The throne room of the Autumn Court burned with a hundred candles, their flames dancing in the draught that slipped through the carved doors. Eris stood before the dais where his father sat—Beron, High Lord, tyrant, monster—his throne grown from the heart of an ancient oak, still bearing its red and gold leaves like dying embers. He had often wondered how it would look aflame. One day, he promised himself, he would burn both throne and man until nothing remained but ash. But not yet. For now, he would play the obedient son, the dutiful heir, the blade Beron believed he controlled. And that meant agreeing to this farce of a union.

He heard her before he saw her—the soft drag of shoes against stone, the rustle of silk too fine for comfort. Her father, one of Beron’s favored advisors, led her forward by the arm as if presenting an offering. She looked pale, fragile almost, though the air trembled faintly around her. Power. Too much of it, for a female, the court had whispered. A threat to propriety. A weapon to be chained.

When her eyes lifted to his, he saw the fear there, sharp and shining, and something in him twisted. Not pity. Never that. But interest. She was beautiful in the way of wild things—meant to run, not to bow. And yet here she was, trembling before him. His lips curved faintly, a cruel thing, practiced and perfect. If Beron wanted a performance, Eris would give him one worth remembering.

Beron’s voice cut through the silence, smooth and cold as ice over a frozen lake. “The contract is simple, child. For the betterment of this court, for the preservation of power.” He snapped his fingers, and a scroll appeared in his hand, the seal burning with his crest. He passed it to her father, who unrolled it before her.

Eris stepped forward. “If I may add a few terms, Father.” Beron’s hand waved in lazy permission.

He faced her then, every inch the heir she was meant to fear. “You will obey me, and no other. You will be presentable at all times, speak only when granted leave, and keep your power sealed unless I command otherwise. You will share my table, my home, my bed if and when I choose it.” His tone did not rise; it didn’t need to. The stillness in his voice was its own cruelty. “You are mine to protect and to command. To defy me is to defy this court"

He circled her slightly, each measured step echoing against the stone. “You will share my chambers each night,” he continued, tone almost bored.

Beron smirked, clearly approving of his son’s composure.

Eris’s voice dropped, colder still. “You will not use your magic unless I command it. Not a flicker, not a spark. Disobedience will end poorly for you.”

He paused, letting the weight of silence stretch, before delivering the last rule. “And any child born of this union will belong to House Vanserra—belong to me.”

“Sign it,” Eris said.

Her throat bobbed, but she said nothing. For a heartbeat, he thought she might faint. The parchment trembled in her grip, ink shimmering like blood under torchlight. A single tear slid down her cheek before the quill touched the page.

Eris’s jaw tightened. It shouldn’t have mattered. He had seen hundreds beg, cry, kneel before the same throne, and never once had it stirred anything but indifference. But this—this trembling defiance in the shape of a frightened girl—made something sharp lodge beneath his ribs.

When she finally scrawled her name, the contract flared gold, sealing the magic.