Seraphine's POV
They drag me from the carriage before dawn.
I don't get time to prepare myself. Don't get a moment to breathe or think or remember why I'm doing this. Commander Thane yanks open the door and barks, Get out. The Blood King doesn't like to be kept waiting.
My legs shake as I step onto black stone. We're at a fortress built into the border itself—half Northern construction, half Southern. It's where they make exchanges. Prisoners. Treaties. Sacrifices.
Two guards grab my arms and march me toward massive iron doors. I try to pull free, but their grip is iron.
Please, I whisper. I need a minute—
You don't get minutes anymore, Commander Thane says coldly. You're his property now.
The doors swing open, and heat blasts out like opening an oven. I'm pushed inside before I can resist.
The hall is enormous, lit by torches that burn with strange red flames. Northern officials stand on the left side, dressed in their formal robes, faces carefully blank. Southern officials stand on the right, all wearing black armor, all watching me like I'm a piece of meat.
No one speaks. The silence is suffocating.
I stand alone in the center of the hall, my white dress making me feel like a target. The poison vial presses against my ribs, heavier with every heartbeat.
Then the far doors open.
And HE enters.
I stop breathing.
Daemon Karvath is nothing like I imagined. I expected a monster—something twisted and inhuman. Instead, he's a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, moving with a warrior's grace. Dark hair falls to his shoulders. Scars cross his face and hands, telling stories of violence survived.
But his eyes.
Gods above, his eyes.
They glow red like burning coals, brighter than the torches, brighter than anything natural. When his gaze lands on me, I feel it like a physical touch—hot and invasive and utterly terrifying.
He stalks toward me, and every instinct screams at me to run.
I force myself to stay still. To keep my chin up. If I'm going to die, I won't die cowering.
He stops three feet away, studying me with those burning eyes. Up close, I can see the black veins spreading across his neck and hands, pulsing with dark magic. The curse. It's real. It's visible. It's consuming him.
Another one, he says softly. His voice is deep and rough, like gravel scraping stone. Tell me, Northern Council—did you truly believe the eighth time would be different?
A Northern official steps forward, unrolling a scroll with shaking hands. Lord Karvath, as per the treaty negotiations, we present Lady Seraphine Ashford as a peace bride, symbolizing the unity between
Spare me the speeches. Daemon's eyes never leave my face. I know what she is. A sacrifice wrapped in silk. A lamb sent to the wolf's den. He tilts his head. The question is—does the lamb know she's meant to die?
My throat is so dry I can barely speak. Yes.
Surprise flickers across his face. Honest. How refreshing. He begins circling me slowly, like a predator deciding where to bite first. Tell me, little bride, are you brave or just resigned to death?
I turn to keep him in sight, refusing to give him my back. Does it matter?
To me? No. To you? He stops directly in front of me. It might be the difference between dying quickly or slowly.
The Northern officials shift uncomfortably. One clears his throat. Lord Karvath, the treaty requires
I know what the treaty requires. Daemon's voice cuts like a blade. Let's get this farce over with.
He holds out his hand.
I stare at it, my heart hammering. His skin is covered in those black veins, pulsing with dark magic. They say his touch can kill. They say he can stop a heart with a thought.
If I take his hand, I'm accepting this. Accepting him. Accepting my death.
But I have no choice. I've never had a choice.
I place my hand in his.
Pain explodes through me.
His touch burns like fire, like my hand is being held over flames. I gasp, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens. Not enough to hurt more, just enough to keep me from escaping.
Breathe, he commands. The pain will pass.
He's right. After a few agonizing seconds, the burning fades to warmth. Still uncomfortable, still unnatural, but bearable.
Daemon's eyes narrow slightly, studying our joined hands with something that might be surprise.
Interesting, he murmurs.
The Northern official rushes through the ceremony, reading the treaty terms in a voice that shakes. I don't hear most of it. All I can focus on is Daemon's hand gripping mine, hot and tight, a physical reminder that my life no longer belongs to me.
Do you accept these terms? the official asks me.
What happens if I say no? Do they kill me here instead?
I accept, I whisper.
Lord Karvath?
I accept. His smile is cold. Let it never be said I'm not a gracious host.
The official looks relieved to be done. Then by the power vested in me by the Northern Council, this treaty is sealed. Lady Seraphine is now under Lord Karvath's protection and authority.
Protection. What a lie.
Daemon releases my hand and steps back. Gather her things. We leave within the hour.
Wait, I hear myself say. Everyone turns to stare. Where are we going?
His smile widens, showing teeth. Home, little bride. My fortress in the South. Where all my wives have gone before you.
What happened to them? The question escapes before I can stop it.
The hall goes silent. Even the Southern officials look uncomfortable.
Daemon leans close, his breath hot against my ear. Would you like me to show you their graves? Or would you prefer to meet them in person?
Ice floods my veins. They're alive?
He pulls back, and his expression is unreadable. That depends on your definition of alive.
Before I can ask what that means, he turns and walks toward the exit. Bring her, he orders his guards. And make sure she doesn't try to run. I'd hate to have to hunt her down before we even reach the fortress.
Two Southern guards flank me immediately. They're massive, armed, and look like they'd enjoy chasing me if I ran.
I glance back at Commander Thane and the Northern officials. They won't meet my eyes. They've already written me off as dead.
I'm alone.
The guards march me outside where a black carriage waits, pulled by horses with eyes that glow like embers. Daemon climbs in first, settling into the shadows.
Come along, little bride, he calls. I don't have all day.
I climb in with shaking legs. The door slams shut behind me, and we're plunged into darkness except for the red glow of Daemon's eyes.
The carriage lurches forward.
Comfortable? Daemon asks from the shadows.
No.
He laughs, a sound without humor. Good. You shouldn't be. We have a long journey ahead, and I think it's time we discussed something important.
My hand moves unconsciously toward the hidden vial. What?
The red glow of his eyes brightens, and suddenly he's leaning forward, close enough that I can see every scar on his face.
Why you're really here, he says softly. Because we both know this isn't about peace, little bride. The Northern Council sent you for a reason. And I'm going to find out what it is.
His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist with burning fingers.
So tell me— His grip tightens. What are you hiding?