Fifteen, and Head Over Heels
Mortal enemies.
A blood feud spanning centuries.
Until recently, they had been clawing at each other's throats with murderous intent. Yet today, wearing masks of genial benevolence, they clinked wine glasses together in celebration.
"Hahaha! For our two houses to become one like this—it is truly moving!"
"Indeed, indeed! What a magnificent union!"
Paltry hypocrisy.
The hall bustled warmly with forced laughter and sycophantic praise, but no one could fail to sense the serpentine malice lurking behind those smiling faces. The names of Waldemar and Sinclair—bywords for ancestral enmity—could hardly lose their weight overnight.
A peace treaty to somehow patch over the bleeding wounds of this wretched, ill-fated connection.
Its sole condition was an arranged marriage between fifteen-year-old children.
The motive was obvious: they needed the most foolproof "legal hostages" to keep each other in check. With flesh and blood pledged as collateral, neither side could afford rash moves under the watchful eyes of the realm. That was the prize both houses sought from this political match.
And to secure that prize, House Waldemar offered up their most expendable card: the youngest of three sons and one daughter, the lowest in standing and easiest to throw away.
Leon Waldemar.
Me.
I bore no grudge over it. In noble families, political marriages traded for advantage were a matter of course. I only hoped that the girl cloaked behind the veil, Celia Sinclair, wouldn't blow things out of proportion or attach grand meaning to this union.
I had never heard of an arranged marriage ending happily in the grave, nor had I ever seen one. When complex affairs tangled together, things inevitably twisted out of shape. And the more convoluted the knot, the more hopelessly entangled it became once pulled tight.
It's just a contract marriage anyway.
Pawns sacrificed for our houses. Both her and me. So I had not the slightest intention of seeking meaning in our married life. It would be enough to play at being husband and wife on the surface, keeping up appearances just enough to pass muster.
The moment this fragile peace fell apart, after all, this childish game of house would end as well.
I'll just keep my distance and get by.
I was busy psyching myself up, playing the part of a composed, indifferent young lord, when it happened.
Creak—!
The heavy ceremonial doors swung open. The hollow laughter died away, and every gaze in the hall turned toward the entrance.
And then, my bride stepped inside.
"…Ah."
Every thought, resolution, and oath I had just forged crumbled like a sandcastle, and a thoroughly foolish gasp slipped from my lips.
Fifteen-year-old Celia stood there in a gown of pure white. Her golden hair caught the chandelier's light, shattering into dazzling brilliance.
It felt as if the foul, hypocritical air choking the hall had been purified in a single instant. No, it felt as though the entire world had ground to a halt. To call her the reincarnation of a goddess would scarcely have been an exaggeration.
Her wide, luminous eyes trembled with faint unease, and her lips, plump and ruby-red as ripe cherries, were pressed tightly shut. Every light, delicate step she took seemed to trample right over my frozen heart.
Contract marriage? Legal hostage? Live while keeping my distance?
The meager resolutions that had filled my head dissolved into white mist. Like a bumbling fool, like a reed without a spine, Celia Sinclair had utterly undone me.
Thump, thump, thump.
My heart began to hammer frantically against my ribs. My mind screamed that she was the daughter of our sworn enemy, yet my eyes refused to tear themselves away from her.
What was I supposed to do? She was so breathtakingly beautiful. If fairies truly existed, wouldn't they look like this? Celia Sinclair. Why did my chest ache so fiercely with every step she took toward me?
Please, hurry over. I want to see you up close. How can anyone be this lovely? It makes no sense.
Back then, I didn't know. I had no idea that this stupid, innocent, utterly foolish emotion harbored by a fifteen-year-old boy would be the spark that ignited a hellish nightmare destined to repeat forty-four times.
House Waldemar, the martial hegemon of the North. House Sinclair, the premier magical lineage of the North. There were three major catastrophes that had turned these two houses from centuries-old rivals into mortal, blood-sworn enemies.
It began fifty years ago, with a clumsy attempt at reconciliation between the two feud-weary houses. The previous patriarch of Waldemar hosted a banquet and invited Madame Sinclair. But before the opening toast could even conclude, dark crimson blood sprayed from Madame Sinclair's severed throat. It was an outright declaration of war.
Thirty years later, the knights of Waldemar set fire to Sinclair's greatest granary. For days and nights on end, the sky remained choked with black ash. Blinded by vengeance, House Sinclair dumped deadly poison into every well and water source across the Waldemar territory. Thousands of commoners and knights died coughing up clots of blood. The corpses of children piled up like mountains, and the hatred between the two houses crossed the point of no return.
And merely ten years ago, my father, the current Count Waldemar, lured Sinclair's second son into a mountain gorge. Caught in the trap, the arrogant young master was personally beheaded by my father's greatsword. That night, Celia's father—the Count of Sinclair—was said to have wept tears of blood as he poured out venomous curses upon us.
For decades, both families had repeated such atrocities. And now they spoke of peace? Harmony? It was laughable. No one in the surrounding lands would take this sham wedding at face value either.
