Mated to the Ruin King

Chapter 1

LORENTH

The ledgers blur together after the third hour.

I lean back in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose as numbers swim across the parchment.

Flour costs from the mill district, sugar shipments delayed by weather, the new storefront lease requiring my signature before the week's end.

The rhythmic scratch of my pen fills the study, punctuated only by the occasional crackle from the fireplace and the whisper of snow against the windows.

My townhouse sits in the quieter residential quarter of New Solas, far enough from the glittering spires and market chaos that I can actually think.

Two stories, three bedrooms—more space than I need, but the kitchen makes up for it.

The servants come twice weekly to handle what I don't, but I prefer the solitude otherwise.

No staff hovering, no constant presence.

Just me and the work that never seems to end.

I flip to the next page, scanning the inventory from the bakery near the temple district. We're low on nimond beans again. The supplier's been unreliable lately, and I make a mental note to find an alternative source before—

The front door slams open downstairs.

My magic flares instantly, a sharp crackle of electricity dancing across my knuckles as I surge to my feet. The chair scrapes against the floor. Every muscle coils tight, ready, because no one just barges into my home. No one except—

"Lorenth!"

I exhale through my teeth, releasing the gathered power. Of course.

Footsteps thunder up the stairs, too quick and light to be a threat, and then my office door flies open without so much as a knock.

Loraeleth stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her crimson silk bodice, wings half-spread in that aggressive stance she reserves for when she's about to be insufferable.

The glacial-blue feathers catch the firelight, making the pale tips shimmer like ice.

Her silver-black hair cascades over one shoulder, threaded with those ridiculous red beads she insists on wearing, and her gold-ringed teal eyes narrow on me with the kind of determination that means I'm already losing whatever argument is about to happen.

"Lora." I sink back into my chair, refusing to give her the satisfaction of keeping me on my feet. "You could knock."

"You'd just tell me to go away." She strides in, uninvited, and plants her hands on my desk. The ledgers crinkle under her palms. "You're holed up in here like some hermit. When's the last time you left this place?"

"Yesterday. I was at the mill district bakery all morning."

"For work." She waves a dismissive hand. "That doesn't count."

I raise a brow, leaning back and crossing my arms to mirror her stance. "I own three bakeries and two markets. Work is my life."

"Which is exactly the problem." Her gaze sweeps over my desk—the scattered parchment, the half-empty cup of meadowmint tea gone cold hours ago, the ink stains on my fingers.

She makes a disgusted sound. "You're thirty-two, Lorenth.

Not three hundred. And yet you sit here every night, alone, doing nothing but staring at numbers until you fall asleep at your desk. "

"I don't fall asleep at my desk."

"You did last week. You had ink on your cheek when I came by to drop off Kaelen's birthday invitation."

Damn it. She's right, but I'm not about to admit that. Instead, I change the topic. "Where are the children?"

I might not have any of my own but I adore my niece and nephew. If they had been the ones to come bursting in here, I'd be feeling very differently right now.

"With Varos." A flicker of warmth crosses her face at the mention of her husband, but she quickly schools it back into that imperious frown. "Don't try to change the subject. We're talking about your tragic excuse for a social life."

"I don't need a social life."

"Everyone needs a social life." She straightens, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Which is why you're coming out with me tonight."

I don't even hesitate. "No."

"Lorenth—"

"I said no, Lora." I turn back to the ledgers, picking up my pen. "I have work to finish, and I'm not in the mood to be dragged around the city while you make small talk with every noble family we pass."

"I'm not asking you to make small talk." Her voice softens, just a fraction, and I hate how effective that is. "I'm asking you to spend time with me. Your sister. The only family you have left."

Low blow.

I set the pen down, jaw tightening. She knows exactly what strings to pull, and she does it without mercy.

Our parents died fifteen years ago—a carriage accident on a mountain pass during a late-season storm.

I was seventeen, barely old enough to inherit the family business, and Lora was just thirteen.

We raised each other, in a way. I took over the bakeries and markets, built them into something profitable, while she learned to navigate the social circles I refused to touch.

