The wedding dress was less a garment and more a shroud of submission. It was cut from heavy, black velvet, tailored to fit Isolde with a cruel, exquisite precision. The only adornment was a necklace of polished, dull silver chains that encircled her throat, symbolic of the political leash she now wore.
As the Pureblood tailor fussed over the lace cuffs, Isolde stared at her reflection in the obsidian mirror. Her auburn hair was pinned in severe coils, and the black fabric made her warm skin tone appear luminous, almost sickly.
"Perfection, Your Highness," the tailor murmured, his eyes a pale, unactivated gold. He was a master craftsman, his attention to detail unsettling. Isolde didn't thank him. She merely accepted the inevitable.
The Obsidian Suite was a gilded cage designed to break human will. Everything was plush, silent, and suffocating. Isolde had used the hours before the ceremony not for preparation, but for a furious, silent study of the Citadel's outer map, memorizing the subtle slopes that led to the city's under level. Her mother's ivory box was hidden beneath the hearthstone, a secret she guarded with every breath.
Lord Cassian arrived precisely as the moon reached its zenith. "Midnight, Princess. The Prince waits."
The journey to the Grand Hall of Vows was endless. Isolde was escorted by Cassian and two other high-ranking Purebloods. She noted their eyes,one silver, one amber, and the way their unactivated speed made her own natural movements feel slow, heavy, and human. The Prince's power was absolute, but the strength of his entire court was overwhelming.
The Hall itself was breathtaking and terrifying. It was an enormous, circular amphitheater hewn directly from the mountain, its ceiling lost in shadow. It was lit by thousands of tiny, violet-blue flames set into the walls, creating a dizzying, infernal glow. The air was heavy with the scent of burning herbs and the metallic tang of Vampire ambition.
The court was assembled, hundreds of Vampires dressed in ritualistic black and crimson finery, their faces a sea of pale, aristocratic indifference. Isolde felt their collective gaze, measuring her as food, as property, and as the political tool she was.
At the center of the hall, on a platform of black, polished stone, stood Prince Damon.
He was magnificent and terrible. His black attire was woven with intricate crimson thread, and the light caught the permanent, Crimson Blood-Red of his eyes, making them shine with the deepest, most saturated hue Isolde had ever seen. He watched her approach with an expression of cold patience, utterly possessive and utterly unmoved. He saw not a bride, but a completed contract.
Isolde walked the remaining distance with a pace of sheer, white-hot defiance. When she reached the platform, she did not look at him, but fixed her gaze on the elder Pureblood cleric officiating the vows.
Before the cleric could begin the ancient rite, a loud, unnatural sound echoed from the main entrance, the heavy, abrasive scrape of metal on marble. It was a sound entirely foreign to the quiet, deathly elegance of Noctis.
Every head in the hall turned. Isolde's breath hitched.
Standing framed in the doorway, surrounded by a small contingent of armored Dragon guards, was Draven.
He was a visceral shock of life and fire against the pale backdrop of the Vampire court. He wore minimal armor, thick, segmented plating of black iron over rough, dark leather and carried his massive war hammer strapped to his back, a silent, blatant threat. His presence radiated a wave of raw, volcanic heat that instantly clashed with the Citadel's cold.
His deep bronze skin seemed to absorb the violet light, and his thick, mahogany hair was wild, windswept, and utterly untamed. His eyes, fixed immediately on Isolde, were a fierce, smoldering amber, burning with possessive fury. Even at this distance, Isolde felt the heat, the power, and the sheer hostility of his gaze.
Prince Damon turned slowly, his crimson eyes narrowing, his smile vanishing like mist. The silence in the hall became lethal.
Draven did not bow. He walked forward with a confident, ground-shaking stride, his gaze never leaving Isolde. He ignored the entire Vampire court. He ignored Damon. He was pure, focused aggression.
He stopped just short of the dais. "A diplomatic gesture," Draven announced, his voice a gravelly boom that seemed to shake the stone. "The Chief of the Iron Peaks wished to observe the vows. To assure himself the human property is properly secured."
The insult was thick enough to cut. Damon's eyes flashed with annoyance, but the Crimson held steady. He was too composed, too royal to react to the Dragon's crude provocation.
"Your presence is noted, Dragon," Damon said, his voice dangerously even. "It confirms your desperation. Return to your peaks. This contract does not concern the brute strength of Draconus."
"It concerns the balance of power, Blueblood," Draven countered, his amber eyes sparking. He looked at Isolde, a raw, protective hunger in his gaze that was almost as frightening as Damon's cold ownership.
He should not be here. The thought slammed into Isolde. Draven's heat was a brief, impossible promise of escape, and she fiercely squashed the instinct to move toward the light.
The cleric cleared his throat, desperate to proceed. He began the ancient vows, written in a dead language of blood and fealty. Isolde numbly repeated the responses, her gaze locked in a triangle of impossible tension.
I vow to obey. I vow allegiance. I vow my life.
As she spoke the final vow, Draven's mind flashed to the memory of his mother, Kira. The last time he had seen her, she was laughing, her Fire Dragon form a breathtaking display of brown scales and volcanic light. She had died on the border, her throat torn out by a high-ranking Turned Vampire officer under the command of Noctis. He remembered the sight of her cooling, shattered body, and the realization that the Blueblood court, with its immaculate politeness, was drenched in his mother's blood. His rage was not just political, it was a screaming demand for vengeance against everything Damon represented. He would see this Prince burn.
Damon's cold, smooth hand slipped over Isolde's. The shock of his ice cold skin against her warm human flesh made her gasp. He gripped her hand with a pressure that was purely possessive, a silent assertion to Draven.
"You are mine," Damon stated, not as a question, but as a finality. He did not ask for a kiss. He merely turned her face toward him with a chillingly elegant hand, and pressed his marble cold lips to hers.
It was not a romantic gesture. It was an act of explicit domination, a cold claim of property. Isolde felt the profound, alien chill of his mouth, and the distinct, coppery hint of old blood on his breath. She stood rigid, enduring the claim, but in her mind, she was already plotting his death.
When Damon finally released her, he looked directly over her head at Draven. His Crimson blood red eyes held a flicker of something ancient and purely evil.
"The transaction is complete, Dragon," Damon announced, pulling Isolde tightly against his side. "The Princess is now bound to the night. You may observe your defeat and report back to your Chief."
Draven's amber eyes flared to molten gold. He took a step forward, his hand flexing toward his hammer. A Fire Dragon challenge. A public declaration of hostility.
But Isolde, trapped between them, felt the air crackle with a potential violence so immense it threatened to wake the dormant Witch power in her veins. She subtly pressed her elbow into Damon's ribs , a tiny, human protest.
Damon felt the small act of defiance. He looked down at his new bride, a predatory satisfaction curving his lips. He was used to political threats, he was not used to being fought by his own possession.
Draven, seeing the subtle shift, saw his opening. He let his hand drop. The battle was not here. Not yet. He simply returned Damon's gaze with a look of pure, unadulterated proprietary rage.
"A beautiful prize, Blueblood," Draven stated, his voice low and guttural. "Keep her safe. For when I come to collect her, I will take the rest of your kingdom as well."
With that, Draven turned and walked out, his iron boots clanking loudly, a deliberate, contemptuous noise that shattered the silence of the Ebon Citadel.
Isolde was now officially Bound to the Night.