They said the Demon King did not marry.
He conquered.
He destroyed.
He ruled.
Marriage, they said, was beneath him.
So when my name was called in the Great Hall, I thought it was a mistake.
"Ashara of the Lower City," the High Priest announced, his voice echoing against obsidian pillars. "Step forward."
Every eye turned toward me.
Nobles in silk and gold recoiled as if my presence polluted the air. I felt their judgment before I heard it—human, poor, expendable. The kind of girl whose name was never meant to be spoken in a room like this.
My legs shook as I stepped forward.
At the far end of the hall, seated upon a throne carved from black bone and firestone, was him.
The Demon King.
His crown was forged from horns—real horns, curved and sharp—and his eyes glowed like embers buried deep in ash. He did not move. He did not blink. He simply watched me, as though I were something already owned.
I swallowed.
This was not how sacrifices were chosen. This was not how prisoners were judged.
This felt worse.
"The ritual requires consent," the High Priest continued, though his voice trembled. "The contract cannot bind without your blood and your signature."
Contract?
My heart slammed painfully against my ribs.
I looked down at the parchment being carried toward me. It was ancient, its edges burned, the ink glowing faintly red—as if alive.
Marriage Contract, the heading read.
My breath caught.
"I don't understand," I whispered, though no one had asked me to speak.
The Demon King finally moved.
He leaned forward, resting one clawed hand against the arm of his throne. The air shifted instantly—heavy, crushing, as if the hall itself bowed to him.
"You were chosen," he said.
His voice was low. Calm. Deadly.
"For what?" I asked, unable to stop myself.
"To be my wife."
Gasps erupted around the hall.
I felt dizzy.
"I'm human," I said weakly. "I have no magic. No status. I—"
"You are alive," the Demon King interrupted. "That is sufficient."
The High Priest cleared his throat nervously. "The kingdom is at war. The seal holding the Abyss is weakening. Only a marriage contract can stabilize the Demon King's power long enough to prevent collapse."
I stared at the glowing parchment.
"So this is about magic," I said. "Not me."
The Demon King's eyes narrowed.
"Do not mistake necessity for indifference," he said. "This contract will bind us. Your pain will echo in me. My enemies will sense you. If I fall, you fall."
My hands clenched.
"And if I refuse?"
Silence.
Then he stood.
The floor cracked beneath his boots as he descended from the throne, each step deliberate. When he stopped before me, the difference between us was terrifying—his height, his power, the faint heat radiating from his skin.
"You may refuse," he said quietly.
Relief surged through me—until he continued.
"Your family will be offered to the Abyss instead."
My chest constricted.
My mother's tired smile flashed through my mind. My little brother's laugh. The tiny home we barely protected from the world.
I closed my eyes.
This was never a choice.
I took the quill.
The moment the metal tip pierced my skin, the contract reacted.
The ink blazed crimson. The hall trembled. Heat rushed through my veins—not burning, not gentle—claiming.
I gasped as a mark appeared on my wrist: a glowing sigil shaped like interlocking chains.
The Demon King stiffened.
I felt it then.
His heartbeat.
Strong. Steady. Furious.
Our eyes met—and for the first time, something flickered across his face.
Shock.
"The contract has accepted her," the High Priest whispered in awe.
The Demon King's jaw tightened.
"You feel it too," I said, my voice shaking.
"Yes," he replied slowly.
The chains on my wrist tightened once—then settled.
He turned away abruptly.
"Prepare her chambers," he ordered. "From this moment forward—"
He paused.
"—she is my wife."
And as the hall erupted into chaos, one terrifying truth settled deep in my chest:
I had not just married the Demon King.
I had become the key to his power.
I was escorted through twisting corridors of the obsidian palace, every step echoing like a warning. Servants bowed so low I feared they might break; guards gave me wary glances, as if I carried a hidden poison. The chains on my wrist pulsed faintly, warm, almost alive, and I realized I could feel his heartbeat even from a distance—steady, commanding, unyielding.
"Do not touch her," a guard whispered to another, his eyes wide. "The King's mark… it burns with his will."
I shivered. This was more than a contract. The parchment, the sigil, the chains—it was alive. And somehow, I was part of it now.
When my chambers appeared, I froze. The door opened to reveal a room both luxurious and oppressive: black silk drapes, crimson accents, and a throne-like chair in the corner that seemed made for someone far more powerful than me. A faint hum thrummed in the air, the artifact's echo perhaps, reminding me that nothing here would be ordinary again.
From the shadows, a servant bowed deeply. "Your Ladyship… or rather… my King's Lady," he whispered nervously.
I swallowed hard, gripping the chains. This palace, this marriage, this Demon King—everything was a storm I could not escape. And somehow, I had the feeling that tonight was only the beginning.