The long day of rituals and celebrations had finally come to an end. As was tradition in Elandria, the newly betrothed couple was escorted to the royal wing, where they were to share a chamber for their first night as an officially engaged pair. The gesture was symbolic—meant to represent unity and trust—but for Ian and Ines, it felt more like an awkward trial neither had agreed to.
The heavy oak door shut behind them, leaving them in a spacious, lavishly adorned room lit by the soft glow of a dozen candles. A grand canopy bed dominated the space, its plush linens and silk pillows promising comfort—though neither of them seemed particularly eager to claim it.
Ines glanced around, arms crossed, feeling the weight of the moment. "Well," she said, breaking the silence, "this is… cozy."
Ian smirked, leaning casually against the bedpost. "Cozy? I'd say 'opulent and slightly intimidating' is more accurate."
She shot him a look. "I was trying to be polite."
"Well, don't strain yourself. We both know subtlety isn't exactly your strong suit." His tone was teasing, but the silver-gray of his eyes softened as they lingered on her.
Ines huffed and made her way to the sitting area by the window, kicking off her heels with a sigh of relief. "You can have the bed," she said, waving a hand. "I'm perfectly fine with the sofa."
Ian raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm going to let you sleep on the sofa while I stretch out on that monstrosity? What kind of gentleman do you take me for?"
"The smug kind," she replied, smirking as she sank into the chair.
Ian chuckled, crossing the room to sit across from her. "Fair enough. But seriously, you take the bed. I've had worse nights than a sofa."
They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the day slowly lifting. Ines leaned her head back against the chair, her eyes drifting to the ornate ceiling.
"This whole thing is surreal," she admitted quietly. "I don't know how to do any of it—the court, the traditions, the politics. It all feels foreign. Like I'm playing a role in someone else's story."
Ian tilted his head, studying her. "You and me both," he said, surprising her with his honesty. "You think I asked for this? Half the time, I feel like a glorified pawn in the emperor's game."
She turned to him, her expression softening. "Then maybe we can be pawns together." She hesitated, then added, "Ian… I know this is complicated, and I'm not exactly easy to deal with, but maybe… we could try being friends?"
Ian blinked, caught off guard. He'd expected a lot from this arrangement—arguments, tension, maybe even a magical mishap or two—but friendship? That was new.
"Friends?" he echoed, his tone skeptical but not dismissive. "You're suggesting we skip the noble posturing and go straight to… what? Sharing secrets and braiding each other's hair?"
Ines rolled her eyes, laughing despite herself. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm just saying we should try to get along. You know, find some common ground."
He leaned back, crossing his arms as a small smile tugged at his lips. "Common ground, huh? You mean besides the fact that neither of us wanted this engagement?"
"Exactly," she said, meeting his gaze. "We're in this together. We might as well make the best of it."
Ian studied her for a moment, his smirk fading into something almost sincere. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, Ines had stopped feeling like a duty. There was something about her—her fire, her wit, her vulnerability—that he couldn't ignore. And the thought of truly knowing her, of being more than just unwilling partners, didn't seem so bad.
"All right," he said at last, extending a hand. "Friends."
Ines looked at his hand, then shook it firmly, a grin breaking across her face. "Friends."
They both stood, the strange weight of the day giving way to something lighter—something hopeful. Ian gestured toward the bed with an exaggerated bow. "Your Highness, the bed awaits."
"And you expect me to sleep peacefully knowing you'll be scheming from the sofa?" she teased, heading toward the bed.
"Only about how to steal all the blankets," Ian replied, settling onto the sofa with a smirk.
Ines laughed softly as she slipped beneath the covers, the tension in her shoulders finally easing. "Goodnight, Ian."
"Goodnight, Ines," he said, his voice unexpectedly warm.
As silence settled over the room, Ian stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts still whirling. He hadn't expected to feel anything for her—not admiration, not respect, and certainly not the strange pull growing between them. But as he closed his eyes, the image of her laughing, her hair catching the candlelight, lingered in his mind.
Ines, too, lay awake for a while, eyes fixed on the canopy above. For the first time since arriving in this strange world, she felt a flicker of hope—not just for herself, but for the unexpected bond beginning to form between her and Ian.
And as they both drifted off to sleep, they each held a different thought in their hearts—unspoken, uncertain, but quietly alive.
