Chapter Three
The Monster's Wedding
Kaan
"IF YOU STAB me with that pin one more time, I will have your hands removed and fed to whatever sad creature you call a pet," I inform my tailor calmly, examining my reflection in the full-length mirror.
The man—Derrin, I think his name is—goes pale and mumbles apologies, his fingers now trembling so badly he can barely hold the pins. Pathetic.
"That was a joke," I lie. "Do lighten up. It's my wedding day! Or it will be, in approximately—" I glance at the ornate clock on the wall, "—six more fucking hours of this absolute torture."
The door opens, and Emir enters without knocking. One of these days, I really should execute him for his perpetual familiarity, but it's so difficult to find competent help these days.
"Out," he commands the servants, who scatter like mice before a cat.
"You're interrupting my fitting," I observe, carefully removing the heavy cape and draping it over a chair.
I allow the shadows to dissipate gradually, feeling the familiar slight drain on my energy—a minor inconvenience, but a reminder that even my considerable powers have their limits. I roll my shoulders, dispersing the lingering tension.
"And preventing you from terrorizing more of the palace staff before your wedding," Emir replies, his tone dry but with the slight Northeastern accent that becomes more pronounced when he's concerned.
It's one of the many things that make him valuable—this ability to speak truth while maintaining just enough deference.
Unlike the sycophants who populate my court, Emir earned his position through competence rather than flattery.
He moves with the efficient grace of someone who hasn't forgotten his humble beginnings as a border soldier, adjusting an ornament on the mantel that wasn't quite symmetrical.
His obsession with order—everything in its proper place, every schedule meticulously followed—would be irritating if it weren't so useful.
"It's considered poor form to see the bride before the wedding, you know."
"You're not the bride," Emir points out unnecessarily.
"Details, details," I wave dismissively. "Though in fairness, between the two of us, I suspect Nesilhan has more experience with penetrating objects."
"My lord," Emir says in that particular tone that means he's suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, "we need to discuss your... arrangement. Lady Nesilhan is not just any Light Court noble."
I drop into a plush armchair, propping my boots on a delicate ivory side table because I know it will annoy him. "I'm aware. She's the daughter of Councillor Taren, sister to the incompetent magician who barbecued my tax advisor. What's your point?"
"My point is that our latest intelligence confirms what you've suspected—she is one of the most magically gifted members of her generation, perhaps even more powerful than previously thought."
This, I admit, is interesting. "Even more gifted than I'd heard compared to her brother? The one who accidentally incinerated my tax advisor?"
Emir nods. "Far more. And unlike what we already knew about her brother, our sources confirm she has exceptional control. She wasn't just talented at the Lumina Academy—she was considered their most promising student in centuries."
"Well, isn't that fascinating," I muse, my interest genuinely piqued. "My bride is even more intriguing than I thought."
"She's dangerous," Emir corrects. "Binding yourself to someone with that level of power, who has every reason to hate you—"
"Is strategically brilliant," I finish for him, standing abruptly. Shadows whirl around me, responding to my sudden shift in mood. "If she's truly that powerful, then having her bound to me by ancient magic is far safer than leaving her free to potentially become my enemy."
"Unless she decides to kill you in your sleep," Emir mutters.
"She can certainly try," I say with a predatory smile. "It would make our wedding night considerably more exciting."
"So this is entirely strategic?" Emir presses, clearly unconvinced.
"Besides," I add, rotating my wrist as shadows coil around my arm, "my abilities have their limits, as all magic does.
The further my shadows extend from my body, the more concentration they require.
Manipulating them inside another living being—now that drains power rapidly.
It's why I prefer more... conventional methods of torment when time allows. "
Emir's expression remains impassive, but I can see the calculation in his eyes.
Few know the true limitations of a shadow lord's power—that we can't maintain complex manifestations indefinitely, that each shadow summon pulls energy from our own life force, that we must replenish ourselves in darkness afterward.
"I've seen the way you watch her at diplomatic functions," he says quietly. "Ever since that Light Court celebration five years ago. Your... interest has never been purely political, has it?"
