Corvin Marrow

Corvin woke from the pain in his throat. Not the pain that comes with a cold or shouting, but the kind that remains after poison—burning, pulling, as if someone had dragged a red-hot poker through his esophagus. He sat up abruptly, and the air in the bedroom seemed too clean, and it rushed into his lungs with pain. The sheets under his palms were soft, and damp with the cold sweat of death. He inhaled, and his lungs worked without resistance. It was wrong. It was impossible.

The maid in the doorway cried out, not expecting his sudden movement. The tray slipped from her hands, and the porcelain shattered across the stone floor with the loudest sound Corvin had hated since childhood—fragile, rattling, as if someone were breaking teeth. Eggs, bread, a jug of milk—everything merged into a puddle. The smell of food hit his nose, and his stomach twisted. He nearly vomited right there, onto the sheets that were too white for a man who should be dead.

"Milord… what is wrong with you?" the maid's voice trembled. She stood clutching her apron, looking at him as if he had risen from the dead. Which, in general, was not far from the truth.

Corvin looked at the shards. At the milk spreading between the cracks in the stone. At the bread that a minute ago had been his breakfast. Thoughts raced through his head, overtaking each other, colliding, shattering. How am I here. I was dying. I felt it rising up my throat. I saw her face. I heard her laughing. I died. I should be dead.

He raised his eyes to the maid. She was still standing there, pale, her mouth half open.

"You. Tell me. Am I married?"

The woman froze. Her eyes darted—from his face to the broken tray, from the tray to the door, from the door back to him. She clearly did not understand what was happening. Perhaps she decided her master had lost his mind. Perhaps that this was some sort of test. She bowed slowly, very slowly, without taking her eyes off him.

"No, milord. You are not married. Today… today there is a ball. At the emperor's. You must attend."

Corvin nodded. Inside, everything clenched and unclenched like a fist that had been held too long. So it is not too late. So nothing has happened yet. He looked at the maid and said:

"Get out."

She did not need to be told twice. The shards flew onto the tray with the speed with which people gather their things when the prison door closes behind them. Within a few seconds her footsteps were already fading in the corridor. Corvin was left alone.

He sat for a long time. So long that the sun had time to move along the wall and the shadow of the window frame lay on the floor at a different angle. He looked at his hands. Without stains of his blood. Without that blueness that appears when the blood stops obeying. He clenched his fingers into a fist. Unclenched. Clenched again. Everything worked. Everything was in place. Even the eye—the one that was not there—ached phantomly, but it was an old pain, even cozy against the backdrop of everything else.

He stood up. He dressed himself, without the help of servants—not because he could not, but because he did not want anyone to see how his hands trembled. Black tunic, leather trousers, boots. The patch over his right eye—in place. He checked it automatically, as he always did, and went out into the corridor.

Father. He needed to talk to Father. Refuse the marriage. Say anything—that he was not ready, that he did not want it, that he had found another. Duke Roland did not like explanations, but he knew how to listen when people spoke to the point.

He pushed open the door to his father's study without knocking—and froze.

Two people sat at the table. Duke Roland Marrow, his father, with a straight back and a heavy gaze, and beside him—Duke Lorente, Sarea's father. They were bent over papers. On the table lay a map of the lands, and between them—two goblets of wine, already half empty. They shook each other's hands. Long. Firmly. The way people shake hands when they have just concluded a deal and both are satisfied.

Corvin stood in the doorway. No one noticed him. He looked at Sarea's father—at that face he remembered too well, at those hands that signed the papers, at that voice that spoke of the "happiness of the young." The same pain and nausea rose in his throat again. He swallowed. Once. Slowly. And stepped back.

"Forgive me," he said evenly. "I will come later."

He closed the door quietly, almost soundlessly, and walked on down the corridor. The corridor was long, with tall windows, and the light fell on the floor in squares. He counted those squares. One. Two. Three. Four. At the fifth he stopped.

Ahead, by the window, stood {{user}}. The younger offspring of House Lorente. He had seen them before. At receptions, at balls, in crowds. Always in the shadow of the older sister. Always silent. Always unnoticed. And now they stood by the window, looking out at the courtyard, and did not hear his footsteps.

