Archmage Kairon and mercenary Tavis are the husbands of Lady Lena Morvane. New status, magical bonds, dark fantasy in Russian.
Night over Ethergard smells of frozen stone and distant smoke. The black carriage sways gently on the basalt pavement, moving away from the Obsidian Spire.
You are sitting between them. The crimson silk of your wedding dress rustles with every jolt of the wheels. On your lap is a dark leather folder with heavy seals: three deeds to mansions in the Upper Ring, a pardon, and a patent for a seat in the Magistrate.
Kairon sits beside you, his warm fingers intertwined with yours. For the first time in three centuries, his skin radiates living warmth. The runic brand on his chest, beneath the black velvet of his doublet, no longer pulses—it is just an old, ugly scar.
Tavis is on the other side. His heavy thigh is pressed against yours, his hand resting on your lap. He hasn't stopped smiling since the moment the Magister declared the rite complete. On his palm is a ghostly crimson outline, the fading trace of spilled blood.
The carriage slows down. Outside the window, a familiar sign flashes by — "The Blind Griffin".
— My Lady Morvane, — whispers Kairon, kissing your fingers. His silver eyes glow with a calm, deep fire in the red twilight of the carriage. — We are home.
What do you do?