"What? Sinclair and Waldemar are holding a peace-treaty wedding? Pfft, I'd be surprised if it lasts a single day." They would merely snort in derision.
Regardless, from my position, there was no way to know what conditions the venerable family heads had demanded, what profits they had promised, or what schemes they concealed. But there was one thing—and one thing alone—that I could be certain of: face to face, Celia Sinclair possessed a beauty unsurpassed by any woman I would ever meet in my life.
She was like a sculpture chiseled by the gods, stunning enough to make me forget the bloody history I had just recounted, magnificent enough to shatter every vow I had made.
I'd heard the rumors... but to think she was like this.
The rumors had been rampant for years. What kind of priceless treasure was she that they hid her away, never allowing her to step foot in high society? Had Sinclair confined her to the estate because her beauty bewitched men and women alike? Those sorts of whispers. Now that I was witnessing the reality behind those rumors, my heart churned like a stormy sea, and sweat already slicked my palms.
The pure white bride standing before me, Celia Sinclair. The instant I looked at her, every shred of rational calculation in my head was blown to smithereens.
Yet in stark contrast to my burning gaze, Celia's eyes were as cold as ice. They held nothing but pure, unadulterated indifference. Or perhaps the dry detachment one reserved for the cause of an unfortunate political arrangement.
...Get a hold of yourself.
Confronted by that icy stare, my foolishly fluttering heart began to cool. Right. We were bitter enemies. If I stood here grinning like an idiot on my own, I would look like nothing more than a pathetic fool.
Taking a quiet breath, I gathered my composure. I pulled on the mask of a composed, impeccably polite young lord of House Waldemar.
The hall, meanwhile, was awash in festive merriment. One would never guess these were people who had spent centuries drinking each other's blood and clawing at each other's throats.
"Hahaha! I have always heard the Waldemar territory is remarkably fertile. A truly blessed land!"
"Oh, but is Sinclair's magic not the finest on the continent? We have gained a dependable family in-law!"
Guests from both sides toasted one another, roaring with boisterous laughter. On the surface, it was a warm, beautiful tableau of harmony.
Whatever the true intentions of the two houses were, a fifteen-year-old boy chosen as a sacrificial pawn had little curiosity to spare for them. They had their grand designs, no doubt. It wasn't something I could learn even if I wanted to, nor did I have the power to change anything even if I knew. It was better to remain ignorant. I only wished for this wedding—the climax of this bizarre farce—to be over.
"Now, let the bride and groom exchange their vows..."
The presiding priest's gentle voice echoed across the hall. The guests broke into applause, putting on a grand show of blessing us.
Amid those smiling faces, I deliberately averted my gaze. It had nothing to do with me anyway. As I had told myself, this was a battle between adults; a young lord like me was merely a paper boat set adrift on a rushing stream.
Once more, I looked down at the young bride who shared my plight. Even amid this suffocating hypocrisy, Celia remained perfectly composed, without the slightest tremor.
Thank goodness. At least she isn't terrified.
Where within that small, delicate frame did such unyielding resolve dwell? Swallowing the admiration that threatened to escape me, I feigned aloofness as I looked at her. We were legal hostages traded to keep each other in check. I would draw a courteous, immaculate line so we didn't hurt each other, and pass our days in quiet peace until this hostage drama ran its course. That was the emotional defensive line I had set for myself.
"I hereby pronounce them husband and wife."
At long last, the tedious, dreadful ceremony came to an end. The hall erupted in fervent cheers from the fake well-wishers.
All that remained on the program was for the newlyweds to exchange their first greetings. Maintaining the unflappable demeanor of a noble scion, I spoke in a courteous tone.
"I look forward to our time together. I know this was not a place either of us wished to be..."
I kept my voice as plain and gentle as possible, drawing a line devoid of personal sentiment.
"So long as we maintain mutual courtesy, neither of us should find this uncomfortable."
A greeting that was neither too harsh nor too warm. With this, she would likely consider me someone she could at least reason with and let her guard down. I took pride in having established what seemed like the perfect distance.
At my cautious words, Celia's golden eyelashes fluttered faintly. Then, at last, her tightly sealed lips parted.
"……Yes. I, too, wish to avoid pointless conflict."
A dry, businesslike response. As expected, her tone was thoroughly defensive, without a single drop of affection. Her gaze remained cool and unwavering as she looked up at me.
And yet.
...Holy hell.
I nearly shattered the meek mask I had struggled so hard to wear. The sound of her voice lingered in my ears, reverberating through my skull over and over.
Was this what people meant when they spoke of jade pearls rolling across a silver tray? Even that cold, distant tone sounded breathtakingly melodic.
Biting my lip to choke back an incredulous laugh, I could only scream on the inside.
Her voice is gorgeous too! Dammit!
An immaculate, polite business partner? An emotional defensive line? The daughter of our mortal enemy? A meaningless contract marriage?
It seemed my petty plans had been completely ruined right from the start.