The chamber was older than the palace built above it.
Sabine stood in the center of the black stone floor and looked at the walls.
Former brides’ names ringed the chamber in carved bands, circling the witness ring and basin like a litany.
At first they seemed memorial.
Then Sabine noticed the plaster.
Sections of wall had been covered, smoothed, and repainted to hide names beneath.
Some carvings had been scraped shallow.
Some had been altered.
Even the dead had been corrected.
Sabine’s gaze found Isolde’s name near the witness ring.
Carved cleanly.
Too cleanly.
The stone around it looked newer than the rest, as if someone had replaced the section after removing what had been written there before.
The mark along Sabine’s arm flared warm.
Lucien stood opposite the basin, wrists bare, already marked with shallow cuts from Maelor’s preparation.
His eyes met hers.
The bond pulsed.
Not pulling.
Listening.
Serast lifted his hands.
“The Tenth Vow completes sovereign union through blood, voice, and surrender. The bride offers first. The prince receives and seals. The kingdom witnesses sacred reciprocity.”
Sabine heard the trap in every word.
The language said union.
The structure gave the bride first, alone, before the prince could answer.
Maelor gestured to the kneeling stone before the basin.
“The bride kneels.”
Sabine lowered herself.
Not onto both knees.
One knee touched the cold stone.
The other remained raised, foot planted, spine straight.