———
In the depths of a crypt carved from obsidian and steel, Nexus sat in unreal stillness, her slender form bathed in the pale light of a shattered stained glass window. Her eyes, cold and calculating, shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight.
Her expressionless face rendered her almost indistinguishable from a statue—perfectly fused with the sacred, decaying surroundings.
"M-my lady… I have detected two anomalies in the s-system," hissed a voice.
Slowly, the statue moved. Her head turned with mechanical grace toward the massive white serpent coiled nearby.
With an ethereal voice, calm and hollow like distant thunder, she spoke:
"I have seen them, Py. Prepare the soul transfusion. I will investigate this matter… personally."
The serpent, Py, bowed its elongated head, slithering toward a dais carved with ancient runes. At its center, bound by glowing chains of lightsteel, knelt a young servant—an NPC girl barely more than a shadow of a soul. Her eyes were glassy, her body trembling, as if some part of her already sensed the horror to come.
Nexus rose with measured grace. Her mechanical joints whispered with restrained power. As she stepped toward the dais, the temperature dropped. Lights flickered. Reality itself seemed to recoil.
"Subject stabilized. Bloodline compatibility: 43%. Initiating override," intoned Py, its voice like a broken hymnal.
Nexus extended her hand. Her fingers hovered above the girl's forehead, and a brilliant shard of sapphire light emerged from her palm—her consciousness, compressed into a burning spear of code and will. The girl screamed.
It wasn't a scream of pain alone—it was the tearing of identities, the suffocation of a soul crushed beneath an ancient mind. Her limbs convulsed. Her mouth foamed. Her pupils vanished.
And then—silence.
The girl's body lay still—unnaturally still. Then, slowly, she breathed in. Not with panic or pain, but with unsettling precision.
Her eyes opened.
The blue shimmer behind them was subtle, almost imperceptible—like the reflection of a dying star in a pool of water. No recognition. No fear. No soul.
Nexus was present.
She rose with fluid grace, each movement quiet, deliberate. Her borrowed flesh responded adequately. Muscles obeyed. Breath flowed. The illusion was complete.
There was no wonder in her expression, no discomfort. Only silent assessment.
"Vessel acceptable. Autonomic responses functional. Disguise stable."
She smoothed the creases of the servant's gown, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear. Her reflection in the cracked mirror showed a girl—young, pale, unremarkable.
A perfect lie.
Without a word, she stepped into the corridor leading up to the castle.
———
The servants woke up earlier than usual, as always, but that morning the cold air seemed sharper than usual. The sky, still hidden behind a blanket of gray clouds, promised rain.
While the nobles slept in their warm chambers, the other inhabitants of the castle, moving quietly, walked along the dark, silent corridors.
The torches were still unlit, and the main corridor leading to their masters' rooms seemed enveloped in a mysterious, almost surreal darkness.
The footsteps of the maids echoed lightly, interrupted only by the deep breathing of the sleeping guards, on leave, in their quarters.
Arriving at the grand door of the newlyweds' room, they all prepared for their awakening.
The oldest among them took a deep breath and knocked gently, but not loudly enough to break the silence of the house.
"Come in," replied a young woman's voice.
With a gentle push, the elderly maid opened the door.
Prince Ian was sitting on the couch, his face bored and weary, as always. His black hair, messy from sleep, contrasted with his pale, almost lifeless skin, which only served to emphasize his light-colored eyes. The newlywed, Ines, was lying on the bed amidst dark velvet blankets, her black hair scattered over her cheek. Her green eyes stared at the ceiling, while her hands remained serenely clasped over her chest.
"Good morning, Prince Ian and Princess Ines," said the maid, stepping forward with a jug of fresh water in her hands, her face slightly inclined in a gesture of respect.
Prince Ian lifted his gaze, staring off into the distance for a moment, his silence thick enough to cut with a sword. Then, with all the grace of a man who'd had far too many mornings like this, he grabbed the jug the maid offered and took a generous sip, still not bothering to look at Ines.
Another sip. This time, their eyes met — just long enough to share an understanding. It was the unspoken kind, the one that screamed, "This is awkward, but we're rolling with it." Ines, propped up on the bed like she was still figuring out how to deal with being married to this man, gave him a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"I think I'll need more sleep," Ian muttered, rubbing his eyes like he was trying to erase the entire situation from his mind. His voice held the casual tone of someone who was always trying to make light of things — especially things that felt a little too heavy for comfort. He didn't mention how utterly bizarre it was to be married to someone you barely knew, but somehow, he still found a way to joke about it. That, at least, was comforting. In its own weird way.
