They called it a celebration.
A gathering of bloodline houses, under the pretense of honoring the new moon's tide.
But in truth—
It was a trap.
Elara knew the moment she walked in.
The hall was too cold.
The fire pits unlit.
The goblets rimmed in ice.
And at the center of it all—
Lysandra, in a gown stitched with starlight and smugness, standing beside an empty altar table.
"Welcome," she purred, lifting a goblet carved from wolfbone. "To the Kiss Pact."
The crowd murmured.
Elara narrowed her eyes.
Kael stood still at her side.
Said nothing.
Did nothing.
That was what scared her most.
The rules were simple.
Or so Lysandra claimed.
"Each woman of standing," she said sweetly, "must place a drop of her blood into the ceremonial cup. And then—choose the man she wishes to share it with."
She paused.
"Through a kiss, of course."
Laughter rippled through the room.
But Elara felt her jaw lock.
She looked at Kael.
He didn't meet her gaze.
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Lysandra stepped forward.
"Your Highness," she said to Kael, "I believe Elara should go first. She is, after all… new."
Elara stepped to the front.
Took the bone cup in both hands.
Saw the faint swirl of already-mixed blood inside—metallic, dark, ominous.
A single sip of that mixture, passed mouth to mouth, would forge a momentary bond. It wasn't permanent. It wasn't magic.
But it was a claim.
And everyone in the room knew it.
She raised a finger.
Bit it.
Let one drop fall into the cup.
It hissed on contact.
Lysandra smiled.
"Now," she said, tilting her head, "choose."
A ripple passed through the crowd.
Eyes turned toward Kael.
He remained utterly still.
No nod.
No beckon.
Nothing.
Elara's hands trembled.
Lysandra stepped forward.
Held out her own goblet.
"I could call your name," she said softly. "You know. If he won't."
Elara stared at her.
Then turned.
Walked directly to Kael.
Held up the cup.
He didn't move.
She whispered, "Say something."
Silence.
Her fingers trembled harder.
"Say you want this."
Kael's jaw clenched.
But still—
Nothing.
Elara stepped back.
Her throat burned.
Lysandra laughed behind her.
"Well then," she said brightly. "If your prince won't kiss you…"
She reached for the cup.
And drank.
Then she turned to Kael.
Rose onto her toes.
And whispered, "Let's show her what she'll never survive."
She moved to kiss him.
He let her get close.
A breath.
A heartbeat.
Then—
He stepped back.
"No."
The word was quiet.
But it cracked the air like lightning.
Lysandra froze.
Eyes wide.
"Kael—"
He turned to Elara.
Walked toward her.
Took the cup from her hands.
Then did something that made the whole room gasp.
He bit down—
Hard.
Into his tongue.
Blood spilled over his lower lip.
He tilted the cup.
Let his blood drip into the already-mixed brew.
Then held it to Elara.
"Drink," he said.
She stared.
Trembling.
"Kael…"
He brought it to her lips.
"Let them watch."
She drank.
Metallic.
Warm.
Wrong.
He took it back.
Drank the rest.
Then stepped forward.
Cupped her face.
And kissed her.
There was nothing gentle about it.
His mouth was fever-hot.
His blood laced the seam of her lips.
The taste burned.
The kiss carved.
It wasn't passion.
It was war.
A vow in violence.
He kissed her like he was trying to press every unspoken word into her tongue.
And when he pulled away, blood glistened on both their mouths.
He turned to the crowd.
To Lysandra.
And said:
"I have never kissed anyone but her.And if I ever do again—I will die on her lips."
Silence.
Then chaos.
Lysandra dropped her cup.
Kael took Elara's hand.
And walked them out.
Later that night, he cleaned her lips with a cloth dampened in water scented with pine and ash.
"You didn't have to do that," she said.
He paused.
"No," he murmured. "But if I hadn't… they would've thought you were mine by accident."
She looked up.
"I'm not an accident."
He nodded.
Then whispered:
"You're a scar I chose to carve while awake."