The imperial garden behind the ballroom was beautiful, of course.
Jade lotus ponds shimmered in the moonlight. Wind chimes jingled gently from white pavilions. Soft magic lamps floated like fireflies above the pathways, casting dreamlike shadows on the gravel.
It should've been romantic.
It was romantic.
If you ignored the two sovereigns standing ten paces apart like dueling cats.
Eliot was pacing.
Lucien was leaning against the stone railing, arms crossed, watching the stars as if none of this mattered.
Which was exactly what made Eliot's blood boil.
"I'm just saying," Eliot snapped, stopping mid-step. "This whole thing—this marriage, this ceremony, all of it—it's too clean. Too fast. Too quiet."
Lucien blinked slowly, not looking at him. "Your point?"
"My point," Eliot said, stabbing a finger toward the ballroom behind them, "is that the emperor didn't even flinch when it was revealed the bride was a man. My Duke threw a teacup at my face, but the Empire? They just nodded and said great, move along."
Lucien was silent.
"And you know why?" Eliot continued, pacing again. "Because they're afraid. Something scared them enough to rush an alliance like this. They didn't care who got married. Just that the oath was sealed."
Still no answer.
Eliot stopped again.
He folded his arms. "Tell me I'm wrong."
Lucien exhaled quietly. "...The Holy Empire."
Eliot flinched. "So you do know something."
"I don't know anything specific," Lucien said calmly. "But when people in power start making desperate, stupid decisions, it always leads back to the Holy Empire."
Eliot slumped onto the marble bench behind him, running a hand through his hair.
"This is insane," he muttered. "I came back from a demon massacre, patched my forehead, and suddenly I'm someone's bride. And that someone is you. Of all people."
Lucien didn't respond. He just stared at the pond.
The silence stretched.
Eliot peeked over at him, annoyed.
"Are you not even slightly upset?"
Lucien finally glanced down. "About marrying a loudmouth peacock who throws tantrums when his tea is cold?"
Eliot bristled. "Excuse me?!"
Lucien didn't blink. "I've fought demons that screamed less."
Eliot jumped to his feet. "You—! You muscle-headed sword-swinging meatbrain!"
"I'd rather be a meatbrain than a glittering noodle with a grudge."
"I swear I will—"
"Do what, exactly?" Lucien asked, raising a brow.
Eliot lunged forward and smacked his chest with the flat of his palm.
Nothing happened.
No divine glow. No oath mark burn. No suppression force.
They both blinked.
Eliot looked at his own hand.
Lucien frowned.
"…That didn't activate the mark," Eliot said slowly.
Lucien straightened. "Because it's not a weapon. It only prevents lethal force."
Eliot's eyes lit with something dark.
Lucien mirrored him.
And then—
Chaos.
Eliot shrieked and launched at Lucien, fists swinging wildly like a furious housecat. Lucien caught his arm, tried to push him back, but Eliot bit his shoulder through the ceremonial coat.
Lucien hissed. "Did you just—bite me?!"
Eliot, mouth still half-full of expensive fabric: "You're lucky it's not your face!"
Lucien grabbed his braid and pulled.
Eliot yelped and kicked his shin. "Foul! Low move!"
"You're the one gnawing on my shoulder!"
They went down together in a tangle of robes and snarls, rolling across the manicured garden lawn like street hooligans.
One of the decorative swans honked and waddled away in panic.
Lucien finally got on top, pinning Eliot with a knee to his side.
"Enough!" he barked.
Eliot spat grass. "You're heavy, you brute!"
"You started it."
"I bit you because you insulted my tea."
Lucien's eyebrow twitched. "That was three insults ago."
"You're smug and emotionally constipated!"
"You flirted with me at the Summit!"
"That was THREE YEARS AGO!"
Lucien let out a breath.
"I tolerated you then. I'll tolerate you now. So long as you don't cause problems."
Eliot glared up at him.
"Tolerate?" he repeated. "You'll tolerate me?"
Lucien raised a brow.
"You act like I'm a misbehaving dog."
"Well," Lucien said evenly, "if the boot fits."
Eliot snapped.
He grabbed a fistful of Lucien's hair and yanked.
Lucien howled and tackled him again.
In the bushes, two shadows watched the chaos unfold.
Thorne, brushing leaves off his cloak, muttered, "Do we stop them?"
Weyl, arms crossed, replied with a deadpan voice, "They're not using weapons. Technically, this isn't a violation of the divine oath."
