Vows Of Ash And Velvet

--- —The spell does not wait for clarity. Nor consent. Only contact.— The world tilted. Serenya’s head swam, her limbs liquid with warmth not her own. The wine—sweet, golden, laced with something—had dulled her senses until thought and sensation split like twin rivers. Her lips tingled. Her heartbeat was sluggish. Her skin burned. She didn’t remember walking. Didn’t remember the silks being draped over her body. Only the weight of the veil, and the cold marble beneath her feet in the Moon Chamber. The air shimmered. Candles floated on invisible currents. The scent of sandalwood and steel cut through the haze, grounding her with sharp clarity. Then—he appeared. A man. Broad-shouldered, regal, robed in ceremonial black and silver. He looked like a myth stepped out of war, his golden-amber eyes half-lidded, as if he too were fighting the fog. He swayed once, steadying himself. A flicker of confusion crossed his features beneath the wolfbone mask. But when he looked at her… something shifted. “Lyrin,” he said, voice hoarse. A name she wasn’t. She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. She wasn’t supposed to be here. But her voice would not rise. Everything inside her screamed, but the magic—thick and overwhelming—stilled her tongue. The High Oracle began the vow. Their hands found each other—his palm hot and calloused, hers trembling. Serenya couldn’t feel her fingers. The warmth in her chest was not comforting—it was heavy, molten, strange. Her limbs moved too slowly, her thoughts like whispers slipping through cracked glass. Music still rang in her ears, distant and hollow. “Just one drink, Seren. For luck.” Lyrin’s voice. The goblet. The cloying sweetness of wine. That was the last clear thing. Then the veil. Now, she stood barefoot on ancient moonstone, cloaked in a bridal gown she didn’t remember putting on. Her body had been dressed, her lips stained with ceremonial balm, her wrists marked with lunar ink. When their fingers met, the chamber trembled. It wasn’t a ceremony. It was a summoning. Magic burst through their joined hands, curling around their arms like glowing vines, tightening, pulsing. She gasped. His breath hitched. The spell sank deep—flesh to flesh, soul to soul. Then came the kiss. He leaned in, not with certainty, but with the helpless draw of two fated threads crossing. His lips brushed hers. A soft question, blurred by intoxication and ancient law. She didn’t move. Didn’t resist. The bond pulled. The second kiss was deeper. Open-mouthed. Heat flared between them. His hands framed her face with reverence that didn’t belong to a stranger. Her body arched, unknowing, drawn closer by something beneath the skin. The room spun. He whispered her name again. Not hers. But still—he pressed against her, and the bed took them both. Her gown was peeled away in layers, each fold unraveling her identity. His touch was rough, unsure—too much and not enough. She flinched once, but the magic held her still, threading emotion into sensation. Her fingers found the scars on his chest. He shuddered, his breath catching. Their bodies met—not with understanding, but with inevitability. Each movement was slow, aching, confused. His lips found the hollow of her throat. Her nails curled into his shoulders. They breathed in each other’s skin, hands memorizing what they could not name. He whispered, again and again, “Lyrin…” She turned her face away. Then the final invocation was spoken. "As spoken, so sealed. As touched, so claimed." And when it was over, silence returned. He slept beside her, the curve of his back rising and falling. She lay still, the bond humming faint beneath her ribs. Eyes wide open. Mind hollow. What have I done? What has been done to me? Her head spun. Her body ached. Something... had happened. Something intimate. But not hers to claim. Not hers to understand. She turned slowly. The man beside her stirred, brow furrowed even in sleep. ~ The first thing Serenya felt was not the velvet sheets beneath her, nor the unfamiliar warmth curled against her spine. It was the scent. Sandalwood and iron. A heady mixture that clung to skin like prophecy—and dread. She blinked slowly as pale dawn filtered through the crystal-glass arches of the Spire Chamber. The ceiling above was carved with sigils of the Four Moons, their faint glow casting ghostly patterns on the walls. The air smelled of incense and cold stone. Her fingers trembled, clutching the edge of the velvet coverlet. The fabric was impossibly soft, but she felt no comfort. Her heart pounded unevenly, a distant ringing in her ears. Beside her, a man stirred. The bare expanse of his golden skin was etched with scars—silent stories of countless battles. Black hair tumbled over his pillow like spilled ink. One broad arm rested over the sheet, calloused palm curling slightly. A warrior. Serenya’s breath caught as his amber eyes snapped open, sharp and wild like wildfire. "Lyrin?" His voice was low, rough as crushed velvet but edged with confusion. Her throat closed up. That name—so familiar, so wrong on her lips. She forced herself to meet his gaze. No. She was not Lyrin. And yet, here she lay, in Lyrin’s bed, with Lyrin’s intended. What happened last night? The memories floated in broken shards—a swirl of music, laughter, clinking glasses, and then Lyrin’s smile as she pressed a goblet into Serenya’s hands. "Just one drink, Seren," Lyrin had whispered, her voice a gentle crescent moon smile. "For luck." Darkness had swallowed her after that. Now, waking to this—the weight of a fate she never chose—Serenya’s mind spun in panic. The man’s eyes narrowed, studying her face with growing suspicion. He sat up swiftly, the sheet slipping down, revealing the map of war etched into his back—long ridges of healed wounds. "You’re not her," he said flatly, voice cold and sharp as ice. Serenya wrapped the blanket tighter around her, her skin prickling beneath his gaze. No, I’m not. But how to explain this impossible moment? His jaw clenched, the tension in his body coiling like a spring. "What the f**k happened?" Serenya swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. "I… I don’t know. The last thing I remember was Lyrin—" "Where's Lyrin?!." His words cut through the room like a blade. "Why are you in my bed, naked???" She wanted to scream, to tell him it was a mistake, a cruel trick of fate. Instead, she stared at the scars on his hand—the strength and pain hidden in every line. Vaelric—Duke of Velmora. Northern warlord. The man she was never meant to be close to right now. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, muscles rippling beneath sun-kissed skin. The sheet fell, exposing more battle-worn flesh. "Get dressed," he ordered, voice rough but not unkind. "We were seen. There’ll be no undoing this now." Serenya’s hands trembled as she pulled on the gown meant for Lyrin—heavy with silver-threaded embroidery, its weight pressing down on her like the truth she couldn’t escape. Her heart pounded fiercely, a wild drumbeat of fear and disbelief. I’m not Lyrin. I’m Serenya. But no one would see her as anything but the Duchess of Velmora now. The door creaked open, and a servant stepped inside, eyes wide with alarm. "My lord, the council is gathering. The oath has been spoken. The empire will know by sunrise." Vaelric’s jaw tightened. "Find Lyrin!" Serenya’s voice cracked as she hesitated. "Wait—this isn’t right. I’m not—" He cut her off, stepping closer, amber eyes locked on hers. "Stay here," he said with finality. "Explain what happened last night." Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. "But I dont know where she is," she said, voice trembling. "She was meant to be here." Vaelric’s gaze softened, just for a moment—a flicker of something buried beneath war and duty. "And yet you are," he said quietly. "Fate doesn’t ask what should be." Silence stretched between them. Serenya swallowed, trying to steady her breath. "What happens now?" Vaelric’s voice dropped to a near whisper. "Now, I hope you survive." She met his eyes, fierce and wild, and in that moment something unspoken passed between them—a fragile, trembling thread binding two souls forced together by destiny.