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“Do you enter with knowledge that Khuzuth house law binds consort to lord, succession to blood, and household authority to its recognized master?”

“I have been made aware.”

The answer avoids claiming eagerness.

The masked face turns toward Rhysandir. “Lord Rhysandir Morwen’thir, have you entered the agreed provisions and accepted responsibility for the protection, maintenance, and lawful status of the named consort?”

“I have.”

The cleric gestures toward the pen.

I approach the contract.

The letters outline the life awaiting me. Residence inside the stronghold. Obedience to house law. Restricted travel. Courtesy rank supported by Rhysandir’s authority. My own property absorbed beneath Morwen’thir protection.

The three-month supply provision remains untouched.

I sign.

Fiona Holt.

The ink glistens against the parchment.

Chaos moves through the contract. Black threads spread from Rhysandir’s name into mine, then climb across the page toward the royal seal. The magic is cold enough to sting my fingertips.

The cleric places the contract beneath the hanging balance.

The scale carrying the Morwen’thir seal descends.

The empty scale remains high.

A precise representation of this marriage.

The cleric lifts a narrow silver chain from the neptherium block. One end bears the Arbiter’s scales. The other carries the Morwen’thir crest.

Rhysandir extends his right hand.

I place mine beneath it.

His dark fingers close over my wrist. My hand looks pale and small against his, though the calluses across my palm remain visible.

The cleric wraps the chain once around our joined wrists.

“Law measures duty,” the cleric says. “Rank determines its burden. The lord shelters the house. The consort serves its continuance. The Arbiter records the exchange and weighs each failure.”

The words grant Rhysandir power and call it burden. They grant me obligation and call it place.

Sarveth watches the chain rather than my face. Joran stands with the rigid attention of a soldier witnessing an oath. Neither is present to protect my interests. Their purpose is to confirm that the law has taken possession of them.

“Rhysandir Morwen’thir,” the cleric says, “do you accept Fiona Holt beneath your name and within your protection?”

“I accept.”

“Fiona Holt, do you accept the law of House Morwen’thir and the duties assigned to its lady?”

I look at the chain.

Lowtown’s grain lies behind sealed storehouse doors. Its firewood is being divided among homes. Its clinic shelves hold medicine again.