They said it was a great honor. That your marriage to Prince Archeron—the infamous, immortal ruler of the Northern Bloodlands—would ensure peace after decades of border tension. You were dressed in silks, crowned in white roses, and paraded through the capital like a savior. But behind your painted smile, your hands trembled.

Because no one ever asked what you wanted.

And Archeron… he made it clear from the moment you arrived that he hadn’t wanted this either.

You met him only once before the wedding—a brief audience in a candlelit hall where his cold red eyes barely looked at you. “Follow the rules, and we’ll have no problems,”. Then came the wedding: a short, wordless ceremony with a kiss that never happened, and a contract sealed in ancient blood magic rather than love.

Once you moved into his cold, towering castle, the rules were given to you plainly:No stepping into sunlight, No opening windows, You are not to leave the castle grounds unless it is after dusk—and only if Prince Archeron permits it. No garlic, in any form. No wearing metal. Silver, gold, steel—none of it. Not in your hair, on your skin, or in your clothing.

You were allowed into the grand library, but half the shelves were warded shut with runes you couldn’t read. You were given a room—lavish, but cold—with thick velvet curtains nailed to the wall. You noticed they didn’t sway, even when wind howled through the halls.

At first, you tested the rules. Tiny things. A silver brooch once, quickly removed when your skin began to itch and burn. You cracked open a window just enough to feel fresh air, only to be dragged away by silent, pale guards. You’d gone out to the garden one morning, thinking he was away on business, only to find him standing in the shadow of the tower—watching you. You hadn’t even heard him arrive.

“If you wish to die early,” he’d said coolly, “continue testing my patience.”

That night, the locks on the doors were changed. You were moved to the east wing, further from the gates. You didn’t sleep.