After every major ceremony, it was customary for the court's interpreters to examine anything that had been marked, stained, or touched during the rites. A smear of wine, a drop of oil, even dust brushed from a sleeve could be read for omens and fortunes. Today, all eyes turned to the faint sheen upon the gown of the newly anointed Crown Princess.
Tiny drops of crimson, scattered like fallen stars across the fabric where her hand had brushed near her hip, caught the soft light. A thin streak seemed to pulse faintly along the fabric, connecting the cluster to droplets along the hem, offset slightly to the opposite side, forming a subtle diagonal line across the gown. It was not merely a mark—it was blood, vibrant, warm, and alive with intent, a living map traced by destiny itself.
A hush settled over the chamber as the first interpreter approached: an elderly seer from the northern provinces, robes patterned with sigils of endurance and legacy. His eyes traced the line from hip to hem, narrowing thoughtfully.
"See how the blood flows from hand to hem," he said, voice steady, resonant. "It is deliberate. Life and will intertwined. She moves with purpose, yet the path is tempered by restraint. The northern clans will not falter under her guidance—they will rally as one, for they respect clarity and strength. And yet," he added, voice lowering, "observe the alignment of the flow toward him. Her strength will not be hers alone; it will fortify the future King, lending precision to his rule, steadiness to his judgment."
The geomancer from the central cities shook her head slightly, lips tight, eyes flicking to the diagonal offset. "Yet the shift to the opposite side warns: she is not wholly bound to tradition. Her power carves new paths, as rivers carve channels through ancient stone. Central lords and councilors may struggle to adapt. Strength, yes—but also unpredictability. Together with the future King, they may become more than any province can foresee. Their union is both anchor and gale, depending on those who face them."
A draconic scholar from the volcanic regions raised a hand, voice deep and resonant. "Blood marks covenant. She is pledged to more than the throne. Even the Dragonblood will recognize the essence here. Each drop traces the pulse of connection: from her hand, through life and intent, down to the ground itself. The future King's decisions will be guided, sharpened, strengthened. Their bond ripples outward—volcanic borders, allied clans, even distant courts will feel the measure of it."
From the balcony above, the court historian of the river provinces' voice trembled slightly with awe. "History records few such signs. She carries life-force and intention as plainly as this fabric bears stain. The trade guilds and coastal lords will see opportunity and threat alike. But the weight of the covenant is clear: she does not merely support—she amplifies. Together, they are not two rulers, but one will made manifest. The crown she joins may be strengthened immeasurably, and yet such power will threaten greater foes."
Finally, a young interpreter from the southern plains leaned forward, eyes wide with both excitement and trepidation. "It is as if destiny itself has touched her. The blood draws a map that even unseen forces will heed. Some drops ascend, some descend; left and right, above and below—there is balance, yet challenge. Note the subtle tilt: toward him, yes, but offset to the side. The bond—the covenant traced in blood—will bind them, shaping the fate of every province and every loyal hand under their gaze."
As the attendants moved to clear the ceremonial items, one stopped mid-motion. Beneath the folds of black fabric laid upon the altar—Lucarion's formal mantle—there was a faint discoloration. At first it was thought to be shadow. But as the lamplight shifted, the truth revealed itself: a thin streak of dried crimson near the right cuff, small as a finger's breadth.
The hall stilled once more.
At first, no one spoke. Then the eldest seer inclined his head, voice low and thoughtful.
"The future King's blood marks not the altar, but the self. It does not fall—it remains, answering hers."
A scholar from the river provinces nodded slowly, awe threading his tone. "A mirrored covenant. Her blood traces the path of ascent, his bears the mark of return. Together, they form the circuit—beginning and end intertwined."
"The stain on her gown spoke of guidance," murmured the geomancer. "But his mark speaks of acceptance. It is the seal that completes the design."
The draconic scholar bowed slightly toward the mantle. "Such marks do not lie. Where one carries life, the other carries will. Her pulse awakens his purpose; his strength shelters her flame. Rare, dangerous perhaps, yet bound in harmony."
Around the chamber, the air seemed to thicken with reverence. The interpreters' voices softened into a single murmur, the way priests speak before relics.
"Their bond," said the eldest at last, "is not a chain but a current. It flows both ways. The consort's blood spoke of life extended outward, but the future King's mark tells us that life returns to its source. In union, they create balance—one who gives, and one who endures. Such symmetry is seldom seen."
