Prologue
The Blood Wedding
“I’m ready. Will you open the doors?”
At her command, the servants—dressed in somber gray—pulled open the heavy double doors with a deep, echoing sound.
Through the widening crack stepped the brightest figure of the day—Lamberta Coronis, the bride of the hour.
The grand hall, a proud emblem of the Coronis estate, was a blend of northern austerity and southern elegance. Two stories tall, its upper balconies offered a sweeping view of the guests below—so many that one could scarcely find space to stand.
Most of the attendees were dressed in the refined, spotless style of the South or the lavish fashions of the capital. Yet scattered among them were a few northerners, standing apart in dark, weathered leathers.
Neither side acknowledged the other. Not a word, not even a glance passed between them.
When Lord Avian Coronis, head of the house and master of the estate, rose from his seat and extended his hand toward his daughter, the guests followed suit—rising and applauding in unison.
“Is that the living sacrifice of our generation?”
“Yes. This year’s offering of House Coronis. A shame to see such a fine body defiled by northern hands.”
Lamberta’s steps—soft upon the crimson carpet—grew heavier with every whisper that reached her ears.
With each measured pace, the murmurs seemed to sharpen, digging beneath her skin.
The living sacrifice of Coronis.
That name had followed her since birth.
Once every generation, a daughter born to House Coronis of the South was bound to marry a man of the North. The tradition, handed down through countless ages, had been her destiny long before she could walk—one she had never dreamed of escaping.
And today, that destiny had come for her.
Her wedding day.
The southern proverb said: “Even to your enemy’s bride, offer a blessing.”
But it seemed that did not apply to a woman marrying into the North.
“Poor girl. You know what northern men are like.”
“They play with their brides until they tire of them… then kill them. She’s so young, too.”
The voices hid behind false concern, but they were nothing more than spiteful gossip.
Rumors of northern savagery had always been the South’s favorite pastime.
Lamberta straightened her back, praying that the rumors were lies, and walked on.
If this had been a marriage between southern families, they would have met many times already. The whispers might have been laughed off.
But this—this was a political union with the despised North.
She knew only her groom’s name.
“Dione, son of Rukon, hero and leader of the North—”
Her father’s solemn voice drew her gaze upward. For the first time, Lamberta looked upon the man she was to marry.
Golden hair—rare even among northerners—shimmered under the chandeliers, tousled and elegant. Beneath that radiant hair was a face so refined it could have belonged to a southerner: gentle eyes, a serene smile.
It was a smile that made her think—perhaps her fears were nothing more than nerves, and happiness might truly await her.
“I, Avian Coronis, Lord of this house, thank all guests for attending my daughter’s union.”
As her father spoke, Lamberta cast quick glances between him and Dione. She could not hold back the small smile tugging at her lips.
“So what if it’s a political marriage? Mother met Father the same way.”
She recalled her mother’s old advice: “Save your brightest smile for the very end of the ceremony.”
“Ah… I hope Dione feels the same. That even if this marriage was arranged, he might someday come to love me.”
Her father’s words blurred into background noise.
In this ceremony, the bride and groom were little more than formal necessities—symbols of an alliance sealed by their parents’ oaths.
“Now, with the vow of a kiss, let us sanctify this union and declare its rightful bond.”
A beat too late, Lamberta understood his words. Dione reached out his hand first.
She could not suppress her smile as she placed her trembling fingers in his.
If her first kiss felt like this—warm, tender, hopeful—then surely her life would be blessed.
She closed her eyes, leaned forward ever so slightly…
And just as her lips were about to meet his—
Shaaak—! Crash!
Thud!
It wasn’t only glass that shattered.
The rush of wind. A scream. A dull, wet sound. Lamberta opened her eyes in confusion.
“Kyaaaaaaah!”
Not her voice—but that of another noblewoman.
A heavy, hollow thump echoed through the hall.
Her pristine white gown bloomed red as blood soaked through it.
And then she saw it—Dione’s body collapsing onto her, lifeless, an arrow buried deep in his heart and skull.
For a moment, time slowed to a crawl.
“Ah…”
A sound escaped her lips, faint and broken.
But no more followed—because the same arrow that pierced Dione’s chest had torn through her as well, scraping her ribs and leaving a burning wound.
No. This must be a dream. There’s no dream like this…
That was her last thought before the world tilted, and she fell beneath the weight of her dead husband, into darkness.
Chapter 1 — Property Without an Owner
“Here—! Lady Lamberta… she’s—she’s awake!”
Lamberta opened her eyes to the faint memory of falling into a lake as a child. Voices rang in her ears, muffled and distant, as if she were still underwater.
Her head spun violently, as though her mind and body were sliding apart.
Heat and chills tangled through her limbs. Even beneath the heavy blankets, her body trembled.
When she coughed—a dry, rasping sound—the door burst open.
The family physician, Ronsten’s, rushed in, followed by flustered servants being shoved back by the maids.
“My lady! Can you recognize me?”
But Lamberta’s eyes weren’t focused on him.
People were pouring through the door—shouting, panicking.
The vision from before she fainted replayed behind her eyes:
Arrows raining from the ceiling, masked attackers breaking through windows and doors with axes and blades, blood splattering across marble floors.
“Bring the sedative! Now!”
Ronsten’s voice thundered, but it was just noise in her ears—distant, hollow.
Screams, cries for help, the smell of blood.
Her body began to lean sideways, weak and unsteady.
Dione… please get up. I can’t bear this anymore.
Surely, he was still in her arms. How else could her body feel so heavy?
As she swayed backward, the crimson stain spread anew—
Lamberta’s dress darkening once again with the blood that never truly dried.
