A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 78: Long May it Echo

"Tom wants a state," she said absently. "So he's building one."

Lucius raised his glass. "Here's to the empire."

They were seated toward the front—of course. Anastasia between Tom and Narcissa. Lucius just behind. The murmurs of welcome drinks still drifted through the hall, though most glasses had been drained. Someone behind her was talking about the Veela-blooded guest list. Someone else was laughing at the idea that the bride had insisted on real doves.

"I give them three minutes before they're cursed," Lucius said.

Anastasia's gaze had drifted to the groom.

Aldaric Marlow stood at the altar like someone preparing for war. He wasn't fidgeting—he didn't need to—but there was something in his stillness that spoke of calculation, not calm. His dark hair was slicked with potion-gloss. His collar was charmed to shine. His face gave nothing away. It wasn't a mask. It was a surrender.

"He looks like he's about to testify," Narcissa murmured.

Tom, beside her, didn't respond. He was watching the aisle. His eyes flicked once to the crowd. Then forward again.

The music began—low and stringed, stately and without surprise.

Everyone turned.

Eurydice Trevers appeared at the top of the steps.

Anastasia inhaled, just once. Shallow.

The bride was glowing.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

She shimmered faintly beneath her veil, her skin aglow with the faint, impossible sheen of alchemical enhancement. Her dress was made of layered starlace and embroidered velvet, dyed the soft pink of sea-foam roses. But it wasn't the gown that held the room. It was the precision of her every movement. Smooth. Silken. Unbothered.

Too unbothered.

Verum Rosea. Anastasia would bet her wand on it. A potion whispered about in Pureblood halls—used to suppress fear, clear the voice, mute the body's instinct to resist. Temporarily erase the memory of pain. Meant for speeches. Or weddings. Or public executions.

Eurydice's eyes didn't flicker. She walked as if gliding, as if every step had been choreographed by something not entirely her own. And still, she was beautiful. The kind of terrifying, otherworldly beauty that could only be conjured. Drugged beautiful.

"She looks... unusually radiant," Lucius murmured.

"She looks sedated," Anastasia replied.

"She's both," Narcissa said. "Like all good brides."

They took their seats. The ceremony was beginning.

Tom didn't shift beside her. But she felt him watching.

She smoothed the silk of her gloves. No blood on her today. No promises asked of her. This wasn't about her.

It's fine, she thought. You're fine.

The officiant stepped forward—an older man in iridescent green robes, marked with runes and ministry sigils. His voice echoed magically over the crowd.

"We gather to bear witness," he intoned, "to the binding of two lines, two names, two fates—by oath and by blood."

There it was.

The binding wasn't just symbolic. The words would draw blood from each of them, tiny cuts over their palms, captured in a crystal phial. Binding magic laced through the vows—arcane, high, and irreversible. The kind of old magic Tom liked. Control dressed as tradition.