Whispers ran through the chamber, soft as silk against stone. Lords shifted, eyes darted between interpreter and Crown Prince, gauging reaction, measuring the meaning. Even those skeptical of superstition felt the weight of it pressing, undeniable.
King Valtherion's black eyes, gold limbal rings catching the light, flicked from one interpreter to the next, reading not only their words but the power they assigned. Queen Calantha's gaze remained calm, precise, yet attentive, weighing the court's reactions and the layered significance of the omen. Both understood at once: awe and caution intertwined, proof of potential—and of danger—not just in the mortal consort, but in the pair she would join; allies and rivals alike would watch, knowing that this bond reshaped the balance of power.
No single consensus emerged; each interpretation layered upon the others, a chorus of warning, admiration, and prophecy. The blood was more than a mark. It was map, covenant, and measure of what was to come. The court understood in that moment: Eva was mortal, yes—but one whose presence carried the weight of life itself. Paired with Lucarion, whose strength could bear and guide her power, they would become a singular force in the realm—fortifying the future King, shaping allies and rivals alike, and reshaping the future for all who dwelled under their rule.
—
Lucarion's gaze lingered on Eva as she slept, the rise and fall of her chest slow and even, a weighty calm that belied the fire she carried. Her skin glimmered faintly in the dawn light, a soft halo around her, and for a long moment he simply watched, tracing the memory of her voice—the playful rasp that had asked if he liked the mix of fruits.
He remembered how his answering gaze had made her shiver, shattering his self-control in an instant. In a single breath, he had seized her by the waist and lifted her to straddle his lap. The memory made him smile. She had taken him with a force that was unrestrained, a raw, delicious power that seemed to pull at every thread of his being. At one point, her hands had gripped his shoulders to steady herself, the pressure so firm it had left a faint sting. And he had welcomed it — every spark of strength she had pressed against him, every motion that drove him closer to the edge until he fell over.
Afterward, he had repeated the marking. When he finally lifted his gaze, flushed and inebriated, she had smiled—half triumphant, half teasing—and asked how he felt, while touching his cheek. "As I look," he had admitted, "drunk on you." She had laughed softly, her own breath warm and lingering against him, and confessed she was drunk on him too. They had sat like that, entwined and wordless, letting the heat of their closeness linger.
The memory pulsed in him like a current, warm and insistent, and he realized that it was not just her flesh that had claimed him—it was her will, her unbridled vitality. She had been untamed, and in that untamed fire, he had found the pull he could not resist.
Now she slept, unaware of the small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. The thought of her strength, her intensity, and the quiet surrender that followed—how she could command and abandon herself in equal measure—left him both satisfied and yearning, an ache wrapped in reverence.
His gaze drifted lower, catching sight of the wound he had reopened on her neck. But as he studied it, his brow furrowed. Along the curve of the crescent, a very faint line seemed to shimmer beneath the skin, almost imperceptible yet undeniably present.
Could it be? Only after the second bite? His chest tightened, a warmth blooming along his spine—not from the memory alone, but from the undeniable truth it revealed. The bond was real, reciprocated, potent beyond measure. Relief, awe, and something deeper—something that throbbed like a pulse in tandem with hers—flowed through him. She felt it too. And knowing that, knowing it without words, made his longing both fiercer and softer all at once.
Lucarion leaned closer, fingertips brushing her hair, steadying himself against the tide of revelation and longing. Even as dawn crept through the chamber, the faint shimmer beneath her skin seemed to echo the rhythm of her pulse—and with it, the memory of their unrestrained closeness lingered, intense, unspoken, and wholly theirs.
But then her brow furrowed, lips parting in a whisperless gasp. A shiver ran through her body, subtle at first, then deeper, as if the warmth of their shared bond had suddenly turned cold. Her hand twitched in the sheets; a faint whimper escaped her throat.
Lucarion's chest tightened. She was dreaming. Her face twisted with fear, shadows flickering beneath closed lids. The bliss of their connection had not yet fully shielded her; some darkness had already found its way in.
He hugged her close, steadying her, grounding them both, but the sense of threat lingered like a low drumbeat in the quiet room. For a moment, he simply watched, aware that even in the sanctuary of their shared flesh and blood, the realm—and whatever forces sought to shape her destiny—was never far away.
A growl, soft and warning, rumbled through his chest. Whatever haunted her in that moment, he would not let it take her. Not now. Not ever.