"To love one of us is to suffer all of us."
—Unknown Queen, first era of sinbond
---
The marriage rites were over before midnight.
Alaric stood alone beneath the obsidian archway of the throne chamber, his jaw clenched as he stared into the flickering hearth. Flames danced on the edge of violet and gold—sacred colors of unity, the priests had said. He didn't believe in sanctity. Not anymore. Not since the battlefield turned sacred ground into ash and screaming ghosts.
Behind him, the footsteps came softly. Not one pair—four. Four rhythms. Four intentions.
He didn't turn. He already knew.
"You smell of lightning and stubbornness," said Liora, voice like wine poured too slowly. She was the first to approach, her fingers tracing the embroidery on his cloak, not touching skin—yet. "You didn't flinch when I kissed you. That disappoints me."
"It wasn't meant to excite me," Alaric muttered. "It was meant to bind me."
"It did," a new voice said—cold, silk-laced steel.
Sylva stepped to his right, arms crossed, emerald gown gleaming under torchlight. Her eyes never left his. "The covenant is sealed. Whether you believe in it or not."
Darya didn't speak. She never wasted words. She took position behind the hearth, hands folded over the golden folds of her gown, crown tilted just slightly, as if to defy gravity itself. She was watching—calculating. Pride was her weapon, and she wielded it like a dagger: quietly, lethally.
Then Kaelira entered last, striding in with her boots unapologetically loud. No courtly grace, no deception. Just power barely caged.
"I'd rather be on a battlefield than in this farce," she said. "At least swords don't lie."
Liora rolled her eyes. "And yet, here you are. Married to the same man you once tried to kill."
Alaric spoke before the argument could bloom. "Why am I here?"
"You married us," Sylva said, flat. "You're our king now."
"No. I didn't marry women. I married sins. And I want to know why."
The room stilled. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.
Finally, Darya broke her silence. "Because the throne doesn't belong to one man. It never has. It belongs to balance. To ruin. To us."
Kaelira scoffed. "Tell him, Darya. Tell him the curse. He should know what he paid for."
The queens looked at one another. It wasn't hesitation. It was dread.
Sylva spoke it aloud.
"If one of us falls in love, we all die."
---
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was alive—swollen with unsaid things.
Alaric turned slowly. "That's not possible."
"Neither is a crown forged from sin," Liora whispered. "And yet, it rests on your head."
Sylva's mouth twisted. "We are not just women, Alaric. We were born of the Pact. Our blood is bound by a curse cast centuries ago, when the first Queen of Sin tried to love her king. Her heart broke. The other queens bled. The kingdom burned."
"It's a tether," Darya added. "Emotional. Magical. Ancient. If one of us loves purely, fully… the balance shatters."
Kaelira nodded grimly. "We are each an embodiment of sin—Lust, Envy, Wrath, and Pride. To let love rule one sin means the rest weaken. Die."
Alaric shook his head, a muscle in his jaw tightening. "So what? You're cursed to stay heartless?"
"No," Liora said gently. "We're cursed to be desired, but never loved."
---
He stepped away from the hearth. From all of them.
"So what happens if I fall in love with one of you?" he asked.
Darya met his gaze with icy serenity. "Then the rest of us suffer. We grow sick. Power fades. Minds fracture. Eventually, we die."
"And the kingdom?" he demanded.
Kaelira snorted. "We are the kingdom."
Alaric didn't speak. His fists were tight at his sides. A dozen strategies played in his mind—none ended clean. None ended with him surviving this court of fire.
Liora reached for his arm. "You think we wanted this? That we enjoy watching every lover become a liability?"
He looked at her—really looked. And for the first time, saw it: sorrow. Not weakness. Not manipulation. But sorrow sharp as glass.
"You kissed me," he said
Liora nodded. "Because I wanted to. Not because I loved you."
"That's a dangerous line to walk."
"We've lived our entire lives on it," Sylva whispered.
Kaelira stepped forward. "So now you know. You can bed us. You can use us. You can rule with us. But if you love one of us…" Her voice dropped. "You sign our death sentence."
"And if you fall in love with me?" Alaric asked, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
No one answered.
Because they already had.
The room crackled—not with magic, but with tension. With the kind of ache that couldn't be said aloud. Not yet. Not now.
Darya turned toward the shadows. "Sleep well, Your Majesty."
She left first. Sylva followed, quiet as a blade. Kaelira stayed for one last look—a warning, or maybe a plea—and then disappeared into the hall.
Only Liora remained.
She stepped close, heat radiating off her bare skin. "We aren't your enemies, Alaric."
"No," he said. "You're something worse."
She didn't flinch. "You're wrong. We're the women who will either save your throne…"
"…or burn it down."
She kissed him again—softly, this time. Like a question.
Then she vanished, too.
Alaric stood alone.
He didn't move. Couldn't. Not when the truth sat so heavy on his shoulders.
He had married sin to save his kingdom.
Now he realized:
He'd invited damnation into his bed.