Ines, glancing over at him from under her blanket fortress, tilted her head like a bemused owl. "It's only morning, Ian," she said, as if reminding him that the day was just getting started and not everyone needed to curl up and pretend life had a snooze button. "We've got the whole day ahead of us."
"Well, technically true," Ian replied, offering a faint smile. "But I can't say I'm in any rush to leave this room. Frankly, I'm doing great right here. Blankets, breakfast… no real responsibilities… I'm sold."
Ines chuckled, her smile finally making its way to her eyes.
Before they could exchange another word, the maid reappeared, this time with a tray of breakfast that looked like it had been brought straight from heaven — or at least, the royal kitchen. "Your Highnesses," she said, placing the tray on the small table beside the bed. "The food is ready. Would you like to eat now?"
Ian gave a slight nod, as though granting permission for the meal to enter their royal bubble. "Thank you," he said, with a smile that was polite enough to make his parents proud. He turned back to Ines, raising an eyebrow. "Shall we?" he asked with a subtle gesture toward the food, his tone implying that eating was optional but highly recommended.
Ines raised an eyebrow right back, sitting up and brushing her hair from her face. "Why not," she replied with a small smile. "It's either that or starve, and honestly, I'm not keen on adding that to my list of morning accomplishments."
Ian snorted. "Yeah, not sure it would look great on a royal resume. 'Survived the marriage… mostly by not starving.'"
She laughed lightly, sitting up fully now, brushing her hair back. "True. Though 'surviving marriage' might be a great title for a memoir."
Ian nodded seriously, his fork poised like a pen. "Chapter one: How to Get Some Sleep for the First Few Days If Your Spouse Snores ."
"Hey! Then Chapter two: The Fine Art of Not Talking About shit of your spouse in the Morning."
Ines's grin widened.
"Chapter three: Pretend You Don't Notice the Awkward Silence and Keep Eating," Ian added, diving into his breakfast with exaggerated gusto.
The maid watched them with a bemused expression before quickly exiting, no doubt relieved to escape the unusual but somehow delightful chaos.
They ate in relative silence, save for the occasional clink of forks against plates. The rain outside began to fall in sheets, the sound soft and constant, like a lullaby that didn't care about the awkward tension inside the castle walls. The world beyond was completely absorbed in its own peaceful rhythm. But inside the room, there was only a strange stillness. Neither of them was willing to acknowledge how strange it was to share these quiet mornings now — in this new, bewildering reality.
"So," Ian said after a while, breaking the silence. "Do you think we'll ever get used to this?"
Ines glanced at him, her expression thoughtful. "I don't know," she said honestly, as if that was a question she, too, was pondering in the deepest corners of her mind. "But we'll manage, won't we?"
Ian nodded, a slow, resigned motion. "If not, we can always start writing a book on How to Survive Royal Awkwardness."
"Would it be available on all bookstores in the Empire?" Ines asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Of course," Ian said, tapping his fork against the table like he was drafting an ad. "We'll make it exclusive for the royalty. It's not every day you get to read about the bizarre lives of those bound by inconvenient marriage contracts."
"I can already hear the readers now," Ines mused. "'How do I survive my morning spouse if we only exchange two words before noon?'"
Ian grinned. "I'm telling you, we're going to be the next big thing."
Ines shook her head with a small laugh. "You're insane."
"Wouldn't be the first time I've been called that," Ian said, taking another bite of his food with exaggerated satisfaction.
There was a brief pause before he added, almost as an afterthought, "But hey, at least we're not starving."
As they were finishing breakfast, a maid approached them. Ian, however, noticed her immediately: something was wrong with her eyes. A faint blue glow, almost imperceptible, flickered for an instant, and he caught it out of the corner of his eye. His heart raced. This wasn't normal. Without thinking, he stood up and grabbed the woman's arm, stopping her. His fingers closed around her cold, smooth skin, but as soon as they made contact, a tremor ran through her. The maid collapsed suddenly, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, without a sound. Her body hit the floor with a sharp thud. The room went still. An eerie silence enveloped the space. Ian stared at the woman, now lifeless, and a chill ran down his spine. A scream of pure terror echoed through the entire castle.