The air was still when Elion stepped through the gilded archway into the palace's Grand Hall. A thousand flickering candles lit the marble pillars, casting soft golden light over the towering stained-glass windows. The scent of lavender and firewood curled in the air—warm, fragrant, deceptive.
Because beneath the polished veneer of royalty, something unspoken hung heavy.
Eyes followed him. Dozens. Noblemen, guards, servants, all gathered in breathless silence. No one spoke. Not after last night.
Not after Caelan kissed him with blood on his lips and an oath in his voice.
Elion held his chin high, refusing to let the slight tremble in his fingers show. His ceremonial robe—silver trimmed with cobalt blue—brushed against the floor as he walked, its weight a reminder of his new status. He wasn't a prisoner anymore. Not technically. Now he was something far more dangerous:
A pact-bound consort to the enemy prince.
At the far end of the hall, Caelan sat lazily on the moonstone throne that once belonged to his father. Legs draped over one armrest, a goblet of crimson wine in hand, and that same infuriating smirk carved into his face like he was already winning a game no one else knew they were playing.
"You're late," Caelan drawled, voice low and intimate despite the distance.
"I wasn't aware I needed permission to enter my own royal court," Elion replied, tone cold enough to frost steel.
A soft chuckle. "Ah, there's that pretty fire I adore."
The nobles flinched. Elion didn't miss the flicker of panic that crossed the face of Duke Haverin, the advisor who'd once begged Elion's father to send assassins to the North. How poetic, Elion thought bitterly. Now the same man bowed in his presence.
He walked to the base of the dais. "You summoned me. Why?"
Caelan tilted his head. "Because you and I have unfinished business."
Every nerve in Elion's body tensed.
Was he referring to last night?
To the kiss they'd shared in the moonlit garden—desperate, hungry, laced with venom and confusion?
Or the pact—the binding that had marked both their souls with glowing sigils, fusing their fates?
"I don't recall agreeing to anything," Elion said, glaring up at him.
"You didn't have to. Your magic did."
Gasps echoed from the nobles. A murmur rose like the swell of an ocean storm—dangerous and frenzied.
Pact magic. Forbidden. Ancient. Binding.It was a relic of a war long gone, outlawed by the Seven Realms. The fact that Caelan used it so easily, so casually, spoke volumes of the darkness running through his veins.
Elion clenched his fists. "I want it undone."
"Too late," Caelan said, rising slowly from the throne.
His boots thudded against the steps as he descended toward Elion, gaze burning brighter with every move. He didn't stop until they were chest to chest, barely inches between them. His breath was warm—wine and smoke—and his eyes, gods help him, were so full of wicked things.
"We're bonded now," Caelan whispered, "and nothing—not your defiance, not your crown, not even your pretty little lies—can change that."
A shiver ran down Elion's spine, though he refused to move. "What do you want from me?"
Caelan's hand rose, brushing a strand of white-blonde hair from Elion's face with a gentleness that contradicted the heat in his eyes.
"I want what you promised."
"I promised nothing."
"You did. The moment you touched the thorn."
Elion's breath caught. That night. The sacred garden. The black rose—older than time—blooming in the middle of Caelan's cursed court. He'd touched it in defiance. But he hadn't known…
He hadn't known it would accept him.
That it would mark him as the Pactbearer.
The crowd grew restless. Murmurs rose louder. "Is he truly the one?" "A human heir?" "Impossible." "They said he had fae blood…" "But his realm is gone!"
Caelan ignored them. "Come," he said softly.
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
But Caelan's hand slipped into his, fingers threading together with an unshakable pull. The sigils on their wrists began to glow faintly—silver and crimson—opposite, yet whole.
Elion hated how it made his pulse quicken.
Hated even more how Caelan smiled like he knew.
They walked through the palace's ancient wing, away from prying eyes and golden ceilings, into the forgotten shadows of the old royal library. Dust floated like ghosts in the slivers of sunlight. Caelan closed the door behind them and locked it with a flick of his fingers.
Magic hummed in the air.
"This place is older than both our kingdoms," Caelan said, voice quieter now. "The first Pact was sealed here."
"Why bring me here?"
"To show you what we are now."
He approached an ancient mirror, its glass cracked and blackened with age. Symbols glowed faintly across its surface.
"Look," Caelan commanded.
Elion stepped forward, reluctant. But when he did, the mirror rippled, and their reflections were replaced by something else.
A vision.
Two kings. Two thrones. One crown of thorns.
One man was light — wrapped in moonfire, his eyes burning with sorrow.
The other was shadow — wreathed in flame and gold, his hands soaked in blood.
They faced each other across a battlefield, torn and ruined, but when they reached out — their fingers touched, and the world burst into bloom.
A Pact.
Unity in the face of ruin.
Elion stepped back, breath short. "What is this?"
"Our fate," Caelan said simply. "Unless you run."
"And if I do?"
Caelan smiled without warmth. "Then the world burns."
The silence lingered.
Elion turned away. "You say this like it's all already decided."
"It isn't. Not fully."
"Then I refuse to be your pawn."
Caelan's voice dropped lower, dangerous. "You're not a pawn, Elion. You're the other half of the crown."
Elion's heart beat hard in his chest. Too fast.
He hated how close Caelan always stood, how warm his presence was despite the coldness of his history. But he couldn't lie.
Not to himself.
Something about this bond felt like it mattered.
Something ancient. Something terrifying.
Caelan stepped closer. Their lips nearly brushed. "We could burn together. Or we could rise."
Elion's eyes flicked to his lips. "You always speak in riddles."
"No," Caelan whispered, "you just don't want to hear the truth."
Later that night, Elion stood alone on the palace balcony. The sky above was ink-black, studded with stars like cracks in the dark.
Below, the city flickered with torchlight. Peaceful. But he knew it wouldn't last.
He was a prince without a kingdom. A consort to a king who wore no crown. A bonded soul to someone he couldn't trust—but couldn't deny.
And worst of all… he didn't hate the touch anymore.
The sigil on his wrist pulsed.
So did his heart.
And in the distance, the first horn of war sounded.