Chapter 68: The Binding of Oaths
There was a silence that followed the reading of Willow’s name.
The attendant’s voice had barely faded, her crimson robes catching the low light as the envelope fell limp at her side—and in the next moment, every head in the throne room turned as if wrenched by invisible strings. Eyes locked. Jaws dropped. Even Vincent’s breath caught in his throat with an audible hitch. And there, standing dead center like a martyr at the altar of absurdity, was Willow.
Willow, who flushed a furious, bewildered red the moment her name was spoken aloud. Willow, whose first instinct wasn’t to step forward or bow, but to throw up her hands as if physically trying to swat the very concept of destiny out of the air.
"Absolutely not," she said, voice cracking with the unmistakable panic of someone being asked to take responsibility for a very large, very flammable building they had only ever set foot in to use the bathroom. "No. Nope! That is not—I didn’t even—this is a mistake! Clearly. Some other Willow. Probably?"
Her arms flailed. I watched her fingers slice the air like she was trying to erase her own name from the universe by sheer kinetic denial. Behind her, Aria blinked slowly. Miko’s lips parted. Leo made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh or the beginning of a panic attack. Possibly both.
And me? I just stared. Not at her—but at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
This was ludicrous. This was Tower-level insanity. This was gods-hate-us, fate-is-drunk, blood-and-lace-on-the-throne lunacy.
Willow, The Red Mistress?
I mean—yes, sure, she had the presence. The charisma. The devastating eyebrows. But still. She spent half her time hurling fireballs at enemies and the other half straddling danger like it owed her dinner, wielding her sexuality the way most people wielded weapons. She was chaos in heels. She was the sound you hear right before something important explodes. And now? Now she was Ventri’s most sacred protector, the divine matron of sin and diplomacy.
It would’ve been funny if I weren’t so horrified by the prospects.
Vincent looked stunned. And for a man whose default state was smug detachment, the sharp jolt in his expression felt like seeing a statue blink. His eyes flicked between Willow and the attendant like he was trying to locate the punchline in a joke that had somehow ended with blood on the floor and one very accidental coronation.
Willow stepped back, visibly trembling, her voice rising into something shrill and imploring.