Shadowbound Bride

Chapter One – The Chosen Bride

“Celia Nyx! Step forward!”

The sharp command of the Herald’s voice shattered the low murmur of the village square. The sound rang out like the c***k of a whip, slicing through the crowd and fixing all attention on her. Celia froze mid-step, her worn satchel of herbs bumping against her hip as if to remind her of the ordinary life she was about to lose.

Her stomach twisted. She had always known this day could come, but she had hoped and prayed it never would.

“Elowen…” she whispered, her throat dry. Her closest friend already had her arm in a firm grip.

“I didn’t expect it to be today.”

“You think they give warnings?” Elowen hissed back, her voice barely audible under the weight of the crowd’s silence. She gave Celia’s arm a sharp tug. “Just go! Don’t make it worse.”

Celia’s feet carried her forward, though her mind screamed at her to turn and run. The villagers parted in silence, moving back like water pushed aside by a boat. She felt every stare pierce her skin, every hushed breath weighed down on her shoulders. The air itself seemed to thicken until each step was heavy and slow.

The Herald stood tall at the center, his eyes as sharp and predatory as a hawk’s. His gaze swept over her before he spoke again, his words clipped and merciless.

“By decree of the Council, you have been chosen as the tribute to the Shadow Court.”

The words landed like a hammer blow, hollowing her chest. Celia’s lips parted, but no sound came at first. Finally, she forced the question past her tongue, her voice trembling.

“I… me? Why?”

The Herald’s expression didn’t shift. The Council does not explain its will. "You are summoned, and you will obey. "Prepare yourself.” He turned with a flick of his hand, as if the decision were nothing more than a note being discarded.

The crowd stirred, whispers crackling like dry leaves. Elowen squeezed her hand, her face pale but her eyes determined.

“You’ll be fine,” she whispered fiercely. “You have to be.”

Celia swallowed hard, the taste of bile sharp on her tongue. She wanted to argue, to scream, to demand answers, but her voice betrayed her. The will of the Council was law, and to resist was to invite ruin. She forced her legs to move, each step feeling less like her own and more like chains dragging her toward the waiting wagon at the edge of the square.

The ride to the cliffs was steeped in silence, broken only by the clatter of hooves striking frost-hardened earth. The rhythm was sharp and hollow, echoing through the trees like a drumbeat of doom. Celia sat rigid, her hands gripping the side of the wagon until her knuckles ached. The cold seeped into her bones, but it was nothing compared to the fear gnawing at her chest.

Elowen leaned close, her words hushed. “You’ll be fine.” It was the third time she had said it, but the tremor in her voice made the reassurance fragile. “Just… remember your training.”

Celia let out a bitter breath. “Training won’t save me from him.”

Elowen’s lips pressed together. She glanced at the driver before lowering her voice. “Don’t talk like that. "He’s human.” A pause. “At least… probably.”

The word echoed in Celia’s mind, colder than the night air. The stories of Vikar Vesper were not bedtime tales. They were warnings passed from elder to child, reminders that the Shadow Court was not to be trifled with. They said the Shadowbinder prince could bend darkness as if it were clay, smother life with a gesture, command walls to breathe and whisper. His very presence was said to warp the air.

And now, she was being delivered to him.

The wagon rattled to a stop as the last of the daylight bled from the sky. Ahead, the cliffs rose jagged and unforgiving, crowned by the silhouette of the Shadow Court. The fortress loomed against the horizon, its spires black as obsidian, stretching upward as though clawing at the heavens. Windows glowed faintly, each lit with a strange flickering light that looked more alive than fire. Even from a distance, Celia felt them: shadows that twisted and curled, reaching outward like hungry tendrils.

Her breath hitched.

“Stay close,” Elowen urged, tightening her grip on Celia’s arm. “Whatever happens… stay sharp.”

A squad of armored guards awaited them at the gate. Their armor caught no light, and their helmets reflected nothing but void. They stood motionless until one stepped forward, his voice low and flat.

“You are the tribute?”

Celia’s mouth was dry, but she managed a nod.

“Follow me,” he ordered. His tone allowed no room for hesitation.

Inside the gates, darkness closed around them like a cloak. The torches lining the walls burned faintly, casting tall, wavering shadows that shifted and stretched as if alive. Celia’s breath quickened. Her eyes darted to the towering statues that lined the great hall. Each one was carved from black stone, their faces fierce and strange, and though they did not move, their eyes seemed to follow her steps.

She clutched her satchel tighter, the rough strap digging into her palm.

“Who… who’s there?” she whispered when the shadows deepened. The sound of her voice seemed to vanish into the air, swallowed whole. No answer came, only the faint crackle of flame and the pulse of her own heart hammering in her ears.

Then a voice slipped through the darkness, smooth, controlled, and edged like a blade.

“You are the tribute.”

Celia froze. The air thickened as a figure stepped from the gloom. Tall. Imposing. Every inch of him radiated authority. His hair was as dark as the shadows curling at his feet, framing a face that looked carved from glass and stone, sharp, flawless, and merciless. His eyes were pools of onyx, endless and consuming, fixed on her with a gaze that seemed to strip her bare.

Her throat tightened. “Yes,” she whispered. It was all she could manage.

He drew closer, and with every step, the shadows clung to him like loyal creatures. “And you carry secrets.”

The words struck deep. Celia’s stomach turned cold. How could he know?

“I…” The words caught in her throat, useless.

“Do not think fear will protect you.” His voice dropped to a near whisper, but it carried power, cutting through her like steel. “It will only make you easier to break.”

Celia clenched her fists, forcing her voice past the fear. “I… I am not afraid.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, a faint smile tugged at his lips, dark and unreadable. “Good. Fear is weakness. And weakness here is fatal.”

That night, Celia lay in her assigned chamber, staring at the cold stone walls. The air was heavy, pressing in from all sides. The torch sputtered, its light twisting into shapes that crawled across the corners, shadows murmuring in silence, eyes upon her.

Her breath came shallowly.

By instinct, she lifted her hand. At her fingertips, a faint glow stirred the fragile spark of light magic she had practiced in secret, hidden from even Elowen. The glow flickered like a candle, a fragile promise of hope in the suffocating dark. For a moment, her heart lifted.

But as the light grew, the shadows shifted back, recoiling like serpents disturbed in their nest. They seemed to hiss and curl, their retreat carrying not relief but a promise of vengeance.

Celia’s chest tightened. She let the light fade before it could draw more attention.

Then came the sound. A soft step echoes down the hall. She spun toward the door, clutching her satchel of herbs like a weapon, though she knew it was nothing more than dried leaves and roots.

The voice came again, steady and controlled. “You will learn quickly.”

Her chest tightened. Though hidden, his presence lingered, heavy and impossible to ignore.

“Or,” he continued, “you will not survive the week.”

The air grew heavier, pressing on her chest until her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She forced her trembling fingers to still.

“I will survive,” she whispered to herself, the words fragile but determined. “I have to.”

Because in this place, shadows lived and breathed. Danger lingered in every corner. And one misstep, one moment of weakness, could cost her everything.