The journey was a slow death in velvet. For three days and nights, Isolde was sealed within the confines of the black carriage, watching the landscape of Aldoria bleed into the perpetual twilight of the northern territories. She refused the provided food and water, opting instead for the sharp taste of her own defiance. Her body ached, but her mind remained cold and focused, turning her hatred for the Ebon Citadel into a shield.
On the third night, a shift in the carriage's movement signaled the end. The vehicle began a slow, grinding ascent, the wheels turning on what sounded like solid rock carved smooth by millennia. Then came the smell, not the metallic scent of her escorts, but a blend of sulfurous cold and something ancient, like a tomb that had been opened after centuries.
Lord Cassian himself opened the door. He stood framed against a backdrop that stole the breath from Isolde's lungs.
They had arrived at Noctis.
The Ebon Citadel was not built, it was birthed from the mountain. It rose in jagged, intricate spires of black basalt and polished obsidian, accented by veins of deep, natural crimson stone that ran through the architecture like dried, sacrificial blood. There were no windows facing the approach, only tall, narrow arches that suggested endless, echoing halls within. The entire structure was massive, intimidating, and possessed an unsettling, predatory beauty. Even the air here felt different, heavy, still, and carrying the low hum of immense, dormant power.
"Welcome, Princess," Cassian murmured, extending a hand she pointedly ignored. "To the heart of the night."
Isolde stepped down onto a forecourt paved in black marble that gleamed even in the darkness. The air was cold, yet it held no freshness, it was the sterile chill of a crypt. She was surrounded by Vampire guards and servants, all dressed in formal black and silver livery. Their movements were soundless, their attention absolute, and Isolde noted their eyes, various shades of gold, amber, and pale blue, before they quickly dipped their heads in deference.
These were the halfbloods and Turned, powerful even in their unactivated state. She registered their baseline strength, the unnatural stillness of their stance, the impossible precision of their movements and felt a prickle of alarm.
She was led through massive iron doors etched with the royal sigil, a stylized bat's wing folded around a dagger into the interior.
The halls were cavernous, lit only by high set braziers burning with a deep, violet flame that cast dancing, elongated shadows. The silence was overwhelming, broken only by the echo of Isolde's human footfalls.
After what felt like miles, they reached a pair of double doors made of some polished, dark wood. Cassian paused, signaling the two guards flanking the entrance, who immediately melted into the shadows.
"The Prince is waiting. Do try to appear pleased, Your Highness," Cassian advised, his voice dangerously low. "He has a distinct aversion to disappointment, and an even greater aversion to feigned emotion. Be yourself, but remember who you are dealing with."
"I am dealing with a monster who needs my bloodline to secure his kingdom," Isolde retorted, her voice barely a whisper, but laced with granite. "I have no need to hide my contempt."
Cassian's pale eyes narrowed, a look of genuine surprise crossing his elegant features. He simply bowed again and pushed the doors open.
Isolde stepped into a vast, circular reception chamber known as the Obsidian Gallery. It was the only room in the Citadel with a single central column of light, a narrow shaft carved through the roof to filter in moonlight, illuminating a dais at the far end. The air was warmer here, scented with rich, imported incense.
Standing on the dais, flanked only by two figures, was Prince Damon.
He was exactly as the spies and envoys had described, perfection molded in ice. He was tall, but his power came not from height, but from the absolute stillness of his body. His hair, a curtain of raven black, framed a face sculpted with terrifying symmetry. His skin was the color of polished Carrara marble utterly pale, absorbing the moonlight rather than reflecting it. He wore black silk tailored with gold thread, a look of lethal, careless luxury.
Isolde met his gaze and immediately understood the distinction between him and every other creature she had seen. His eyes were not silver, gold, or black. They were a permanent, deep, molten Crimson Blood Red. They held no secondary color, no hint of humanity, only the indelible, unactivated power of the Blueblood line. They were the color of an ancient wound that would never close.
Damon's lips curved into a smile that did not reach the killing cold of his eyes. It was a smile of pure arrogance, and it unsettled Isolde more than any snarl could have.
"The Human Princess finally deigns to arrive," Damon drawled, his voice a low, resonant baritone that echoed slightly in the vast chamber. His eyes flickered over her, analyzing her from the tips of her worn leather boots to the knot of her auburn-brown hair. "You are late, Isolde. A trivial offense, but one I already expected."
Isolde forced herself to stand utterly still, matching his poise. The sheer force of his unactivated presence was staggering, it felt like a heavy, physical weight pressing against her ribs, demanding submission. She knew that if he chose to fully activate his power, the resulting double-surge would likely shatter her mind before he even touched her.
"The pace of a political transaction is set by the weakest component, Your Highness," Isolde replied, her voice steady despite the frantic pounding in her chest. "Human horses require rest. If you sought immediate gratification, you should have ordered a lesser bloodline."
A flicker of genuine amusement crossed Damon's crimson eyes, instantly replaced by chilling indifference.
"A spirited commodity," he conceded. "I've been assured you possess fire, Princess. I find fire, eventually, tiresome. But tonight, it amuses me." He tilted his head slightly, the movement a subtle threat. "You look travel-worn. Perhaps a quick draught of purified Pureblood vintage will restore your color before the formalities begin."
"I require nothing from your court but a place to sleep and a clear explanation of my duties," Isolde snapped, refusing to show her revulsion at his casual reference to human blood consumption.
The two figures flanking Damon moved almost imperceptibly. To his right stood a woman of impossible height and severe beauty. This was Nyx, Damon's elder sister. Her eyes were an icy, unactivated silver. Her face was set in an expression of profound, surgical contempt, and her gaze upon Isolde was sharp with rivalry. To his left was a younger woman, shorter and deceptively softer, with wide, gold-flecked eyes. Silvana, his younger sister. She watched Isolde with a curious, predatory interest.
Damon raised a hand, stopping any further reaction from his siblings. "Your first duty, little bride, is to accept the reality of your situation." He swept down from the dais, his movement a blur of silk and power, closing the distance between them in a step.
He stopped directly in front of her. His scent... frankincense, spice, and the metallic tang of ancient blood was suffocating. He lifted a hand to her face, his touch chilling her warm skin. It was an intimate gesture of ownership.
"You hate me," Damon stated, his gaze boring into her. "Good. Hatred is a strong foundation. Love is useless sentiment. I require an heir and a silent political ally. You will be both."
He released her, the loss of his touch a perverse relief. He then turned to Cassian. "Take the Princess to the Obsidian Suite. Prepare the vows for midnight. She needs to familiarize herself with the true meaning of Noctis before she is permanently bound to it."
With a curt nod, Cassian led Isolde away, the soundless procession resuming its slow march through the shadowed labyrinth of the Ebon Citadel. She felt Damon's eyes burning into her back until the heavy doors of the Obsidian Gallery closed, sealing her into her new, beautiful, terrifying prison. She knew this was only the first skirmish.
As she entered her vast, luxurious suite, her fingers went immediately to the hidden ivory box within her cloak. Damon might rule this fortress, and he might wear the permanent crimson of a Blueblood king, but he had no idea of the quiet, unpredictable power she held in her own veins.