The carriage rattled over the uneven road, the lush valleys of Valmont giving way to the stark, snow-dusted hills that marked the border with Arcturus. Elara sat rigid, her hands clasped in her lap, the small dagger—Thorne's gift, disguised as a hairpin—now concealed in her sleeve. The festival's warmth lingered in her mind like a fading dream: the laughter, the lanterns, the brief flicker of something almost human in Cassian's eyes as he whispered to himself under the jasmine arbor. She had overheard it by accident, returning for a forgotten shawl, but dismissed it as a trick of the wind. He couldn't feel alive. He was a monster, and monsters didn't change.
Cassian lounged across from her, reading a scroll by the dim light filtering through the curtains. His black hair fell across his forehead, those poisonous green eyes scanning lines of strategy and reports. He hadn't spoken much since they left Sunspire two days ago, but his presence filled the space like a shadow that absorbed all light. Elara's family had seen them off with grim faces—Rowan's hug crushing, Thorne's whispered warning to "strike true if you must," Lysander's tearful song of farewell. Her parents had stood tall, but Isolde's eyes had begged her to survive.
The border loomed ahead: a massive stone archway carved with the entwined symbols of both kingdoms, flanked by guards from Valmont on one side and Arcturus on the other. Beyond it, the landscape darkened—jagged peaks, perpetual twilight clouds. This was her last chance. Once they crossed, she would be trapped in his world forever.
The carriage slowed as they approached the checkpoint. Cassian set aside his scroll. "Almost home," he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Elara's heart pounded. She waited until the vehicle came to a full stop, the driver dismounting to speak with the border sentries. In one fluid motion, she slipped the dagger free, lunging across the narrow space. The blade pressed against his throat, just below the jawline, her free hand gripping his collar to hold him steady.
His eyes met hers—wide for a split second, then narrowing in what looked like delight.
"Princess," he said softly, not moving an inch. "Is this really what you will do?"
She pressed harder, a thin line of blood welling where the edge bit skin. "You've taken everything from me. My freedom, my future. End this now, or I will."
Cassian laughed.
A genuine, low laugh that rumbled from his chest, his Adam's apple vibrating against the blade. It was the most alive sound she had ever heard from him, and it chilled her to the bone.
"You know what will happen to your family, right?" he continued, still smiling as if this were a game. "The moment my blood spills here, at the border—my father's legions will march. Valmont will burn. Your brothers? Rowan would fight bravely, but he'd die first. Thorne's clever plans would crumble under siege. Lysander... poor poet, he'd compose his last verse in chains. And your parents? Queen Isolde's kindness won't save her from the executioner's block. King Aldric's roar would echo as his head rolls."
Elara's hand trembled. The dagger felt heavy, her resolve fracturing under the weight of his words. She saw it all in her mind: Sunspire in flames, her mother's embrace turned to ashes, her brothers' blood staining the golden fields.
"You're a devil," she whispered, tears blurring her vision.
"Perhaps." He reached up slowly, his fingers closing around her wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough to guide the blade away. She let him, hating herself for it. "But devils keep their promises. Cross with me, and your family lives. Peace endures."
She slumped back, the dagger clattering to the floor. Cassian picked it up, examining it with mild interest before tucking it into his belt. "A fine weapon. I'll keep it as a memento."
The carriage door opened then, a Valmont guard peering in. "All clear, Your Highnesses?"
Cassian nodded. "Proceed."
As they rolled under the archway, Elara stared out at the receding Valmont side, her heart shattering with every turn of the wheels.
Word of the border incident spread like wildfire—though twisted, no doubt, by Cassian's messengers. By midday, ravens arrived from both capitals, summoning delegations to the neutral ground just beyond the arch: a vast meadow ringed by ancient oaks, where treaties had been signed and battles declared for centuries. Elara rode beside Cassian on horseback now, flanked by Arcturus knights in black armor. Her own Valmont escorts trailed behind, their golden banners fluttering uneasily.
The meadow was already alive with activity when they arrived. Tents had been erected—gold for Valmont, crimson for Arcturus—forming a makeshift court under the open sky. King Aldric and Queen Isolde stood at the head of their party, surrounded by nobles and guards. Rowan, Thorne, and Lysander were there too, armed and vigilant, their faces thunderous as they spotted the faint red line on Cassian's throat.
