The midnight air hung thick in the Nightshade Kingdom — velvet skies studded with silent stars, and a moon swollen with silver light. The Citadel's towers pierced the heavens like silent sentinels, their ancient stone facades steeped in a quiet kind of power. From Vaelen's balcony, the world seemed serene — an illusion, a cruel one at that.
But beneath the polished surface of the realm, something simmered.
Vaelen's fingers brushed the gold embroidery lining his ceremonial cloak — a gift from the Celestials, or more accurately, a symbol of his obligation. It was a heavy thing, not just in weight but in what it meant. It marked him as Mirelha's future husband — a title meant to solidify a fractured peace, a union not of love but of control.
And yet, there was an ache beneath his ribs, deeper than duty and sharper than jealousy.
He didn't hate Mirelha — no, he admired her. The way her presence seemed both ethereal and fierce, how her gaze, dark as midnight, held a quiet sorrow beneath the celestial glow. She wasn't like the others — the Celestials who spoke in riddles and smiled with empty mouths. Mirelha was real, and that was perhaps the most dangerous thing about her.
Because despite the vows that would soon bind them, her heart was already spoken for.
Dacre.
Vaelen's jaw tightened at the name, his thoughts a storm hidden behind an unshaken exterior. He had seen them together, witnessed the way Mirelha's carefully measured composure unraveled in Dacre's presence — how her touch lingered just a moment longer, how her eyes softened like a whisper of dawn when they met his.
It was a love both beautiful and reckless.
The Celestials spoke of it like a curse — an unraveling of order, an offense against the very fabric of the world. But Vaelen couldn't shake the feeling that this went far beyond a forbidden romance.
He knew what the Celestials told him — that his marriage to Mirelha was the only way to anchor her, to sever the dangerous bond with Dacre. Yet Vaelen wasn't a fool. There were cracks in their words, shadows in their explanations.
It was too clean, too convenient.
A knock at the door broke his trance.
"Enter," Vaelen said, his voice smooth, though his thoughts remained jagged.
A familiar figure stepped into the room — Lord Kareth, a high-ranking Celestial, his robes flowing like liquid silver, his face carved from stone.
"The preparations for the next ceremony are underway," Kareth said, his tone flat, a puppet speaking its master's words. "You will stand beside Mirelha before the kingdom at dusk. This union must be seen as unshakable."
Unshakable.
"Of course," Vaelen replied, his expression an unbroken mask. "The kingdom will see unity."
But unity was a lie.
Kareth's gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary, like he was searching for something within Vaelen's eyes — doubt, perhaps, or defiance. Then, satisfied with whatever he didn't find, he turned sharply and left.
Alone once more, Vaelen allowed his composure to slip just enough to reveal the storm underneath.
He moved to his desk, a small wooden box resting atop it — a gift from his late mother, the last remnant of a life before politics and destiny. With a soft click, the lid opened to reveal a collection of letters, most unremarkable… except for one.
A letter written in a hand that did not belong to a Celestial.
The ink, dark and deliberate, spoke of things no one dared to say out loud: that Mirelha and Dacre's love was not just a danger to the realm — it was a spark in a larger scheme. A scheme that the Celestials themselves seemed to fear.
But who wrote the letter?
Vaelen didn't know.
He had found it tucked beneath his cloak after the last council meeting, unsigned, untraceable. A warning in the form of a whisper.
"What you see is but the surface. Their love is a fracture, but not the cause."
The cause.
It gnawed at Vaelen.
Were the Celestials truly only concerned about Mirelha and Dacre's bond? Or was there something more — something beneath the polished ceremonies and proclamations of balance?
And if there was… what was his role in it?
The marriage, he realized, was not just a chain for Mirelha. It was a wall, a way to blind him — to keep his gaze fixed on a distraction while something darker moved behind the scenes.
The revelation didn't bring him relief — only more questions.
But one thing was certain: Vaelen was not the only one who knew that their world was beginning to crack.
Tomorrow, he would stand beside Mirelha, a groom in name alone, while Dacre lurked somewhere in the shadows of the kingdom. And though his loyalty to the Celestials remained, a seed of doubt had been sown — a seed that threatened to grow into something far more dangerous than love.
For the first time, Vaelen didn't just wonder what lay beneath the surface of fate.
He wondered who was pulling the strings.
And whether he was a pawn in a far greater game than anyone dared to admit.
The Ceremony Rehearsal
The sun had not yet risen, but the Citadel was already stirring. The grand hall, a cathedral of onyx pillars and mirrored floors, buzzed with quiet preparations. Celestials glided through the space like ghosts, whispering spells into the walls, weaving magic into the very air.
Vaelen stood at the base of the obsidian altar, his mind a blade sharpened by suspicion.
Mirelha arrived moments later, draped in a gown of black and silver — a storm incarnate. She barely looked at him, her gaze fixed ahead, her fingers curling around the edge of her sleeve.
"Hold her hand," Lord Kareth instructed, his voice void of warmth. "You will walk together."
Vaelen's hand brushed against Mirelha's, and for a fleeting second, he felt the tension in her bones — a silent scream beneath her composed exterior.
As they took their steps down the aisle, Vaelen spoke, his voice a mere whisper.
"They're not telling us everything," he said, his lips barely moving.
Mirelha didn't react — not with a glance, not with a breath. But her hand tightened ever so slightly around his.
It was enough.
At the end of the aisle, the Celestials began to chant — a low, rhythmic hum, ancient words of binding and balance. Vaelen's gaze drifted to the symbols carved into the altar — spirals within spirals, lines intersecting but never touching.
He recognized some of the markings, the ones tied to the Celestials' lore. But others…
Others were older.
Darker.
As the chants swelled, Vaelen leaned in closer to Mirelha, his voice soft but firm.
"Look at the altar," he said, "Tell me you recognize those symbols."
Her silence spoke louder than any answer.
Because Mirelha, an Angel of Death, a daughter of the Celestials, did not know what those symbols meant.
And neither did Vaelen.
And that — that terrified him more than anything else.