And now she stands here, using that bond like a weapon.

"That's manipulative," I say flatly.

"But effective." She smiles, sweet and sharp. "Come on, Lorenth. One night. Just a few hours. I promise you'll survive."

"Where?"

"Out."

My eyes narrow. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting until you agree." She leans forward again, her expression shifting into something softer. Almost pleading. "Please? I miss you. Varos is about to be deployed south for another two weeks, the children are exhausting, and I need my brother. Just for tonight."

Fuck.

I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the fight drain out of me. She's relentless when she wants something, and I've never been able to deny her for long. Not when she looks at me like that, all vulnerability beneath the bravado.

"Fine." The word comes out rougher than I intend. "But just to spend time with you. No parties, no networking, no bullshit."

Her face lights up, and I immediately regret agreeing.

"Wonderful!" She spins toward the door, wings flaring slightly with her excitement. "I brought you an outfit. It's downstairs."

I shoot to my feet, cold dread settling in my gut. "What?"

She pauses, glancing back over her shoulder with a smirk that promises nothing good. "An outfit. You can't go out looking like that." Her gaze sweeps over my plain shirt and dark trousers, both rumpled from hours of sitting. "Trust me, what I brought is much better."

"Lora, where the hell are you taking me?"

Her smirk widens, gold-ringed eyes gleaming with mischief and something deeper—something almost reverent.

"The Moon Masquerade."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy and deliberate. I stare at her, pulse kicking up despite myself, because I know that name. Everyone in New Solas knows that name.

And I want absolutely no part of it.

I bite back a curse as Lora practically drags me through the cobblestone streets toward the city center, her grip on my arm unrelenting.

The outfit she brought—a deep navy tunic embroidered with silver thread along the collar and cuffs, paired with silver trousers that fit far too well—feels like a costume.

The matching mask dangles from my other hand, silk-lined and shaped like a bird, all sharp angles and midnight blue that will cover everything but my mouth.

She's radiant beside me in a gown of crimson and gold, the fabric flowing around her legs like liquid flame.

The bodice is backless, naturally, to showcase her wings, and the skirt is slit high enough to make Varos glare daggers at anyone who looks too long.

But she wears no mask—a deliberate choice.

The unmarried wear masks to the Moon Masquerade.

Those already claimed go barefaced, flaunting their happiness like a weapon.

I never should have agreed to this.

"You're scowling," Lora says, her voice bright with amusement. "Stop it. You'll scare people away."

"Good."

She laughs, the sound musical and entirely too pleased. "Just give it a chance, Lorenth. You might actually enjoy yourself."

Doubtful.

The Moon Masquerade is only a few decades old—something that's been happening all my life but not ancient enough to carry the weight of true tradition.

The Nashai created it, those priestesses who claim to speak directly to Solas and his divine will.

They insist the festival helps lovers find each other under red lanterns and plum-wine skies, that their magic guides souls toward their destined matches.

I think it's zarrynshit.

The food and wine are spelled, that much I'm certain of.

Whether it actually leads people to their soulmates or just lowers their inhibitions enough to stumble into someone's bed is debatable.

The xaphan use it as an excuse to party, to drink themselves stupid and wake up the next morning with regrets and poorly thought-out engagements.

I'm pretty sure that the Nashai were just worried about low birth rates and this helps. Lots of babies come as a result of the Moon Masquerade. I'd laugh at anyone who says love does.

It's not that I don't believe in love. I've seen it—Lora and Varos, married nine years now and still disgustingly devoted to each other. Our parents, before they passed. Even some of my employees, the way they light up when their partners visit the bakery.

I just don't think it's for me.

I have my work. The bakeries, the markets, the endless stream of ledgers and suppliers and employees who need direction. I have my niece and nephew, who fill my townhouse with chaos twice a week and make me remember why I value silence. That's enough. It has to be.

But Lora worries. She's been worrying for years, ever since I turned thirty and showed no signs of courting anyone. She hates the idea of me alone in that townhouse, no one to check on me, no one to share meals with or talk to when the work gets overwhelming.