Chapter 47 The sun was beginning to fall behind the frosty hills by the time they returned to Ashenholt duchy. Marcella sat in the carriage, the scent of frost and firewood clinging to her gown. The visit had gone well. The people had welcomed them. She had smiled at children, laughed with them, held conversations that mattered. She had allowed herself to feel something that resembled... peace. And now, all of it was about to be undone. Marcella already knew something had changed the moment they entered Ashenholt's outer court. The guards were tighter. The heralds were missing. And the waiting party was far too large. Berith pulled his horse to a halt beside the carriage just as the outer courtyard unfolded around them. He drew his brows on seeing the banners flanked the steps: one crimson and gold, bearing the flaming crown of the Empire of Cardenia; the other, white and sun-threaded with the sigil of the Grand Church. Not local stewards. Not regional bishops. These were officials from the capital. From Cardenia itself. Marcella leaned forward in the carriage, eyes narrowing. "You're seeing this too, I assume?" Berith didn't answer right away. He dismounted, offering his hand to her. Marcella took it, her fingers cold in his glove. Their eyes met briefly...something's wrong. They ascended the stairs together, shoulder to shoulder. "Your Graces," the Imperial steward greeted. "We hope your visit to the northern settlements bore fruit." He was Lord Damian Laborias, Anthony's elder brother. "It did," Berith replied, eyes scanning the gathered faces. "The people are strong. Their loyalty hasn't waned." Marcella narrowed her gaze, stopping two paces short of them. "You came all the way from Cardenia without notice?" "I was sent," Damian corrected. "By the Crown and the Grand Church." Berith's brows scrunched, "Why?" "Because there are rumors that the Pact may not have been properly fulfilled." the steward sighed, his face so pinched he looked like he had just swallowed a lemon whole. "Disappearances have escalated. Two merchant caravans were lost, one noble family went missing on route to the Winterhold border. We found the remnants yesterday." A strange lump formed in Marcella's throat. "Burned?" A tight coil of dread formed in her stomach. "The Crown is concerned. The Church is more than concerned. If the Veiled Crown Pact had been sealed properly... such incursions should not be occurring." A note of warning crept in Damian's voice. "You assume the fault is ours?" Berith asked in a calmer voice though he was anything but calm. "We believe," a small grimace crossed Damian's face. "that it may have been... incomplete." Berith's eyes darkened. "And you traveled across the provinces to imply that?" Damian hesitated. "The Pact was signed. The union was witnessed. The public believes the bond to be sealed. But the consequences are already bleeding into our world." "Forgive me," Berith shrugged nonchalantly, "but surely that falls under Church monitoring, not state interference." The steward's smile thinned. "When infernal signs begin appearing within our borders, the Empire considers it both." Confusion mingled with her wariness. "And what exactly do you intend to do?" "We intend," Damian spoke, turning his eyes to Marcella now, "to confirm that the bond between Gate and Vessel has been completed." The words hit like ice. "The union was sanctified." Marcella fought to keep the tremble out of her voice. "But was it sealed?" Damian inquired. "That is the question the crown and the church are asking." He took a scroll from his sleeve and handed it to Berith. "This is the notice of formal observation. In two days' time, we will conduct a sanctity verification." Marcella's stomach turned cold. "We will test the Flame, and if it is found unsealed, it will be declared invalid," Damian announced. "and the Montclair bloodline will be deemed failed." Berith stared at the scroll in his hand. The wax seal bore the sigil of the Grand Church and the Empire, used only when both institutions acted in unison. "Where exactly will this... sanctity verification take place?" he asked, his grip on the scroll was too tight. Damian straightened. "At Ashenholt, in the Hall of Flame." Marcella dropped her head, resignation filling her. Of course it would be the Hall of Flame. The sacred chamber deep inside the estate, where Montclairs had sworn blood oaths and lit their joining candles for generations. "In front of witnesses?" her pulse quickened with terror. "No," Damian replied. "This is not a public proceeding. The High Priest and Flame-Seer Ysolde from the Church will arrive by dawn tomorrow." Marcella stiffened, bile rising in her throat. Ysolde? She remembered her. The one who could read the very pulse of a Flame-bearer. Even the smallest ripple of falsehood within the Vessel would glow like smoke to her. "We will prepare ourselves, thank you." Marcella said gently. Damian gave a stiff bow. "You have two days, Your Graces. After that, if the Flame fails to respond correctly, the Pact will be considered void. And your union..." he paused, "will be declared forfeit." Then he turned, red cloak catching in the wind, and descended the stairs. ******** Marcella dismissed her maids the moment she stepped inside her chambers. She unpinned her cloak, her gloves still damp with snow. She stood for a moment, letting the heat from the fireplace touch her cheeks, though it didn't chase away the cold lodged in her chest. Marcella undid the sash at her waist, folding it neatly before letting it drop onto the vanity table. One pin after another, she pulled them from her hair until it fell over her shoulders in waves. Her hands moved mechanically, but her mind... her mind had wandered too far to call back. The visit to the