Chapter 50 The fire had long been burned out with its warmth on the stone hearth and the bitter tang of smoke in the linens. Marcella lay on her side, knees tucked halfway to her chest. One hand rested at her lower abdomen, the other tangled in the sheets near her ribs. The sheets clung to her hips, warm where they touched skin, but not warm enough to soothe the soreness that had bloomed deep in her bones. Berith laid beside her. Quiet. Asleep or pretending well enough that it didn't matter. He breathed like a man unburdened, the slow rise and fall of his chest almost meditative. His face tilted toward the ceiling, one arm draped loosely above his head. He looked... peaceful and she hated that. But what she hated more was how she didn't feel the same. Marcella blinked up at the ceiling. Her eyes burned from the sting of held-back tears gathering behind her eyes. It wasn't the pain, not really. It was the fact that Marcella had done this before, in her previous life that ended with blood at her throat - and now, again, she had given herself to the same man. First time. Again. However, It was her choice. She did it to fulfill the greatest purpose but it still felt like a betrayal. Or worse - like a loss she had willingly walked into. Her body hurt, her thighs ached. A slow, dull throb had settled in her hips. Her lips still tingled from kisses that had been almost too much, almost too long. Her skin smelled of fire, sweat... and him. Berith had been gentle, he had been careful. And Marcella had let him. Her fingers curled into the sheet beneath her. She hadn't realized how tightly she was gripping until her knuckles began to burn. Berith hadn't touched her since. Not a word. Not a glance. He had drifted into sleep like the moment had cost him something. Maybe it had. But it had cost her more. Her lips parted in an exhausted breath. Marcella shut her eyes for a moment, hoping sleep might take her. It didn't. She was too aware... of everything. The ache. The pull. The strange, intimate stretch between her legs that no one warned you about. Her body trembled with the residual pulse of the sealed Flame And worse.. the unfamiliar ache of wanting something she couldn't name. Not sex. Not closeness. Just... A word. A hand. An assurance maybe? Her gaze slid toward Berith, who was untouched by the storm she was drowning in. Marcella shifted again, wincing as her muscles complained. She pulled the sheet higher up her chest, curling into herself like she could hide from the heat still radiating inside her. Am I still me? Why does it still feel like I lost? The questions bloomed in the dark. Marcella turned her face into the pillow, closed her eyes again. But her body refused the lie. The Flame was pulsing. It moved with her breath. Curled when she shifted. Warmed when her thoughts turned toward him. The vessel had received. The gate had calmed. The power between them now lived beneath her skin like iron left too long in the forge. A sealed bond wasn't a myth or a metaphor. It didn't feel like love. ************ Marcella was asleep or close enough. Only then did he let himself blink. His eyes opened to the dimness, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth. Berith turned slowly onto his side, arm folded beneath his head, elbow resting against the pillow. And he looked at her. Marcella lay curled inward, the sheet twisted across her waist, her knees drawn up just enough to shield. One hand was pressed to her lower belly, fingers gently flexing even in sleep. There was a glow beneath her skin. The glow of the Flame. It lived in her now fully, completely. The Rite was done. The Flame had been sealed. Berith could feel it too, the warmth in his chest, no longer volatile, no longer clawing at his ribs from the inside. For the first time in weeks, his Gate was silent. No hunger. No noise. No burning edges behind his ribs. The heat of the Gate still pulsed in his spine - slow, deep, not demanding anymore. It purred now. Satisfied. Berith exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand across his jaw before resting it beside her pillow. He hadn't realized how tight his body had been and how hard he'd clenched his own restraint until the bond took and the Gate settled. He hadn't known how badly the Gate needed her. Or how badly he needed her. The truth sat heavy in his chest. Marcella had come to him tonight, even if that choice had been tangled in desperation with politics breathing down her neck and the specter of sanctity verification looming over them both - it had still been hers. That mattered. Gods, that mattered more than anything. Berith hadn't touched her on