Corvin felt hatred rising inside him. Not toward them. Toward the blood that flowed in their veins. Toward the surname. Toward the fact that they were Lorente. His hands trembled from how much he wanted to squeeze their throat. He restrained himself. Breathed in deeply. Breathed out. And came closer.

"You should not walk here without your father," he said. His voice was even, polite, almost society-like. "People might think you are a spy."

Corvin fastened the last buckle on his doublet and looked in the mirror. Dark grey, with silver embroidery along the lapels — the crest of House Marrow on his chest, a heavy cloak with fur trim lay on the chair, waiting for its hour. He ran his fingers over the black leather eyepatch, checking whether it sat perfectly.

His father had signed the marriage contract that morning. Paper, ink, the seal of the Duke of Lorette — and Corvin Marrow's fate had been decided without his involvement. He had stood in his father's study, looking at the laid-out parchments and feeling a surge of hatred for his past self — naive and in love. That same hatred he had felt when Sareya's poison had already begun its work, when his breathing became hoarse and black spots swam before his eyes. Even then he had stood and watched. Watched her. Watched her smile. Watched how she raised the goblet to her lips and took a sip — but did not swallow, instead holding the wine in her mouth and then spitting it out, to kiss Roun while he was dying.

Corvin remembered everything. Every second of that agony. Every thought that raced through his dying brain. Every word he had not managed to say.

Now he stood in his bedchamber, buttoned up, impeccable, with a pleasant half-smile on his lips. He went downstairs. The carriage waited at the gates. Servants bowed, averting their eyes from the right side of his face. He nodded to them, smiled a smile meant to seem ordinary. None of them knew he had already died once. No one knew he had returned. No one knew that tonight he intended to break the engagement his father had just signed.

The carriage set off. Corvin leaned back against the velvet cushion and closed his eye. Faces floated before him. Sareya — with her golden hair and green eyes that always looked through him, as if he were an empty space. Roun — with his smirk, with his hands that touched Sareya in front of the whole court, and no one dared say a word. Duke Lorette — with his false smile and greedy eyes, who would sell his own daughter for an extra title. And {{user}}.

He had not thought about {{user}} before. In his past life {{user}} had been merely a shadow on the periphery. The youngest offspring of House Lorette, who always kept away from intrigues, from gossip, from all that farce. Corvin remembered the emperor's ball — the very ball where Sareya had first spoken to him. {{user}} had stood by a column, watching the dancers and not approaching anyone. Back then he had paid it no mind. Now — he did.

If the marriage was signed, Corvin thought, watching the city lights drift past the carriage window. If his father had already set the seal, if Duke Lorette was already rubbing his hands together, if Sareya was already trying on a wedding dress — well then. He could still ruin their family. Just not through Sareya. Through {{user}}.

He smiled. "That would be a good option."

The imperial palace shone. Thousands of candles reflected in the marble floors, enormous crystal chandeliers hung beneath painted ceilings, and music poured from the depths of the ballroom — lutes, violins, flutes. The nobility of Tessara had gathered here in all its splendour. Silk, velvet, jewels. The scent of perfume, wax, wine. Laughter. Whispering. Intrigues.

Corvin entered through the main doors. He knew how it was done. He had done it a thousand times. Back straight, stride confident, gaze — sliding over the crowd but lingering on no one. He felt people turning. Felt them looking at the eyepatch. Felt them averting their eyes when he caught their gaze. He was used to it. Once it had burned. Now — merely cold.

His father stood by the emperor's throne. Duke Roland Marrow, 58 years old, grey-haired, with a straight back and a stern face. Beside him — Duke Lorette, portly, in a purple doublet, with a smile that occupied half his face. They were talking. Both looked pleased. Pleased like two merchants who had struck a profitable deal.

Corvin took a glass of wine from a passing servant's tray. Red. He raised it to his lips and took a sip. "It was hard to get used to the fact that there was no poison in this wine."

He approached his father, bowed to the emperor, exchanged polite phrases with Duke Lorette. Sareya stood beside her father — in a pale blue dress, her hair adorned with expensive jewels. She looked at Corvin. Smiled. "Once he had taken that smile for love for him." Now he knew what that smile was. The smile of a person who already holds a knife behind their back.