settlements. The children laughing in the snow. She had felt so good. But now? Now, there was going to be a sanctity verification. A ritual inspection. Marcella paced across the chamber barefoot, trailing her fingertips along the edge of the bookshelf as if she were reading her own history. When she reached the hearth, she sank to her knees before it. Marcella was exhausted. Her arms rested on the stone edge as the firelight warmed her face. "You were warned," she muttered. Marcella had sealed the Flame alone. She had performed the ritual in secret, in defiance of the Pact. It had worked. But not like it should have. Because now... people were dying. The Gate had stirred. Demons were slipping through. The rift of the mortal world was weakening. All because she hadn't wanted to be bound. And why? To avoid him? To avoid fate? To protect herself? Marcella's throat tightened. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to the stone. The cold kissed her skin like a warning. In your last life, you destroyed yourself trying to hold power alone. In this one, you're destroying everyone else instead. Marcella clenched her fists, the sharp edge of her nails digging into her palms. "No," she shook her head. But the truth bled in, anyway. A shaky breath escaped her lips. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and willed herself not to cry. You don't get to fall apart, Marcella told herself. Not now. But the weight pushed harder. She sat back on her heels, eyes burning, as she stared at the fire until her vision blurred." Is there no other way? Do I have no choice... but to consummate with him?" Marcella hadn't realized she had spoken the words aloud until... The firelight stilled. Behind her, the shadows deepened, then split. From them, she stepped forward. The Flame-self. Again. Wreathed in soft white fire that didn't burn, her face carved with the calm of something far too ancient to carry emotions like doubt. Her bare feet didn't touch the rug. "You asked," she called. Marcella turned slowly, rising to her knees again. "I didn't summon you." Her breath caught somewhere between disbelief and surrender. "No," the Flame said, stepping closer. "But you opened the wound, and I walk through blood." Marcella's mouth parted, but no words came out. Her body felt heavy, her thoughts fractured. The guilt had grown too large. "I didn't mean for this." The Flame-self nodded, slowly, solemnly. "You meant to survive," she said gently, like someone reading the ending of a story already written. Marcella's fingers dug into her arms. "Because of that, I've doomed people, children, families. The rift is weakening because of me." She choked on her words. "No," the Flame said gently. "It bleeds because the Rite is unfinished. You activated the Flame, but you left the Gate unsealed." "I don't want to be tied to him," Marcella snapped, too fast, too defensive. The Flame didn't argue. "You are not wrong for resisting." she consoled. "But resistance still carries consequence." Marcella turned her face toward the hearth, her lashes wet with unshed tears. "So, what do I do?" she asked, like a child who had run too far from home and realized she couldn't find her way back. The Flame crouched beside her; close now. "You have three choices," she whispered. "All carry consequences but not all lead to ruin." Marcella swallowed hard. "Tell me." The Flame lifted one glowing hand - three fingers raised, light trembling in the air between them. "One: you complete the bond," she said evenly, like a verdict. "Willingly. Consummate the Rite and seal the Flame as it was always meant to be." Marcella closed her eyes. Her heart ached in her chest, slow and painful. She didn't answer. "Two," the Flame continued, lowering one finger, "you perform a false ritual. A symbolic act strong enough to deceive the Seers and stall their judgment." Marcella's head snapped up, "How long?" "Days," the Flame replied. "Maybe weeks. But the Gate will still groan and Berith will begin to fray." A coldness slipped down her spine. "And the third?" Marcella asked, afraid of the answer. The Flame lowered its final finger. The fire dimmed around her. "Burn it all," she declared. "Destroy the Flame you kindled. Refuse the path. Break the Rite entirely. The power will turn on you. And the Gate will collapse." Marcella's voice came out like a breath caught on thorns. "And Berith?" The Flame didn't answer. She didn't need to. Marcella stared down at her hands... hands that once reached for power and now could barely hold herself together. Her throat tightened as her shoulders trembled under the weight of it all. "I was trying to protect myself," she breathed, eyes shining with her unshed tears. The Flame nodded. Her voice was like embers shifting in ash. "And now you must choose whether to protect yourself... or others instead." Marcella didn't speak. She thought of the people in the snow. Of children laughing in the market. Of Berith, standing beside her as the scroll was handed over. "I just don't want to be bound." Marcella muttered, barely audible. The Flame leaned closer, warmth radiating from her. "Then don't," she said simply. "Choose. That's the difference." Marcella turned her head, searching the firelit face that bore her own reflection. "Do I still have that choice?" The Flame-self offered the smallest smile - not kind, not cruel. Just honest. "You always did." And then she stood, turning back into the dark, vanishing into the shadows. Gone. Marcella sat alone again. No answer had been given. But clarity had. Three choices. One truth. Dojun, who married out of necessity and immediately left for a foreign country, suddenly appeared at his marital home and then at his company, without any prior notice. He brought with him several pho...