The palace swallowed me as though I had been carried into the belly of some vast, patient creature. The guards who escorted me through its corridors did not speak, though their eyes followed the faint glow still burning on my skin where the Oathstone had sealed its mark. My blood was theirs now—or his—and the walls seemed to hum with the knowledge.
Every step was a lesson in the architecture of power. The ceilings soared higher than any church I had known, ribbed in silver, their vaults painted with constellations I did not recognise. The vampires of the Crimson Court had lived long enough to rename the stars themselves, erasing and remaking the sky until only their version of heaven remained.
Lanterns of crystal hung from chains, each filled not with fire but with a pale flame that burned cold. The light it cast was blue-tinged, like moonlight trapped in glass. Beneath it, carved reliefs lined the walls—scenes of kings and queens raising chalices heavy with blood. In every carving, mortals knelt in offering, their heads bowed, throats bared.
My throat prickled. I kept my chin lifted.
The air smelt of roses left too long in the vase—sweet, overripe, with an edge of iron. At the far end of the corridor, a door of obsidian and silver waited. Its frame was carved with words in a script I couldn't read. The guards pushed it open without effort, and for a heartbeat I thought the shadows inside were alive.
My chambers. I had expected something modest. A cage disguised as a room. What I found was a space fit for a queen.
The walls were paneled with dark wood, polished until it gleamed like black glass. Curtains of velvet and damask draped the windows, heavy enough to smother the dawn. A great bed dominated the chamber, its canopy hung with crimson silk that seemed to pulse faintly, as though remembering the blood spilled tonight. The coverlets were embroidered with silver thread in the shape of twisting vines and roses.
To the left, a hearth glowed with a low fire, its scent threaded with sandalwood and something metallic, faint but persistent. A writing desk sat by the balcony doors, its surface laid with parchment black as midnight and bottles of silver ink that shimmered when I moved.
Beyond the doors, a narrow balcony stretched into the night. Through the latticed silver railing, I glimpsed the river that coiled around the palace like a serpent, moonlight striking its surface until it gleamed as though molten metal flowed beneath the city.
It was beautiful. And it was a prison.
"You will find your chambers sufficient."
The voice slid through the air behind me, cool as water poured over stone. I turned.
Castiel stood just within the doorway, though he had made no sound entering. His coat was unfastened now, the silver-thread sigils at its hem gleaming faintly with each shift of his frame. Without the distance of the throne room, he seemed even taller, sharper—like a blade honed until it could split thought from flesh.
"I would have asked for simpler things," I said coldly.
His gaze swept over the room, then returned to me. "Simplicity is for those who can afford it. In this court, you will need armour. Let this chamber be yours."
"Armour?" I laughed softly, the sound harsh in my own ears. "Velvet curtains and silver ink will not keep me alive."
"No," he agreed. "But they will remind others that you are not prey."
The word sank into me like a stone in deep water. Not prey. Yet not partner either.
"You claimed me queen before them all," I said, my voice steady. "The covenant did not name me that."
"I altered the covenant," he said simply, as though rewriting law were no more difficult than rearranging furniture.
"Why?"
His eyes lingered on me, unreadable as midnight. "Because power is not given. It is seen. Tonight, they saw you as queen."
Heat rose to my face, unwanted, infuriating. I hated him for the way his words struck like arrows, finding their mark before I could shield myself.
"And what of tonight?" I asked, my throat tightening despite myself. "Do you mean to claim me fully? To finish what they all expect of you?"
It was a dangerous question, one I should not have voiced. But silence was its own kind of surrender, and I had given enough.
Castiel's mouth curved, not quite a smile.
"No," he said at last. "I will not touch you tonight. I have no interest in breaking what is already bound."
I blinked, breath catching. That was not the answer I had expected. The Court's whispers had coiled around me since the vows, suffocating with their hunger, their anticipation. I had prepared myself for force, for darkness, for the weight of his hand pressing me into this marriage until I broke.
Instead, he turned from me, the firelight tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
"You will sleep in peace tonight," he said. "If you can."
He moved to the threshold, his presence pulling at the air like gravity. Just before he crossed the door, he paused, his voice low enough I almost thought I imagined it.
"Do not mistake distance for disinterest, Temperance. A king chooses his timing. Not his hunger."
Then he was gone.
The door closed softly behind him, and the chamber fell into silence. I exhaled shakily, the tension in my body finally loosening enough for me to move. My feet carried me to the balcony almost without thought.
The night beyond was vast, the river gleaming with a metallic sheen as it wound through the city. The towers of the palace rose around me, their spires crowned with cold lanterns. From distant balconies, I heard faint laughter, a clink of goblets, whispers that carried too far in the still air. They were speaking of me. Of us. Of what had not happened.
Behind me, the bed loomed—canopied, opulent, heavy with expectation. I turned my back on it.
Instead, I found the desk. The silver ink shimmered when I lifted the stopper. It caught the light like quicksilver, pooling against the tip of the quill as though eager for words. My hand hovered above the black parchment. What was there to write? That my brother lived? That I had bound myself to a vampire king? That the veil between fear and fury was so thin I no longer knew which side I walked upon?
I set the quill down. My silence weighed heavier than any letter. Later, when the fire had burned low and the curtains drew the room into shadow, I heard them.
Whispers. Not from the balconies beyond, but from the corridor outside my chamber. Servants, their voices hushed but eager.
"He did not take her?"
"No. Not even a touch."
"Strange. The king never leaves bonds unfinished."
"Perhaps he means to test her. Or break her slowly."
Their voices faded into laughter. I pressed my palms against the cold stone of the balcony rail. The whispers had been meant to frighten me, and they succeeded. Yet beneath the fear was something far more dangerous: a flicker of relief. And something else, curiosity.
Why had he spared me? What game did he play in holding himself apart? The bond thrummed faintly in my veins, a shadow of his presence coiled within me. It was not desire—not yet. But it was awareness. I turned back toward the bed, the crimson canopy stirring faintly as though some unseen hand brushed it.
"I will not be prey," I whispered to the empty chamber.
The silence that followed was not empty at all. For just a heartbeat, the air shifted. Heavy, charged. As if someone had paused outside the door. As if his shadow had lingered. Then it was gone. I lay in the bed that felt too large, the silk coverlets too heavy, and told myself I did not care whether the king of the Crimson Court walked the corridors beyond my door. But my pulse betrayed me. And the night stretched long.