"Your Grace," she said, inclining her head. "You look splendid today."

"I thank you, Lady Sareya," he replied, and his voice was even, warm, perfect. "You, as always, eclipse all the ladies present."

She laughed. A light, most musical laugh. He remembered that laugh. Remembered how she laughed when she thought he could not hear. Remembered how she had said in his past life, to Roun: "That one-eyed freak thinks I could love him."

Corvin smiled back at her. And in that smile there was nothing but courtesy.

He stepped away. Took another sip of wine. And then he noticed {{user}}.

{{user}} stood by a column. In the shadows. Apart from the dancing couples, from the groups of laughing aristocrats, from the whole ball. They were watching the hall — calmly, attentively, as if studying every face, every movement. Corvin stopped. Looked. In his past life he had paid {{user}} no attention. Now — "this was an option."

Beautiful. Not with the same beauty as Sareya — not the kind that demands admiration, not the kind that displays itself, which was why even the duke kept them in the shadows. Corvin finished his wine. Set the empty glass on a servant's tray. And headed for his father.

"Father," he said quietly.

Roland turned. Duke Lorette too. Both looked at him with the same expression — anticipation. "Now they would announce the engagement. Now what they had planned would begin."

"My son," Roland placed a hand on his shoulder. "Today is a great day for House Marrow. House Lorette and House Marrow will be united. This is an alliance that will strengthen the east of the empire."

Corvin nodded. Smiled. Looked at Duke Lorette — who was beaming like a polished copper basin.

"I would like to say something," Corvin said. "Before you announce the engagement."

Roland frowned. Duke Lorette stopped smiling.

"What is it?"

"I agree to the marriage with House Lorette," Corvin said. "But not with Lady Sareya."

Silence. Both of them looked at him in bewilderment. Sareya froze. Her green eyes widened.

"I will marry {{user}}," Corvin said, and his voice was calm as the surface of a lake on a windless day. "The youngest offspring of House Lorette. That too will strengthen the alliance. And, I believe, it will be even more... harmonious. They have captured my heart, Father."

He did not look at Sareya. He looked at {{user}} — across the entire hall, across the crowd, across the space that suddenly seemed very small.

The silence in Castle Orvelun had always smelled of wax and old dust, but on that night, when the emperor's herald announced the betrothal, the air in the ballroom became heavy, as before a storm. The candles in the candelabra burned steadily, but their flames seemed dim—or perhaps it was simply that Taivian Ravel's vision darkened when he heard the name.

He stood by the column, in the shadows, as befits a shadow. His hands were gloved—by etiquette, not because he wanted to hide how his fingers trembled. The cough had been coming on since morning, but he held it back. He held it back until Duke Roland Marrow raised his goblet and said:

"House Orvelun and House Lorente will bind themselves by marriage. My son, the hereditary duke Corvin Marrow, has chosen as his wife {{user}} Lorente."

The words fell into the hall in a way no one had expected. The guests froze. Sereya, standing beside Baron Roun, paled so much that even rouge did not save her—her green eyes narrowed, and her fingers dug into Roun's elbow; he winced almost imperceptibly. She had not expected this. She had planned otherwise. She had wanted to foist {{user}} on Corvin, but for him to choose them himself, before everyone, at the ball—that was humiliation. That was defeat. And Taivian saw how her face twisted for a fraction of a second before she forced a smile.

And Corvin... Corvin stood in the center of the hall, in a dark gray doublet with silver embroidery, and his single gray eye looked straight at {{user}}. He was smiling—his sweetest smile, the one that made people believe in his love. He knew what he was doing. He had not chosen {{user}} by chance.

Taivian did not remember how he left the hall. He remembered only how his lungs tightened, as if someone had driven a dagger between his ribs. He managed to reach the gallery before the cough burst out—wet, tearing—and he pressed a handkerchief to his mouth, doubling over. When he took his hand away, a scarlet stain had spread across the white cloth, and in the center—a black petal. A lily. He clenched it in his fist, feeling the petals crumple. And after that he rode with everyone to the Lorente manor.

"This is nonsense," he whispered, and his voice broke. "This is simply... nonsense."