On the Arcturus side, King Theron waited like a specter. Frail from illness, he leaned on a cane carved from ebony, his silver hair cropped short, his face a mask of gaunt ruthlessness. Queen Dowager Morgana stood beside him, her black gown absorbing the light, her expression as unyielding as stone. Prince Draven hovered in the background, pale and insignificant.
The two groups met at the center, a long table set with maps and parchments. No pleasantries were exchanged.
Aldric spoke first, his voice booming across the meadow. "What is the meaning of this summons, Theron? We agreed to the marriage in our capitals, not this forsaken field."
Theron's lips curled into a cold smile. "Circumstances have changed. Your daughter attempted regicide at my border. Such... enthusiasm demands immediate resolution."
Isolde's hand tightened on Aldric's arm. "Elara? Is this true?"
Elara dismounted, stepping forward. "Father, I—"
Cassian interrupted smoothly. "A misunderstanding. Nerves before the union. Nothing more."
Rowan's hand went to his sword. "Misunderstanding? You wear the mark of her blade!"
Theron raised a hand, silencing the murmurs. "Enough. To prevent further... incidents, the marriage will happen here. Now on neutral ground, witnessed by both kingdoms."
Aldric's face reddened. "You presume to dictate terms on my soil?"
"This is no one's soil," Theron rasped. "And soon, all soil will be mine."
The tension crackled like lightning. Guards shifted, hands on hilts. Elara felt Cassian's gaze on her, steady and amused.
After heated debates—voices rising over maps, accusations flying like arrows—the decision was made. The wedding would proceed at dusk, in the meadow, to seal the merger before tempers ignited war anew. Preparations began immediately: altars erected, priests from both kingdoms summoned, garlands woven from border wildflowers.
As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of blood and gold, the ceremony commenced. Elara stood in a hastily altered gown of white silk trimmed in both colors, her hair unbound as per Valmont tradition. Cassian faced her, impeccable in black velvet, the dagger—her dagger—now sheathed at his side like a taunt.
The priests chanted blessings, one in the melodic tones of Valmont's sun gods, the other in Arcturus's harsh invocations to shadow deities. Vows were exchanged—mechanical words of unity, loyalty, eternity. Elara's voice trembled as she spoke them; Cassian's was steady, almost eager.
Then, as the rings were slipped on—gold bands etched with merged crests—King Theron stepped forward. He had insisted on overseeing the final rites, his cane thumping against the wooden platform.
"By this union," he declared, voice cutting through the twilight like a blade, "Valmont and Arcturus cease to exist as separate realms. They merge into one empire, unbreakable and eternal."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Aldric stiffened. "We agreed to alliance, not dissolution!"
Theron's eyes gleamed coldly. "Alliance is weakness. Empire is strength. And I, Theron the Unyielding, declare myself Emperor of this new domain."
He raised his arms, as if embracing the horizon. "Henceforth, it shall be known as the Crimson Eclipse Empire—where the sun of Valmont bows to the shadow of Arcturus, forging power from their eternal dance."
Isolde clutched Aldric's arm, her face pale. Rowan drew half his sword before Thorne stopped him. Lysander whispered a prayer, eyes wide with horror.
Theron turned to Cassian and Elara, his smile ruthless. "You, my son, and your bride, will rule as heirs. But know this: power flows from me. Cross it, and even blood means nothing."
Cassian bowed his head in deference, but Elara saw the calculation in his eyes—the same look he wore when plotting his siblings' ends. She stood frozen, the ring heavy on her finger, the empire's name ringing in her ears like a death knell.
As cheers—forced from Arcturus throats, silent from Valmont—filled the air, fireworks burst overhead in crimson and gold. The merger was sealed. The empire was born.
Elara glanced at Cassian, her husband now. He met her gaze, that laugh from the carriage echoing in her memory.
Is love really for me, she thought bitterly, when it's forged in the shadow of an empire built on threats and blood?
The night deepened, the border meadow now a throne room under the stars, but the chill in her heart promised storms ahead.