Something cold slithers down my spine. Emir has always been too observant for his own good. He's right, of course. The strategic benefits of this marriage are merely a convenient justification for what I've wanted for years.
"Get out," I say lightly, though shadows begin to gather more densely around me. "Go make sure no one's trying to smuggle assassination tools into my wedding. That would be such a mood killer."
After Emir leaves, I move to the window, restless energy coursing through me.
The truth is, Nesilhan has occupied more of my thoughts over the years than she should have.
There's something about her that has always drawn my attention—the perfect posture, the controlled expressions that occasionally crack to reveal flashes of genuine emotion.
I've wanted to crack that perfect facade since the first time I saw her.
The memory rises unbidden...
Five years ago. A tedious diplomatic function celebrating some minor Light Court holiday. The first time I truly noticed her, though I'd seen her in passing at previous gatherings.
She wore a gown the color of sunrise, gold and pink, and the palest blue. Her dark hair was partially braided with golden threads and tiny crystals that caught the light with every movement. She laughed at something her companion said, head tilted back to reveal the elegant line of her throat.
In that moment, surrounded by light and radiating joyful power, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. And I hated her instantly for it.
I watched her throughout the evening, tracking her movements while pretending disinterest. She never approached me—few of the Light Court willingly did—but I caught her watching me once or twice, her expression giving nothing away.
After the function, I returned to my chambers, consumed by restless, angry energy I couldn't dispel. My reaction to her had been unexpected, unsettling—a loss of control I rarely experienced. I needed to reassert that control.
I summoned Selene, a woman from a minor Shadow Court family who had been warming my bed for several months. As soon as she entered, I grabbed her by the throat.
"My lord?" she asked, her voice tinged with both excitement and fear. She was used to my moods, used to rough treatment. She even seemed to enjoy it. Boring.
"Shut up," I growled, shoving her against the wall hard enough that her head cracked against the stone. I enjoyed the little sound of pain she made.
I ripped her dress open, buttons scattering across the floor. She was trying to say something, but I wasn't listening. All I could see was golden eyes and dark hair braided with light, all I could feel was this burning anger that had no outlet besides violence.
I bit her neck hard enough to draw blood, licking it off her skin as shadows began to gather around us both. She was trembling now—no longer just from excitement.
"My lord, you're hurting me," she gasped as my fingers dug bruises into her hips .
"That's the point," I replied, spinning her around and bending her over my desk, knocking scrolls and inkwells to the ground. The sound of glass shattering was satisfying. Not as satisfying as her cry when I entered her without warning, but close.
I wrapped my hand in her hair, yanking her head back at an uncomfortable angle.
"Do you know what I hate, Selene?" I asked conversationally, as if I wasn't forcing myself on her with punishing thrusts.
"I hate how fucking self-righteous the Light Court is.
All their talk of harmony and balance, while they look down their noses at us. As if they're so much better."
She tried to respond, but I wasn't interested in conversation. I released her hair only to wrap shadows around her throat instead, constricting them slowly until her struggles became desperate. The shadows responded to my darkest impulses, tightening more than I consciously intended.
Her face was turning an interesting shade of purple, her eyes bulging as she clawed at the insubstantial darkness, cutting off her air. There was genuine terror there now—no more pretense of enjoying my attentions.
I found I liked that better. The fear. The desperation. It fed something in me, made the shadows grow denser, made my own pleasure spike.
She was making little choking sounds now, her body jerking involuntarily beneath mine. I briefly wondered what would happen if I didn't stop. Would the shadows disperse if she died? Or would they keep constricting until her neck snapped?
The thought interested me academically, like watching an insect struggle in a spider's web.
Her struggles were weakening when I finally released the shadows, more from boredom than mercy. I hadn't intended to take it that far—such loss of control was unlike me—but something about Nesilhan had disrupted my usual calculated restraint.
I continued as if nothing had happened, chasing my own release with clinical detachment.
When I finished, I stepped back and adjusted my clothing, watching her slide to the floor in a trembling heap, hand at her bruised throat.