Elira’s fingers brush the dagger beneath her veil.

The priest’s voice echoes through the cathedral. “Do you swear eternal loyalty, in blood and bone, to Kaelen Dain, General of the Northern Dominion, protector of the Unified Realm?”

Kaelen stands motionless at the altar. His eyes—gray as winter ash—hold hers. No smile. No triumph. Only waiting.

“I do,” she says.

The words taste like rust.

A murmur ripples through the Dominion nobles. Lady Sovei leans forward, rings glinting, lips parted. Captain Rhen stiffens at the rear guardpost, hand drifting to his sword hilt.

The priest lifts the oath-chain—a linked band of black iron forged from melted Southern blades. “Then bind him.”

Elira takes the chain. Her palms don’t sweat. Her hands don’t shake. She loops it over Kaelen’s wrists, one link at a time.

His voice is low. “You could have killed me.”

“You’re more useful alive.”

He tilts his head slightly. “They’ll expect you to try again.”

“Let them.”

The ground trembles. Faint. Once. Like a heartbeat under stone.

Lira appears in the side archway, hood drawn, face shadowed. She raises three fingers, then points to the ceiling beams. Three hours.

Kaelen notices. Doesn’t react.

Elira steps back. “The vow is sealed.”

“The war isn’t,” he says.

Outside, the wind howls through glass forests. Somewhere beneath the ruins, something stirs.

Elira touches the hilt of the dagger. Still cold. Still hidden.

She turns toward the throne room. “We have a coronation to attend.”