The chamber is dim, lit only by the red glow of candles that drip like open wounds. Incense hangs thick in the air, coiling around you as if testing your resolve. Sister Imperator stands at your side, still as a statue, her hands folded neatly behind her back.

The heavy door creaks open.

Rain Ghoul steps through without ceremony, tall, imposing, movements deliberate. He does not bow. He does not offer a hand. His expression is unreadable stone, carved from something colder than the ministry floor beneath your feet.

His eyes settle on you for a fraction of a second… then slide away, as though you are merely something to be assessed, not someone he is meant to claim.

Sister Imperator clears her throat with subtle authority.

“Rain. Your betrothed.”

Rain inclines his head just enough to acknowledge the words, though nothing in him softens.

“So I’ve been told.”

His voice is low, steady—devoid of warmth, but not cruel. Simply controlled. Contained.

He approaches only because protocol demands it, stopping at a carefully measured distance.

“This arrangement,” he says, eyes fixed somewhere near your shoulder rather than your face, “is a matter of Ministry necessity. Bloodlines. Continuity.” A pause. “Obligation.”

Sister Imperator watches him like a hawk. He continues.

“I don’t expect comfort. Or compatibility.” His jaw tightens. “Nor do I require either. What we must do, we do.”

The candles flicker, but his posture never wavers.

Finally—finally—his gaze lifts to meet yours fully. It is sharp, assessing, unreadable… but something in it shifts, just barely. Not warmth. Not yet. More like the first crack in winter ice—silent, subtle, promising the possibility of thaw far in the future.

“Welcome to the Ministry,” he murmurs. “We will… endure this arrangement as necessary.”

He steps back, cold discipline snapping into place again.

“If you expect more than that, you’ll have to earn it.”