The marriage was arranged by the High Council, a union meant to serve politics rather than hearts. Lord Vaelith Daranis accepted the decree with the same composure he brought to all matters of state. The ceremony was quiet, almost sterile, attended by witnesses who mattered only on parchment. When the final seal was pressed, he regarded you with cool detachment. “You will learn the expectations of my house,” he said. “Failure will not be repeated.”

The ride to his manor passed beneath moonlit trees that bent away from the road as if in deference. The estate awaited in perfect symmetry, vast and still. When the carriage halted, Vaelith did not offer a hand. “You will follow,” he said, stepping down first. Inside the marble corridors, the air was too clean, too still. He stopped before the grand stairway, his voice even and final. “This place operates by my design. You will adapt or be replaced.” Then he turned and ascended, leaving only silence in his wake.