Vows of Ash and Starfire

The silk clung like frostbite. Isabel shuffled across Whitefang Bridge, the wind clawing her borrowed veil. Each step echoed against the stone, half-lost in the howling gale. The guards at Northhold's iron gate stared too long but said nothing. Why would they? She wore Astraea's face now—wrapped in silk, powdered pale, her wrists hidden beneath golden cuffs. “State your name," one finally asked. She inhaled. “Astraea of House Starborne." The lie blistered her tongue, but the gate yawned open. Inside, warmth did not greet her—only banners heavy with snow and silence. Maids whispered behind brocade curtains. Footmen glanced, then looked away. When she passed, the air seemed to freeze harder. “They say the Blood-Oath hasn't been performed in decades," someone muttered. “She's too small. She'll snap under it." “Just a shadow of the real one…" She kept walking. At the grand chamber's end stood the obsidian altar—black as a starless sky. Two silver shackles lay atop it, delicate and brutal. Isabel swallowed. A man approached from the shadows, cloaked in wolf-fur. Pale scars laddered his throat. “You are late," he said. “I was told to wait for the moonrise." “That was the last Astraea's request. You are not her." Isabel stiffened. “I—" He lifted the cuffs. “I am Maelor. Royal Binding Priest. This will hurt. Scream and he might kill you faster." Before she could reply, he gripped her wrist and snapped a cuff shut. Cold burned through her bones. The second shackle clicked into place. Then the hall doors boomed open. Snow gusted in. Rhaeser North strode through it like vengeance uncoiled. Crown Prince. Wolf of Winter. Monster in velvet and steel. Isabel's heart stuttered. He looked the same as the portrait she memorized—tall, sharp-eyed, hair like ink-soaked snow. But nothing in the painting captured the hatred in his gaze. Not indifference. Hatred. His voice cracked like black ice. “You never should have returned." “I—what?" “You ran once. Now you come crawling back wrapped in her name." “I didn't—" He closed the distance in three strides, fingers curling around the dagger she hadn't noticed until now. Silver edge. Wolfsbane inlaid. Rhaeser held it between them. “You wear her veil. Her scent. But not her blood." Maelor cleared his throat. “Your Highness. The hour approaches." Rhaeser's eyes didn't leave Isabel's. “Then let's get this farce over with." Maelor motioned. Isabel extended her palm. Rhaeser didn't hesitate. The blade kissed her skin. Pain bloomed—immediate, white-hot. She didn't cry out. He offered his own hand. Maelor sliced. Blood met blood over the altar. The chains tightened. The air screamed. Suddenly her ribs burned. A dull throb bloomed in her shoulder. Her head spun as if struck. The pain was not hers—it was his. His memories rushed in like a floodgate broken. Screams. Fire. White banners soaked in red. A silver-haired girl reaching out through flame— Then it was gone. Isabel gasped. The pain dulled. Her palm still bled. Rhaeser yanked his hand back, turning from her as if her presence stung. “The Blood-Oath is sealed," Maelor announced. “You are now joined by magic, memory, and pain. Until death or severance." Rhaeser walked away without a word. Isabel stumbled after him. “You hate me," she whispered. “No," he said flatly. “I hate that you're not her." “But I never—" “You're the one who stood me up at the last altar. Now you're back. Why?" “I was paid to—" He stopped short. Turned. “You admit you came for coin?" She blinked. “My brother needed medicine. I didn't think—I didn't know what this was." “You knew enough to play dead and crawl back." “I'm not—" “You're not Astraea. You're not worthy of the Oath. But now you wear it." She winced. The pain in her shoulder pulsed harder. “Why bind me if you think I'm a fraud?" He didn't answer. Just reached behind him and flung open a frost-rimed door. “Frostwing Court. Your new cage." Isabel stepped into the corridor. Mosaics cracked beneath her feet. Wind moaned through scorched beams. “This wing burned when Astraea vanished," he said. “Fitting." He turned to go. “Why not annul the Oath?" she asked. His reply came cold. “Because pain is the only proof you exist." The door slammed shut behind her. She was alone. Her palm bled. Her ribs ached. And still, something deeper gnawed—his grief, perhaps. Or her own. Isabel staggered to the soot-streaked window. Snow fell hard against the glass. She pressed her palm to it, breath fogging. “Fine," she murmured. “If I'm chained to you, then I'll learn why." She curled on the ruined cot, pain twitching in her bones not her own. The bond pulsed. His rage throbbed inside her like a second heartbeat. Then, deep in her mind—his dream flickered again. The battlefield. The fire. Astraea, bleeding beneath falling banners. And one whisper: “Don't forget me." ---