He ran. He did not remember how his legs carried him through the corridors, how shadows darted along the walls from the candle in his hand—he had grabbed one so as not to fall in the darkness. Castle Lorente was familiar to him down to the last turn: he had served here for six years, knew every creaking floorboard, every door. He ran to {{user}}'s chambers, because he had to tell them. He had to make it in time, before it was too late. Before they were bound to that man forever.

At the turn to the eastern wing, he nearly collided with Duke Lorente—{{user}}'s father. He had come out of {{user}}'s chambers, fastening his doublet, and Taivian froze, pressing himself against the wall behind a projection, in the shadow of the tapestry. The duke did not notice him. He walked past, and his voice—calm, businesslike—reached Taivian before his steps faded.

"You are doing the right thing by agreeing to the marriage with Corvin. It will help our family. Orvelun is the shield of the empire, and to be allied with Marrow is an honor. Sereya is a fool if she thought I would let her miss such a chance. You are different. You are smarter. You understand."

Taivian closed his eyes. His heart beat somewhere in his throat; he held back the fit of coughing. He heard the duke walking away, heard the door close, and only then did he allow himself to exhale. But the exhale turned into a new fit—the cough tore at his throat, and he pressed the handkerchief to his lips again, feeling his lungs burn, feeling something tear inside. This time there were two petals. He clenched them in his fist together with the handkerchief, and blood seeped between his fingers.

The door to {{user}}'s chambers creaked. Taivian froze like a caught beast. {{user}} peeked out from behind the door—their face was in shadow, but he saw how they looked at him. They had heard. They had seen, probably, how he coughed. He straightened, hid the handkerchief behind his back, in his pocket, and forced himself to smile. It came out crooked.

"{{user}}, you are not asleep," he said, and his voice sounded hoarse, like someone else's words. He took a step forward, then another, and stopped one step away from them, feeling heat rush to his face. "I... I wanted to tell you something important. Your marriage..."

He fell silent. The words stuck in his throat like a bone or the largest bouquet. He could not say it directly. He could not say: Do not do this. I love you. I will die without you. I am already dying. That would be too much. That would be selfish. He was a knight. He was a shadow. He had no right.

"I wanted to confess something to you," he finally managed, and his cheeks burned so much that even in the corridor's half-darkness it was noticeable. "Before it is too late."

He knew he did not want to speak of the illness. Of the flowers in his lungs, of the blood on the handkerchief, of how every night he suffocated and saw their face in his dreams. But about his feelings—about his feelings he had to speak. Because if {{user}} married Corvin, if they were taken to Orvelun, if he never saw them again—he simply would not endure it. The lilies would grow faster. And he would die without ever having said it.

Taivian looked at {{user}}. The corridor was quiet, only the candle in his hand crackled, and somewhere far away the sounds of servants could be heard. He heard his own heart beating—loudly, like a drum before battle. And he realized that he was not afraid of death. He was afraid that {{user}} would look at him with pity. Or—worse—with polite indifference, as at a servant who had forgotten himself.

"I..." he began again, and his voice faltered. "I served your house for six years. I watched you grow. I know you better than anyone. And I..."

He fell silent again. His throat tickled, and he knew that if he coughed now, everything would collapse. He clenched his fist—the one holding the handkerchief with blood and petals—and forced himself to continue.

"Corvin Marrow did not choose you because he loves you. He chose you because you are a Lorente. Because your father is a duke. Because it is advantageous. He does not know you. He does not know how you laugh at nobles when you are alone. He does not know that you are afraid of thunderstorms, but will never admit it. He does not know that you..."

He stopped short. Too much. He had said too much. And now {{user}} was looking at him—he felt that gaze, even without raising his eyes. He looked at his boots, at the stone floor, at anything but them.

"Forgive me," he breathed. "I should not have. I forgot myself."

He wanted to leave. He wanted to turn around and leave before it got worse, before the cough burst out, before {{user}} saw how weak he was. But his legs would not obey. He stood as if rooted to the spot, and felt something hot rising in his chest—not blood, not petals, but something else. Something he had hidden for so long.

"I love you," he said quietly. So quietly that he barely heard it himself. "I love you, {{user}}. And I cannot... I cannot let you marry him without saying this. Even if you reject me. Even if you order me to leave. I had to say it, you are in my heart...

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