"They're rolling in dirt."
"I noticed."
Thorne sighed. "I ironed that coat…"
Weyl's eye twitched. "I oiled that ceremonial sword."
They both watched as Eliot screamed, "GET OFF ME," and Lucien shouted back, "STOP FLAILING LIKE A FISH!"
Eliot kicked him in the ribs.
Lucien fell sideways with a grunt.
They both lay on their backs, panting.
The moon drifted overhead.
Crickets chirped.
The divine oath mark glowed gently on their hands — quiet, patient, as if observing the whole event and judging them silently.
"I hate you," Eliot muttered.
"Likewise," Lucien said.
"But…" Eliot sat up slowly, dusting grass off his lap. "You didn't stop me from biting you."
Lucien stared at him. "Would you have stopped you?"
"…Fair."
Another pause.
Lucien sat up too, rubbing his temple.
"The Holy Empire," he said finally. "Whatever they're doing. It's big. They wouldn't need the Empire unless it's something… dangerous. Something involving multiple territories."
"And we're the expendable ones," Eliot finished bitterly.
Lucien gave a tired nod.
"Figures," Eliot muttered, laying back down. "All that trouble. All that pride. And in the end, they still saw us as convenient. Replaceable. Useless."
"They're wrong about the useless part," Lucien said quietly.
Eliot turned his head. "What?"
"You're not useless," Lucien said, eyes still on the stars. "You're insufferable. But not useless."
Eliot blinked.
"…Thanks?"
A long pause.
Eliot's voice came softer.
"You're not so bad when you're not trying to stab me."
"I never tried to stab you," Lucien said. "Only choke."
Eliot laughed.
Lucien allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward.
They sat there in the garden for a few more minutes, side by side, covered in dirt, hair tangled, panting like madmen who had just won a tavern brawl.
And maybe, in a way, they had.
Thorne peeked from behind the tree.
"They're... bonding?"
Weyl groaned. "No. This is worse."
"Why?"
"Because now they'll still want to kill each other — but with affection."
Thorne gagged.
From the lawn, Eliot stretched with a groan.
"I'm going to need three baths and two bottles of wine."
Lucien muttered, "Just don't touch my shampoo."
"You're lucky I don't poison it."
Lucien rolled his eyes. "Try it, and I'll shave your eyebrows in your sleep."
"Pfft. You'd have to get into my room first."
"I already have the keys."
"…What?!"
*****
The bedroom was too quiet.
Not peaceful. Just quiet in the way a battlefield was right before swords clashed.
Moonlight spilled across the polished floors. The incense burned in delicate swirls. The bed was massive — fit for royals — with a silk canopy that rippled in the breeze like a taunt.
Eliot stepped out of the bath first.
His silver hair was damp, clinging to his neck in curling strands. He wore a long, pale gold robe embroidered with phoenix feathers, tied at the waist. His golden eyes glimmered like fire in the candlelight, but there was no warmth in them.
Lucien emerged a moment later.
He wore deep blue, nearly black, a robe as plain as it was sharp. His dark hair was tied up loosely, still wet. He looked calm. Composed. Barefoot and unreadable.
They stared at each other across the room.
Then both looked at the bed.
And frowned.
"There's only one," Eliot said flatly.
Lucien's eyebrow barely lifted. "Of course there is. We're married."
Eliot's face twisted like he bit a lemon. "Don't say it like that."
"Like what?"
"Like it means anything."
Lucien shrugged and walked past him, grabbing a towel from the dresser to finish drying his hair. "We don't have to act married. Just sleep."
Eliot scoffed. "As if I could sleep next to a man who tried to throw me into a demon nest last year."
"That was an accident."
"You aimed."
Lucien didn't even flinch. "The demon dodged."
"The demon dodged because you used me as bait!"
Lucien threw the towel down. "You were the loudest thing within fifty meters. It made sense."
"You're insufferable!"
"And you're dramatic."
The room fell quiet again.
They stared at the bed.
Eliot walked over to it and, without warning, grabbed a pillow.
He dropped it on the bed.
Grabbed another.
Dropped it in a line down the middle.
Then another.
And another.
Until there was a fluffy wall of four pillows dividing the mattress like an international border.
Lucien watched, deadpan. "Are you five?"
"This is the neutral zone," Eliot declared, dusting his hands. "Cross it, and I scream."
Lucien sighed and walked around to his side of the bed. "Just don't hog the blanket."
