"A gift from your bridegroom," she explains. "Shadow-infused silver. It will prevent any... unfortunate displays of magic during the ceremony." She pauses. "Shadow and light magic are opposites—shadow consumes light, light disperses shadow. These chains carry just enough shadow essence to smother your light completely."
I struggle as they fit the chains around my wrists, connecting them to a collar that encircles my neck and another chain around my waist. They look like jewelry—elaborate and beautiful—but the moment they touch my skin, I feel the suppressive magic take effect. The small reservoir of light I normally feel within me dims, becoming inaccessible.
Before I can respond, the chamber doors swing open. Guards enter, forming a corridor with their bodies.
"It is time," announces a court official, his voice formal. "The Shadow Lord awaits his omega."
The walk to the ceremonial grounds feels endless. I'm marched forward like a prisoner, which is exactly what I am. The chains clink softly with each step, a constant reminder of my captivity. Servants and courtiers line the halls, watching with poorly disguised curiosity and whispers.
"...too bright for our court, that one..."
"...they say she has powerful magic, though not today with those chains..."
"...doesn't belong here, these Light Court alliances never last..."
"...an omega challenging an alpha like Lord Malakai, she'll be broken within a week..."
I keep my gaze straight ahead, but inwardly snort at the last comment. They're right about one thing—I don't belong here. Not as a bride, but I do belong as the blade that will end their lord's life.
The grand courtyard has been transformed for the ceremony. Black marble platforms, crystal orbs containing writhing shadows, dark flowers whose scent is heavy and cloying. At the far end stands the most disturbing wedding arch I've ever seen—twisted black metal with shadows forming grotesque images.
And beneath it waits Malakai.
Even from this distance, his scent reaches me—dark cedar and winter smoke mixed with something ancient and dangerous. My omega instincts recognize him. Mate, they whisper traitorously. Alpha. Mine.
He's resplendent in ceremonial armor of black and midnight blue, shadows swirling around him like eager pets. His alpha presence fills the space, commanding and oppressive. When he sees me, his lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"My bride arrives," he announces, his voice carrying across the assembled crowd. "Slightly delayed, but here we are, at last."
As I'm led to stand before Malakai, I scan the crowd, cataloging faces and positions. Exits, guards, potential weapons. Survival habits ingrained through years of assassin training at the Light Court—skills I've kept hidden even from those closest to me.
When my eyes find the Light Court delegation, I spot my father, his expression carefully neutral—the perfect diplomat even as his daughter is chained and forced to marry a monster. I want to scream at him, to demand how he can stand there so calmly. But I know the answer: because to him, I'm not his daughter at this moment. I'm a weapon he's deploying. —clinical assessment, nothing more. Beside him sits Lord Temir, my father's advisor, his face a mask of misery.
The ceremony begins, a twisted blend of Light and Shadow Court traditions—shadow-wreathed flowers mixed with light-blessed candles that flicker but never fully die, representing the eternal opposition of our courts. The priest speaks in the old tongue, words that predate the division between Light and Shadow. I speak when prompted, my voice mechanical, my mind drowning in waves of grief and horror. The memory of Asher's final moments plays on endless repeat behind my eyes. His smile that morning, the warmth of his arms around me, the sound of his laughter—all of it gone forever, replaced by the terrible image of his body being torn apart by shadows.
I barely register the words being spoken, the rituals being performed. At this moment, I am not an assassin or a diplomat—I am simply an omega shattered by loss, forced to stand beside the alpha monster who destroyed everything I loved.
"And now," intones the Shadow Court priest, "the blood binding."
A silver chalice and ceremonial knife are presented. Malakai takes the knife first, cutting his palm with practiced ease, allowing several drops of blood to fall into the chalice. When he offers me the knife, our eyes meet.
Time slows as I take the blade, feeling its weight in my hand. The first real weapon I've held since Asher's death. I catalog the details automatically—blade length, edge sharpness, grip texture. Even now, my assassin mind records every potential weapon. The ceremonial knife would pierce between ribs easily, would slide through the gap in his ceremonial armor at the throat. Two seconds. That's all it would take.
I could plunge it into Malakai's heart right now. I might even succeed before his shadows or guards could stop me. But then what? I'd be executed immediately, and my chance for true vengeance would be lost.
But not here. Not now. Not when my death would accomplish nothing except ending my chance to make him suffer as Asher suffered—shadows tearing him apart, his screams echoing in an empty chamber.
Instead, I press the blade to my palm and cut—deeper than necessary, watching crimson well up around the silver edge. I hold my hand over the chalice, letting my blood flow freely, mixing with his.
Malakai smiles, leaning close to whisper, "I do enjoy an omega with spirit."
The priest mixes our blood in the chalice with wine, then presents it first to Malakai, who drinks, then to me. The liquid is bitter and metallic on my tongue, but I swallow it without hesitation. The magic of the binding settles over us like a weighted net, ancient and irrevocable.
I can feel it—a strange awareness of Malakai's presence, like a second heartbeat overlaying my own. My omega instincts recognize what my mind rejects: the bond is forming. Not complete, not until consummation, but beginning. I'm being chained to Asher's murderer in ways that go deeper than steel, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
"Joined in blood, joined in life," the priest declares. "What shadow binds, let no light tear asunder. Alpha and omega, bound until death."
As Malakai's hand closes over mine—the cut already healing through some shadow magic—I catch my father's eye. For a brief moment, his courtly mask slips, and I see genuine concern. Then it's gone, replaced by calculated neutrality.