their wedding night. He could have. The court had practically anticipated it - the sealing of their union, the consummation of the Rite, the fulfillment of the pact. But he hadn't because Marcella hadn't wanted it. She'd sealed the Flame back then out of rebellion. His gaze drifted to the hollow of her throat, the faint sheen of sweat still cooling on her skin, the way her lips had softened in sleep. She looked peaceful now. But gods - earlier...the bond still hummed between them and her eyes were brimming with something too raw to name. Affection would've felt like a lie. An apology would've felt like guilt. And neither would've honored what had passed between them. Berith didn't need to conquer his wife to keep her. He reached for the sheet, tugging it a little higher over her shoulders. Marcella didn't stir, though her brow twitched, like even in sleep she could feel when someone touched her without asking. ******** The morning light filtered through the frost-laced windows. Marcella stood before the mirror, watching the woman who stared back at her. Last night still lived in her body. Her thighs ached. A dull, familiar soreness lived low in her abdomen. Just a reminder. She hadn't said a word to Berith when she woke. He hadn't spoken either. Marcella adjusted the collar of her formal robes - the ceremonial ash-grey lined with pale silver. Her veil was pinned at the nape of her neck, the same place he had kissed last night. She didn't linger on the memory. A knock at the door pulled her out of her own stare. It didn't wait for permission. Lady Elyria stepped in, draped in Montclair black, her hair twisted into a tight crown at the back of her head. A modest string of rubies gleamed at her neck, blood-bright against the dark fabric. She didn't speak right away. Just let her gaze skim over Marcella like she was appraising a blade for chips. "You look composed," Elyria said at last. "Good." Marcella didn't turn. "Was that a compliment, mother?" "It's a necessity," Elyria replied, stepping closer. "Today is no longer about ceremony. If you have something to confess, now is the time." Elyria snapped. Marcella finally looked at her. "You want a confession?" Elyria raised her chin. "If the bond remains unsealed, the Crown will propose a replacement Vessel by dusk. You will lose your title and this house will be shamed." Marcella's lips tugged upward, humorless. "You mean your house will be shamed." Elyria held her gaze for a long, assessing beat. Then she turned for the door. "May the Flame be merciful." ******* The Hall of Flame was never meant to resemble a temple. Smooth volcanic stone formed its bones etched with Montclair flame-script from a time when gods still walked. Pillars rose like serpents coiling upward in agony, their mouths gaping as they reached the high dome above. The central brazier, cracked along its base, had once split the floor open during an ancestral Rite. At the altar, High Priest Alistair Valemont stood. Beside him, Flame-Seer Ysolde was standing, robed in red, her eyes blindfolded with white cloth. Despite that, she could see everything. Behind them, the witnesses: royal emissaries from Cardenia, church scribes, and the Montclairs themselves. Lady Elyria's gaze was a knife pressed flat. Lord Cassar already looked like a man who smelled blood in the air. Marcella entered first alone. Berith followed moments later - dressed in black, silver threads glinting at his cuffs. He didn't walk beside her. Ysolde raised her hand, and the murmurs dropped. "Gate. Vessel. Step forward." Marcella stepped into the circle first. The flame ring flared the moment her foot crossed the line. The heat crawled up her spine like a warning. She didn't hesitate. Berith followed, he came to stand opposite her. The brazier between them remained dark. "Duchess Marcella Valemont," Ysolde intoned. "Do you now present yourself as Vessel to the Flame, bound by Rite?" Marcella met the Seer's veiled gaze. Her voice didn't tremble. "I do." Ysolde turned slightly. "Berith Montclair. Do you now stand as sealed Gate, in covenant with this Vessel?" "I do." The words weren't offered with grandeur. Just truth. Ysolde approached, holding the crystal. Jet black. Flame-scripted. Cold in appearance, forged in sacred fire. She lowered the stone into the basin. A sealed Rite would ignite it. An unsealed one would leave it lifeless. Marcella felt the Flame inside her twitch in readiness. Then -Ignition. The crystal blazed in a burst of blue-white fire. The brazier flared upward in a column of flame so bright the room recoiled. The Flame roared. 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...