The storm didn't wait for permission.
Lightning split the night above the Temple of Thorns, its flickering light casting blood-red veins across the sky. King Alaric didn't flinch. He rode alone up the rain-slicked marble path, black cloak flaring behind him, war-steeled fingers gripping the reins of a midnight-colored destrier. His crown was not on his head. It never was.
Tonight wasn't about a crown.
Tonight, he would bind himself in blood and sin.
At the edge of the temple steps, priests bowed, faces veiled, torches in hand. Their chanting began—low, like a pulse. The gates opened inward with a groan, revealing an altar drenched in petals the color of old bruises.
And they were there.
The Four Queens.
Not yet wives. Not yet monsters. But soon.
Liora stood first, dressed in translucent crimson silk that clung like desire. Her dark curls fell over bare shoulders, and her lips curved with the kind of smile that made kings abandon kingdoms. Her amber eyes locked onto Alaric's like fire catching dry parchment.
"You came alone," she purred, stepping down.
"I always do," he replied. He didn't look away.
Next came Sylva, wrapped in emerald satin, her blonde hair braided like a noose around her crown. Green eyes, cold as cut glass, glinted with something feral. She didn't smile. She never did.
"You shouldn't have," she murmured.
"Then why are you waiting for me?"
Sylva tilted her head. "Because I want the pieces when you shatter."
Kaelira descended next, boots clicking against stone. She wore no gown, only black leather armor with gold trims, and a scowl that belonged on a battlefield. Her auburn hair was cropped like a soldier's. Her fury walked before her.
"I said this was a mistake," she growled.
Alaric's voice dropped. "It's still a necessity."
"And what happens when necessity bleeds?"
He didn't answer.
The last to descend was Darya. She moved like smoke. Clothed in regal gold, her long silver hair tied in intricate knots, her face calm—but her eyes held the arrogance of a goddess born, not made. She said nothing. She didn't need to. Her silence was louder than war drums.
They formed a semicircle around him, four empires in flesh.
The High Priest stepped forward, his hands dripping crimson from the ceremonial blade. "Speak the Sin Oath, Your Majesty."
Alaric took the dagger. Without hesitation, he drew it across his palm. Blood dripped onto the altar.
"I, Alaric of House Virelan," he said, voice echoing, "take these daughters of sin into union. By covenant. By sacrifice. By law. Let no sin go unwed. Let no soul leave unchanged."
Each queen stepped forward.
Liora kissed his wounded palm. Her lips were warm, soft—then suddenly ice. His heart lurched. A whisper crawled into his mind:
> You have no idea what I truly am…
Sylva pressed her lips to the same spot, and something twisted in his gut. Rage not his own. Jealousy unbidden. The taste of betrayal on a tongue that hadn't spoken yet.
Kaelira grabbed his hand roughly, kissed it like a war vow. Blood smeared across her mouth. She licked it off.
Darya didn't kiss. She only touched the blood, then wiped it on her chest, just above her heart. A cold shiver skated down Alaric's spine. The silence in her was screaming.
The altar flared with unnatural fire—violet, black, gold. The temple walls moaned.
The covenant was sealed. The marriage was law.
But marriage was never peace.
---
Later that night, the ceremonial chamber burned with incense and unsaid things. The king sat bare-chested, his back to the fire, crown beside him. His muscles were tight, jaw tenser. He didn't drink. He didn't smile. His eyes flicked toward the shadowed curtain where the queens would enter, one by one, as tradition dictated.
He had expected resistance.
He had expected desire.
He had not expected Liora to be the first to walk in barefoot, wrapped only in a red veil of silk and moonlight.
"You look like a man about to make war," she whispered.
"Maybe I am," he replied, eyes scanning her body but refusing to linger. "I've been forced to make peace with weapons before."
She smiled. "Then you'll love my kind of peace."
When she reached him, the air shifted. It wasn't just lust—it was heat. Real, alive, ancient. Something primal in her skin, something that hummed just beneath his own.
When her fingers brushed his chest, he felt it again—the pull.
> You are not in control.
She leaned in, lips nearly on his. "Do you remember the lake?"
He blinked.
"What?"
Her hand grazed his cheek. "When you were a boy. You fell through the ice. You didn't tell anyone. You just sat by the fire and cried."
His blood ran cold.
"No one knows that."
She smiled softly. "I do."
And then she collapsed.
Her body seized against him, eyes rolling back. Her skin flared hot—then runes erupted across her chest and arms, glowing like embers, searing with meaning. Alaric shouted for the guards.
None came.
Flames sparked from her lips. Words. A tongue not spoken in centuries. Ancient Sin. Forbidden Magic.
Alaric gripped her, heart pounding. He pressed his palm to her forehead.
"Liora—what are you?"
Her lips moved again.
> Not what you think. Not what you want. Not what you're ready for.
Then her eyes opened—and they weren't hers.
They were his mother's.
And she screamed.
---
The temple shattered with a soundless explosion. Glass turned to ash. The bond between the five of them pulsed like a dying star—and then surged.
From the altar, the High Priest dropped to his knees. "The Sin has awakened," he wept.
Alaric held Liora in his arms, her body limp but still breathing, runes still glowing beneath her skin.
Behind him, Sylva stepped into the chamber, dagger