The cold steel of a jagged dagger pressed against Emperor Valerius's jugular vein. It was a familiar sensation, really. The third time today, if he was counting correctly.
"Give me one good reason," a voice hissed, dripping with the chaotic resonance of the Abyss, "why I shouldn't paint this exorbitant silk with your royal blood, human."
Valerius didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just sighed—a long, bone-deep exhalation of a man who had spent the last seventy-two hours negotiating trade tariffs on goblin grain and listening to elves complain about the feng shui of the palace gardens.
He looked up. Looming over him was Vexilla, the Crimson Queen of the Demon Realm. She was terrifyingly beautiful, with obsidian horns curving back from her forehead like a crown of bone, and eyes that burned with the literal fires of the Hells. She sat straddling his chest, her weight pressing him into the mattress of the massive, four-poster bed that was supposed to symbolize the unity of their realms.
"Reason one," Valerius said, his voice flat and unimpressed. "If you kill me, the catering deposit for the reception goes to waste. Do you know how much dragon-tail sashimi costs?"
Vexilla's eyes narrowed. The dagger dug deeper. A single drop of blood trickled down his neck. "You mock me? I am the slaughterer of the Iron Legions. I have razed cities."
"Reason two," Valerius continued, ignoring the sting. "Look at your left wrist."
Vexilla hesitated. The sheer boredom in his eyes confused her. Most men screamed when she sat on them with a knife. She glanced down.
encircling her wrist—and Valerius's own—was a faint, pulsing golden thread. It was ethereal, passing through flesh and bone, pulsating with a rhythmic thump-thump that matched Valerius's own heartbeat.
"What is this sorcery?" she growled.
"That," Valerius said, reaching up to gently push the blade away from his throat with a single finger, "is the Vinculum Mortis. The Soul Link. It was in the fine print of the treaty, page four-hundred-and-twelve, paragraph six."
He sat up, adjusting his disheveled collar. The movement forced Vexilla to shift back, though she kept the weapon raised.
"To put it in terms a demon might appreciate," Valerius said, rubbing his tired eyes. "It's a metaphysical suicide pact. I die, you die. I get a headache, you get a migraine. I stub my toe..." He pointed at her heavy combat boots. "You'll feel it in those armored shins of yours."
Vexilla stared at him. The fire in her eyes flickered, replaced by a dawn of horror. "You... you shackled my life force to a human? A fragile, squishy human?"
"Correction," Valerius said, swinging his legs off the bed and standing up. He walked over to a side table and poured a glass of wine. "You are shackled to The Human. And not just you."
He gestured vaguely at the heavy oak doors leading to the adjoining suites.
"Princess Elara of the High Elves is in the East Wing. Chieftainess Rengar of the Beast Tribes is in the West. All of us. Linked." Valerius took a sip of wine, the rich vintage of the Southern Vineyards doing little to soothe his nerves. "I am now the most protected man in existence. Because if my heart stops, the ruling monarchs of the four great realms drop dead instantly."
Vexilla lowered the dagger. Her hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from an apocalyptic rage. "You used marriage... as a hostage situation."
"I prefer the term 'peacekeeping strategy,'" Valerius corrected.
[World-Building: The Soul Link System]
The Soul Link is not merely magic; it is a rewriting of the Karmic Laws. Originally designed by the Lost Gods to bind binary stars together, its application on mortals is theoretically impossible without the catalyst known as the 'Sovereign's Heart'—a relic Valerius supposedly found in the ruins of the Old Capital.
Vexilla stood up, her crimson dress—woven from the silk of hell-spiders—rustling like dry leaves. "I will find a way to break it. And then I will flay you."
"Get in line," Valerius muttered. "The High Priestess of the Elves already threatened to turn me into a decorative fern."
Suddenly, the air in the room shifted.
The candles flickering on the walls didn't blow out; they were suffocated. A supernatural darkness, distinct from Vexilla's demonic aura, pooled in the corners of the room. It smelled of ozone and rotten lilies.
Vexilla's head snapped toward the balcony doors. "Assassin."
"Already?" Valerius checked his pocket watch. "The reception isn't even over."
"Shadow-Walkers," Vexilla hissed, her body instantly shifting into a combat stance. "Mercenaries from the Void Lands. They don't care about politics."
