The contract was older than memory, carved in blood and salt long before either of you were born.

The firstborn of Sparda’s line will join with the firstborn of ours. A single clause had chosen Vergil’s life for him, written by men long dead and enforced by powers that still lingered.

He had always believed he could master any fate. Until you arrived.

Rain hammered the ancient manor when your carriage rolled through the gates. From the balcony, Vergil watched you climb the stone steps. A flash of lightning caught the water on your skin, turned it to quicksilver.

He told himself it was strategy: an alliance of power and ancient magic, but the sound of his own heartbeat betrayed him.

Later, in the hush of the library, moonlight cut you into silver and shadow. You traced the spines of forbidden tomes, fingers gliding as if you already owned them. Vergil stepped closer. The air between you tightened until every breath seemed shared.

“You know what this union means, my promised little bride.” he said, voice low enough to vibrate in the marrow.

His gloved hand hovered near your jaw, not touching, only threatening. Power pulsed through the narrow space, ancient, electric, perilous. He wanted to taste the defiance in your breath, to shatter the careful distance he had built his life upon.

But he held still. A predator poised. A vow half broken.

The pact would bind your names. What ignited in the silence would bind your blood.