"Don't breathe too loudly."
"Don't talk in your sleep."
"I don't."
"I know. I've tried to stab you while you slept before. You lie there like a corpse."
"…We are not bonding."
"Never."
They climbed into bed at the exact same time, refusing to look at each other.
Eliot rolled toward the wall, fluffing his pillow with more violence than necessary.
Lucien sat still for a moment, then lay down too, staring at the ceiling.
The silence stretched.
Only the soft sound of the wind outside, the flickering fire, and their synchronized annoyance filled the space.
Then—
"…You don't snore, do you?" Eliot asked suspiciously.
"No."
"Good. If you do, I'm putting a sleeping charm on your mouth."
Lucien muttered, "If you cast any charm on me while I'm unconscious, I will drag you to the dungeon by your ankles."
Eliot yawned. "So romantic. Just what every newlywed dreams of."
Lucien adjusted his pillow. "This is temporary."
"You keep saying that."
"It's true."
Eliot paused.
Then quietly muttered, "Do you think it really is because of the Holy Empire?"
Lucien's jaw clenched.
"…Maybe."
Eliot stared up at the canopy. "But why now? Why the rush?"
"I don't know."
"I hate not knowing."
"I hate sharing a bed."
Eliot threw a pillow across the divide. "Don't change the subject."
Lucien caught it without looking and dropped it back into the pillow wall. "You're still thinking about it."
"It's better than thinking about this farce of a marriage."
Lucien exhaled, turning slightly on his side to face the pillow wall.
Eliot did the same.
They stared at each other over the stack of fluff.
"Just go to sleep," Lucien said.
"You first."
"I'm not letting you hex my robe while I'm asleep."
Eliot scoffed. "Please. If I wanted revenge, I'd trip you in the morning in front of the emperor."
"...You've done that before."
"And I'll do it again."
Lucien didn't reply.
Eliot closed his eyes.
Five seconds passed.
Then—
"…You really don't snore?" Eliot asked again.
"Sleep."
Eliot grumbled something about ice blocks and cold glares.
Lucien didn't answer.
Eventually, the silence took over again. The candlelight grew dimmer. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. The wind howled against the windows.
And the bed… remained divided.
Until Eliot shifted.
And a pillow fell.
It didn't crash or thump.
Just… flopped.
Right onto Lucien's arm.
Lucien opened one eye. Stared at it.
Then stared at Eliot, who froze.
"I told you," Lucien said dryly, voice low and quiet. "Neutral zone."
"It fell."
"You threw it."
"I didn't!"
Lucien grabbed the pillow and casually placed it back on the pile.
"Touch me again," he warned, "and I'm wrapping the blanket around you and kicking you onto the floor."
Eliot snorted. "As if you'd dare."
Lucien rolled over again. "Don't tempt me."
They didn't speak again for a long time.
But the night was long.
And full of questions.
And neither of them could sleep easily.
Eliot shifted again, his thoughts a storm of mess — about his sister, about the Duke, about the empire's desperation, about the stupid glowing oath on his hand, and the man lying just two feet away who somehow always smelled like cedar and snow and a little bit of blood.
Lucien, meanwhile, stared at the canopy, counting how many ways this alliance could go wrong.
He had never wanted marriage.
Never cared for love.
He barely had time to sleep most days.
And now… this.
This sharp-tongued nobleman who looked like a painting and fought like a wild cat.
This was his life now.
And somehow… that wasn't even the worst part.
The worst part was the fact he was getting used to it.
Outside the door, Thorne stood with a tray of warm tea.
Weyl stood beside him, arms crossed.
"Think they'll kill each other tonight?" Thorne whispered.
"No," Weyl sighed. "They'll want to, but they won't."
"Should we check?"
"I value my life."
Inside the room, Eliot rolled again.
Lucien groaned.
"Stop moving."
"I'm not made of wood."
"You're made of noise."
"You're made of arrogance."
"You bit me today."
"You pulled my hair!"
"I should've pulled harder."
Eliot threw the blanket over his head.
Lucien shoved his face into his pillow.
Silence.
Then, softly—
"…We're doomed, aren't we?" Eliot mumbled under the covers.
Lucien muttered into his pillow, "We're married. Of course we are."
Eliot snorted.
Lucien closed his eyes.
And finally… finally…
They slept.
Side by side.
Separated by a line of pillows.
Bound by divine law.
And maybe, just maybe, one step closer to becoming something worse than enemies