"They care about gold," Valerius said. He didn't look afraid. He looked annoyed. "And my own council has plenty of that."
Three figures materialized from the shadows. They wore suits of matte-black leather that seemed to absorb the light, their faces obscured by swirling gray mist. They held curved blades that dripped with a green, viscous poison.
They weren't here to negotiate.
The lead assassin lunged. He was fast—faster than any human guard. But he wasn't faster than a Demon Queen who had just realized her life depended on the target.
CLANG!
Vexilla intercepted the assassin mid-air, her dagger sparking against his blade. With a roar that shook the heavy stone walls of the palace, she kicked him into a bookshelf, sending ancient tomes flying.
"Protect the human!" she screamed, though the words clearly tasted like bile in her mouth.
"I'm trying!" Valerius shouted. He wasn't fighting. He was standing in the center of the room, eyes closed, focusing.
The other two assassins bypassed Vexilla and rushed him.
"Valerius!" Vexilla shouted, panic spiking in her chest. If he died, she died. The golden thread on her wrist burned hot as the assassins closed in.
Valerius opened his eyes. They weren't glowing with power. They were calm. Terrifyingly calm.
[Ability Activation: Absolute Charisma - "The Emperor's Decree"]
"Kneel."
The word didn't come out as a shout. It came out as a law of physics. It was the authority of a man who had stared down armies and convinced them to go home and farm potatoes.
The [Absolute Charisma] stat didn't mind-control people. It pressed upon their psyche with the weight of absolute social and hierarchical dominance. For a split second, the assassins' brains registered Valerius not as a target, but as the Apex Predator of the room.
The two assassins faltered. Their knees buckled instinctively. It only lasted for a second—a hesitation born of primal submission.
But a second was all Vexilla needed.
She was a blur of crimson and steel. Slash. Slash.
Two heads rolled onto the expensive carpet.
The third assassin, the one Vexilla had kicked, scrambled to his feet, realized his team was dead, and dove for the balcony.
"Let him go," Valerius said, his voice returning to its normal, tired volume.
Vexilla stopped at the window, breathing heavily. She turned to look at him, blood—not hers—splattered across her cheek. "Why? He will report back."
"Exactly," Valerius said. He walked over and inspected one of the severed heads. He used a napkin to tilt the face up. "See that tattoo on the neck? The weeping eye?"
Vexilla nodded. "The cult of the End-Bringers."
"No," Valerius said grimly. "That's a fake. The ink is too fresh. Look at the collar of the tunic. High-grade velvet."
He dropped the napkin.
"These weren't cultists. These were hired by Duke Kaelen." Valerius walked back to the wine bottle. "He always buys his velvet from the same merchant in the Northern District. He's trying to frame a doomsday cult to justify annulling the treaty."
Vexilla looked at the human Emperor with a new expression. It wasn't respect, not yet. But the contempt had cooled into wary curiosity.
"You knew they were coming," she accused.
"I hoped they wouldn't," Valerius corrected. "But I prepared."
Suddenly, the door to the East Wing burst open.
Princess Elara of the Elves stood there. She was ethereal, glowing with starlight, and holding a bow drawn with a silver arrow pointed directly at Vexilla's heart.
"I felt a disturbance in the Link," Elara announced, her voice like wind chimes made of ice. She looked at the dead bodies, then at the blood on Vexilla's face. "Demon witch. You tried to kill him?"
The door to the West Wing smashed off its hinges.
Chieftainess Rengar of the Beast Realm stooped to enter. She was seven feet tall, covered in tribal scars and fur, with the ears of a wolf and claws that could shred plate armor. She sniffed the air.
"Fresh blood," Rengar growled, baring fangs. She looked at Valerius. "Husband. Did the leech-woman hurt you?"
Valerius looked at the three most dangerous women in the world: a Demon Queen covered in blood, an Elf Princess with a nocked arrow, and a Beast Chieftainess ready to pounce. All of them in his bedroom. All of them hating each other. All of them linked to his life.
He sighed and refilled his glass.
"Ladies," Valerius said, raising the wine. "Welcome to the honeymoon. Does anyone know how to get blood stains out of a carpet?"