The marriage didn't give me a ring. It gave me rules.
As the city accepted our pact, the streetlamps shivered and my wrist sigil braided with a thin teal thread. The Guild Master—calm, dangerous, annoyingly handsome—walked me through the arch: THE GUILD OF ERASED OATHS.
Inside was stone, maps, and ledgers thick enough to bludgeon regret. Ink warmed in the air.
A soft stutter of light flicked at the corner of my vision.
[System Notice] Spouse (Provisional) added. Access: Limited. New Skill: Clause Sense (Unstable).
"My interface is… basic," I said.
"You see what you earn," he said, opening a ledger. "Our enemies had a say in the design. You'll fix that."
The pages rustled like something alive. I skimmed my status. Skills: 1. Debts: don't ask. On my wrist, the new braid glowed faintly—my name next to his.
"First task?" I asked.
"Breathing until midnight," he said. "The System updates then. And—"
The doors crashed open.
Three figures swept in, masked, coats lined with enforcement runes. Debt collectors. They moved like knives that could file paperwork.
"Hand over the false spouse," the leader said, stylus aimed at my sigil. "She's not protected."
The Guild Master didn't turn. "Wrong statute."
"This guild has no standing," the collector snapped. "We have orders."
I backed up until my fingers touched a ledger. The paper thrummed under my skin.
[Skill: Clause Sense (Unstable) — Triggered.]
Whispers slid into my ears—tiny legal fish darting between rocks. Exception. Stay. Deny. I slapped my palm on the ledger and let the whispers braid together.
"Unlawful enforcement," I read, and the words moved like a stamp. "Signatory under guild protection and marital bond. Execution paused pending review."
The threshold flared. Runes on the collectors' coats sputtered and died.
The leader cursed. He tried to step forward and bounced off a ward he couldn't see. Rage and embarrassment wrestled under his mask.
"We'll be back," he hissed. "With the Board."
"Bring snacks," the Guild Master said mildly.
They retreated. The ward sighed shut.
My knees loosened. I clung to the edge of the table until my pulse remembered the rhythm for human.
"Good," he said, watching me like I'd just performed a simple card trick and pulled a cathedral out of my sleeve. "Very good."
"Beginner's miracle," I said. "What's next?"
"Orientation. Rules. Tea."
We stared at each other.
"Tea," he repeated, as if that were the most forbidden word in the city.
"I'll drink it if the cup signs an oath," I said.
He actually laughed—short, surprised—as he crossed to a kettle nestled among books. "You want rules. You'll get them. But first: answers."
"I accept in writing," I said automatically.
"You're going to be exhausting," he said, and poured.
He handed me a mug. It was chipped, stained, and clean. The Guild Master watched me taste.
"Not poison," I said, relieved and a little disappointed.
"Too early."
He set his own mug aside and flipped the ledger toward me.
"This is our map," he said. "Pact-Street and the wards we can still access. The noble houses own tribunals and crowds. We own… small corridors of mercy, a few stubborn contracts, and the truth."
"Optimistic."
"Accurate." His mouth softened. "We also own you."
I shot him a look. He lifted a hand.
"In the legal sense only," he said. "Spouse equals we can protect you where a 'client' can't. The title makes certain teeth step back."
"And if I want out?"
"You write the clause," he said. "We file it. We pay the price. Everything here has a price."
He tapped my wrist. "Even names."
"About that," I said. "Why is mine humming?"
"Because your name wasn't born here," he said. "And the city notices imports."
Transmigration. We didn't say it. The walls had ears and excellent gossip.
"Tell me what the System actually wants," I said.
"It wants measurable trust," he said simply. "Between you and me."
"Charming."
"Annoying," he corrected. "It counts what we do for each other and opens locks. If we pretend, it sulks."
"So it's a marriage counselor that grants skills."
"Terrifying, isn't it."
He pushed over a thin stack of paper—hand‑copied rules. Not many lines. Too much implied.
Rules of the Villain Guild (Interim):
No contract that removes choice.
No clause that can't be read aloud.
All penalties cut both ways.
Names are tended, not traded.
If you lie to your spouse, you must fix the consequence yourself.
"Five is personal," I said.
"Five keeps me honest," he said. "And alive."
"And what keeps me alive?"
"You," he said, and looked at me as if that were obvious.
