The room was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that prickled beneath the skin — not peace, but pressure. Like air just before a storm, heavy with things unsaid.
Lyra stood at the edge of the war table in her late mother's study. Dust clung to the shelves. The scent of parchment and iron filled her lungs. Thorne leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. Not cold. Not warm. Just... watching.
She hated that he was hard to read. It meant he'd learned to survive long before this moment.
"Sit," she said, gesturing toward the chair opposite hers. "Let's begin."
He didn't move.
"You said one year," he replied, voice like cracked granite. "No love. No lies."
"Yes."
"Then what do you want, exactly? Spell it out."
So she did.
"I want protection — your name. I want your title on my shoulder when I walk into court and your army at my back when Evelyne tries to ruin me again. I want to be feared. Untouchable."
"And in return?" Thorne asked, stepping into the light. His eyes were black in the fire-glow. Like the shadows wanted to stay in him.
"You get alliance," Lyra said. "Vellorin has enemies. So do you. Together, we become an inconvenience to all of them."
A slow, humorless smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.
"Convenient marriages breed betrayal."
"So does trust."
She held his gaze, steady, sharp. God, she hated how calm she sounded — how her voice didn't betray the trembling beneath her skin. Because this man was not Caelum. He wouldn't be easily charmed, manipulated, or misled. If anything, he looked at her like a weapon waiting to be tested.
He circled the table slowly.
"And what happens if I decide I want more?"
Lyra stiffened. "You won't."
"Won't try? Or won't succeed?"
"Both."
His steps stopped behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body bleeding through her spine. Still, he didn't touch her.
"You want me to fight your war," he murmured, voice low in her ear. "You want me to wear the crown, carry the weight, and be your shield while you bleed the court dry."
She said nothing. Just waited.
"Fine," he said at last. "But I want terms too."
He moved to her side now, pulled out a scroll from his coat — not parchment, but something older, oil-stained and scarred at the edges.
"I don't need your title," he said. "But I will take your allegiance — real allegiance. You don't lie to me, not once. Not to my face. Not to my back. Not through omission."
Lyra's heart beat hard against her ribs.
"I don't lie," she said.
He turned his head. Their eyes met. A dangerous kind of silence bloomed between them.
"I think you lie beautifully," Thorne said. "I just want to know when it's aimed at me."
"Then learn to listen."
A beat. Then another.
She signed.
With blood.
A single drop on her thumb, pressed to the old scroll.
And then — he signed too.
The magic sealed around the paper with a faint hiss, curling like smoke. A contract older than the capital itself. It shimmered faintly, then faded into nothing. Just air.
Thorne stepped back. The faintest flicker of something passed across his face — not relief, not regret. Something quieter.
Final.
"When do we wed?" he asked.
"Tomorrow," Lyra replied, already rising.
His brow lifted. "So soon?"
"The longer we wait, the more room they have to doubt."
"And Caelum?"
Her stomach clenched. The name tasted like rust. "He can watch."
A pause. Then:
"I like your cruelty," Thorne said softly.
"I like your blade."
She moved to the door, but he caught her wrist. Not roughly — just enough to halt her.
"Last chance, Vellorin," he murmured. "Say the word, and I walk away."
Lyra didn't turn around.
"I already burned once," she said. "I won't do it alone again."
Thorne released her. And this time, when she walked out of the room, she didn't look back.
Outside the study, the manor was thick with tension. Servants whispered. Guards shifted. Somewhere, Evelyne was surely watching from a cracked doorframe, mouth twisted in righteous rage.
Good.
Let her see. Let them all see.
She wasn't hiding anymore.
----
She didn't sleep that night.
She sat on the edge of her bed, the cold biting at her ankles, listening to the storm wind crawl against the glass.
In the corner of the room, the wedding gown waited — not white, but deep crimson. A color of blood. A color of war.
There would be no veil.
No flowers.
No father to walk her down the aisle.
Just her, and the man she chose to stand beside her while she set the world on fire.
---
In the room beside hers, Thorne sharpened his knives.
Not because he needed to. Just out of habit.
He could still feel the warmth of her blood on the scroll. Still hear the steel in her voice.
She reminded him of a woman he'd once seen on the battlefield — a queen, barefoot in mud, dragging a sword twice her size through the corpses of her court. Not weeping. Not broken. Just angry enough to live.
That's what Lyra was.
A reason to stay.
A reason to fight.
And gods help anyone who tried to take her from him now.