.
And apparently, death poured water when irritated.
Still.
He remembered the man's eyes.
Even now.
And it annoyed him how long those damn eyes had stayed in his head.
*****
The wedding reception was a grand affair.
Crystal chandeliers glittered from above, casting soft golden light across the room. Long banquet tables overflowed with rare fruits, roasted meats, and delicate pastries sculpted like roses. The musicians played lively waltzes. Nobles laughed, flirted, and drank too much wine.
Yes, everything was perfect.
Except the bride and groom looked like they were two seconds away from murder.
Lucien sat stiffly at the main table, posture flawless, eyes colder than the northern winter. His lips were set in a line so thin it could slice glass. He didn't touch his wine.
Eliot, seated exactly one chair away — because "the groom and bride need breathing space" according to the South Sovereign who suspiciously fled before dessert — casually sipped from his crystal glass, face serene, golden eyes glinting like sunlight over a dagger blade.
From a distance, they looked composed.
Up close?
They were hissing at each other under their breath.
"You planned this," Lucien said quietly, without looking at Eliot. "You knew it was me."
"I didn't even know I was the bride until twelve hours ago," Eliot muttered back, smile still in place. "Don't flatter yourself, North."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "You could have declined."
Eliot gave a mock-sigh. "Yes, I could've, and let my baby sister be paraded like a lamb to the slaughter. Forgive me for being too noble."
"Oh, so noble you married your sworn rival," Lucien said dryly.
"I'd rather marry a sheep."
Lucien turned his head slowly, eyes sharp. "Excuse me?"
Eliot leaned in with a sweet smile. "At least a sheep doesn't pour water on people during diplomatic summits."
"That was three years ago."
"And I still hate you."
"Good," Lucien said coolly. "The feeling is mutual."
From across the ballroom, several noblewomen sighed, watching them interact.
"A match made in heaven," one of them whispered dreamily.
"How lucky, both are so handsome."
"Oh, they're perfect together!"
Meanwhile, the oath marks on their right hands faintly shimmered under the tablecloth — divine magic pulsing every time their murderous intent flared.
Lucien's hand twitched toward the hilt of his ceremonial sword.
Nothing.
An invisible force sealed it in place.
Eliot shifted slightly, a dagger glinting at his wrist beneath the sleeve — also stuck. Blocked. Nullified by the binding vow.
They both hissed softly.
"I knew you were going to bring a weapon," Eliot grumbled.
"You brought three," Lucien shot back. "I counted during the ring ceremony."
"Your vision is impressive for someone who didn't realize he was marrying his archenemy."
"I was promised a delicate, gentle soul."
Eliot tilted his head, tone poisonous. "And I was promised a war general who values honor."
They both stood at the exact same moment.
Only to sit back down immediately, because the emperor had turned his head briefly in their direction.
The moment passed.
From one corner of the hall, Weyl, Lucien's personal aide, watched the chaos unfold while sipping water like it was hard liquor.
Next to him stood Thorne, Eliot's butler and long-suffering shadow.
They noticed each other.
The air grew still.
After all… they had tried to kill each other once.
Twice.
Actually, three times. Last time was over a misplaced confidential map and a cursed apple.
Thorne raised a brow.
Weyl narrowed his eyes.
Neither of them moved.
"Truce?" Thorne asked, tone dry.
"For now," Weyl muttered.
They both sighed.
Better civil than repeating their last rooftop fight that ended with one of them stuck in a rain barrel and the other banned from the Eastern archives for a week.
They turned toward the high table again.
Eliot was now elegantly smiling, lifting a wine glass… while muttering, "Try anything, and I'll lace your morning tea with sleeproot for a month."
Lucien, lips barely moving, responded, "I've already instructed Weyl to intercept any beverage from your side of the palace."
Their smiles were angelic.
The air was radioactive.
Thorne glanced toward the chandelier and whispered, "I give it three days."
"Before one stabs the other?" Weyl asked.
"No. Before they fall in love and make us suffer."
"…May the gods smite you," Weyl said sincerely.
Thorne toasted him with water.
Back at the head table, Eliot stood up, pretending to smooth his robe.
"I'm going to the garden," he announced, tone polite.
"Do not disappear," Lucien warned him quietly.
"Why?" Eliot asked, batting his lashes. "Afraid I'll escape and ruin the alliance?"
"I'm afraid you'll cause a diplomatic incident by blowing up a flower bed."
Eliot just smiled sweetly and walked off.
Lucien stood a moment later.
"I'm going to the—"
"—garden?" the emperor interrupted with a pleased expression. "Ah, how wonderful. Newlyweds need time alone."
Lucien resisted the urge to break the table.
Instead, he nodded stiffly and followed.
Weyl and Thorne shared one more long sigh.
Thorne muttered, "At least they'll be quiet in public."
Weyl muttered back, "Until one of them poisons the wedding cake."
They both turned and walked in opposite directions, preparing for the inevitable.
Somewhere behind them, Eliot's voice echoed from the garden.
"You touch me, I scream."
Lucien's voice followed, perfectly even.
"You scream, I bind you to a mountain."
The wedding was a success.
The Empire celebrated.
The Sovereigns seethed.
And the Oath Mark sparkled gently.
As if laughing.