Before I could answer, footsteps paused outside. A knock: precise, polite, expensive.
The Guild Master's attention sharpened. "Noble house," he said. "They want a show."
He didn't put on gloves. He didn't change coats. He opened the door like a shopkeeper with nothing to hide.
A woman entered with two attendants and an apology that smelled like perfume.
"Master," she said. "Forgive the hour. I require a service."
He inclined his head, neutral. "What kind?"
"A witness for a truth-hearing," she said. "Tomorrow. My son is accused of breach. The other party will bring their own. I require the Guild's… credibility."
Attendants lay out a contract. The paper purred. Money glittered in the margins.
I leaned just close enough to read.
Truth-hearing witnesses may not be erased after testimony.
I whistled under my breath. "That protection alone is worth—"
The noblewoman's gaze found me. Noticed my wrist. Calculated.
"Is she…?" she said, voice warm with curiosity and sharpened judgment.
"My wife," the Guild Master said calmly.
Everyone stopped breathing for three seconds.
"Congratulations," she said finally, mouth too sweet. "How domestic. I didn't know villains did domestic."
"We're trying it," he said. "What is your son guilty of?"
"Nothing," she said too quickly.
"Then you don't need us."
Her attendants flinched. The noblewoman's smile thinned. "You misunderstand. We require the weight of your name."
"You came to the wrong guild if you want weight," I said, before wisdom could smother my mouth. "We trade in edges."
Her eyes cut back to me. She assessed again. Different numbers. "What is your name?" she asked.
I gave her the one on my wrist. It wasn't my first, and it wasn't my last, but it worked.
"Pretty," she said. "And you… hear clauses?"
There it was—the rumor starting to leak through the walls. The Guild Master didn't blink.
"She does."
The noblewoman slid the contract my way. "Read."
I did. Under the layer of gold ink and social armor was a trap so neat it could have sold as art.
"Your son can't lie," I said. "And the other side knows it. They're going to ask questions that make truth look like guilt."
She swallowed. "Can you stop it?"
"Yes. If you pay the second price."
"Second?"
"The first is coin," I said. "The second is public. You thank the Villain Guild by name in court."
Silence. The attendants went pale.
"That's not possible," she said.
"Then your son is guilty by design," the Guild Master said, voice gentle as a lock. "Either way, the public learns a truth."
"I can't," she whispered.
"Then we won't," he said.
She left with a rustle that sounded like torn paper. The attendants didn't meet my eyes.
When the door shut, I set the contract down like a hot pan.
"She'll go to the Honest Remedies office," I said. "They'll fix it. Quietly."
"They'll fix it enough to keep the right house happy," he said. "And put her son in a box labeled Tolerable."
"You could have taken the money."
"We could have taken the money," he corrected, "and starved anyway."
I rubbed my wrist. The sigil's glow had shifted—warmer, steadier.
[Trust Action logged. System keys adjusting.]
"Midnight," he reminded me softly. "Let's see what it gives us."
We sat with empty cups and full silence while the guild settled for the night. Somewhere deep in the building, the wind turned pages. The city's clock began to count the last minutes of our first day.
When the bell struck twelve, my interface unfolded like a flower.
[Update Complete.]
[New Perk: Joint Signatory (Minor). You may co‑author Guild filings that affect member freedom.]
[Skill Upgrade: Clause Sense → Clause Threading (LV 1). You can connect two compatible clauses to create a temporary bridge.]
[Bond Tier: 1 — Honest Terms. Passive bonus: +Minor Resistance to Coercion.]
Something else flickered—an entry under Contracts. It wasn't one we'd signed today.
I touched it. The ledger on the table sprang open so violently a mug rattled. A single page glowed—the ink fresh and impossible.
Two names side by side. Mine. The Guild Master's.
Write date: none.
Clause: In the event that either party's true name is threatened, the other will bear witness.
My mouth went dry. "This isn't ours."
"No," he said quietly. "It's older."
"How old?"
He looked at the page as if it had followed him like a ghost. "Old enough to get me sealed."
The ward at the front door stirred, as if something outside had breathed too close to the threshold.
Knuckles tapped the wood. Once. Twice. Polite. Expensive.
"Another noble?" I whispered.
"No," he said, rising. "Worse."
He didn't draw a weapon. He drew a pen.