Three conditions for marriage

Duke's mansion.

Inside, the study room was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire. Berith sat in a high-backed chair near the hearth. He swirled the dark red wine in his glass absently, though his mind was anything but idle. 

His dark eyes flicked toward the door as it opened, the butler stepping in to announce his visitor.

"Your Grace," the butler said with a bow, "The High Priest Valemont has arrived to see you."

Berith quirked his dark brow. This should be interesting, he thought.

"Send him in," He set the glass down on the side table, leaning back in his chair as he waited.

The High Priest entered moments later. Berith could see the faint tension in his shoulders, the slight tightening of his jaw.

"Your Grace," Alistair greeted with a polite nod.

"High Priest," Berith greeted, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "Please, have a seat."

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" Berith drawled, adjusting the cuffs of his white shirt.

Alistair hesitated before speaking. "I have come to discuss an arrangement, Your Grace. One that I believe will benefit both our families." He prompted.

Berith reached for his wineglass, his long fingers curling around the glass as he studied Alistair over the rim. "An arrangement?" he cocked his head. "Please, do elaborate."

"As you know," Alistair began with his tightening jaw but he pressed on, "the recent… incident involving my younger daughter, Marcella, has caused quite the stir among the noble circles."

Berith raised the glass to his lips but didn't drink. "Ah, yes. The infamous Lady Marcella." he drawled, his voice thick with mockery. "It's been the talk of the town, hasn't it? She certainly knows how to leave an impression."

Alistair's expression stiffened, his fingers clasping tightly on the armrest of the chair. "As her father, it is my responsibility to ensure that this matter is resolved swiftly and with as little damage to our family's reputation as possible."

Berith leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the edge of the table, "And you believe I can assist you with that?" he asked lazily, his brows lifting.

"Yes," Alistair straightened, his tone growing firmer. "A marriage between you and Marcella would silence the rumors and restore dignity to the Valemont name."

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint crackling of the fire. Berith let out a cold, dark chuckle. He leaned back again, swirling the wine in his glass as though contemplating its color.

"A marriage," his voice trailed off, the word rolling off his tongue like a foreign concept. "To Marcella Valemont."

"Yes," Alistair nodded, though his voice betrayed a faint tremor of desperation.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly," he said, setting the glass down and interlacing his fingers. "You wish me to marry a woman I have never spoken to, whose reputation precedes her as… how shall I put this? Unruly, selfish, and entirely devoid of the qualities one might expect in a Duchess."

"Marcella is not as bad as the rumors make her out to be." Alistair was quick to defend his daughter.

"Isn't she?" Berith countered, his smirk returning. "The word around court is that she's domineering, resentful, and lacks any semblance of grace or decorum. If even half of what they say is true, why on earth would I agree to marry her?"

Alistair sighed. "I understand your concern, Your Grace. Your marriage had been already fixed with my eldest daughter but now, we are only replacing the bride." He leaned forward, his palms pressing against the edge of the desk. The faint aura of sanctity that surrounded him seemed to flicker, replaced by something darker, something sharper. "You have two choices. Either marry Marcella and solidify your future, or refuse—and lose the Valemont family's support entirely."

 "Ah," Berith murmured, pulling up a smirk. "a threat cloaked in diplomacy. How very priestly of you."

 "A reality, Your Grace," he corrected. "The Valemont family holds significant influence in court and the Church alike. The Church's favor will shield you in times of trouble, and my family's influence in court will ensure you rise, not fall."" Alistair sounded persuasive, trying to bribe the duke.

Berith narrowed his eyes regarding the High Priest with a sharp, almost predatory gaze. "Replacing the perfect, dutiful elder sister and now I am offered the… substitute?" He remarked in a tone almost sweet.

 "Marcella is not a substitute. She is a Valemont, and her marriage to you will serve both our interests." Aliaster replied.

Berith laughed then, a soft, dark sound that sent a faint chill through the room. He picked up his wineglass again, taking a slow sip. "How magnanimous of you,"

The High Priest straightened, his voice growing colder. "This is not a request, Your Grace. It is an offer. One that you would be wise to accept."

Berith was silent for a long moment, his dark eyes fixed on the fire. "Very well," His face grew thoughtful, brows dipped in together. "I'll consider this… arrangement. But I have my conditions."

Alistair raised a brow. "And what are those conditions, Your Grace?"

"First," he began. His dark eyes bore into the High Priest's, leaving no room for argument. "The Valemont family will have no authority in my household. Marcella answers to me, and me alone. If I find her meddling in my affairs, there will be consequences." 

"Second," Berith continued, the words rolled off his tongue. "I will not tolerate disobedience. If she is to be my wife, she will fulfill her role as Duchess—nothing more, nothing less."

"And third," he added, "if she proves to be as unruly as the rumors suggest, I own the right to dissolve this marriage at my discretion." His tone turned almost cruel.

The finality in his voice was a warning.

Alistair digested his words carefully, before nodding. "Agreed."

Berith was quick to dismiss him, waving off his hands. "Then you may consider it settled. But, don't mistake this for a favor, High Priest. If either of you crosses me, you will regret it." He warned, something dark and menacing lurking behind his eyes.

"Thank you, Your Grace." The High Priest rose from his seat, bowing down before he took his leave.

As Alistair left the mansion, Berith stood by the window. His fingers tapping lazily against the wineglass as his thoughts turned to the woman who would soon become his wife.

Marcella Valemont.