Where did everything begin?
Was it the moment the papers were signed? The quiet knock of fate that arrived as a letter sealed with red wax, bearing the royal insignia, with words too sharp and final to be undone?
Was it the day her father's hands shook as he signed away the Raven estate, his once-glorious name now tarnished with the black ink of debt? Or did it start earlier—years ago—when the mines dried up and the Raven coffers slowly hollowed, one coin at a time?
No one could say. Not with certainty.
But now, Saoirse, the only daughter of the proud yet crumbling Raven family, stood before the altar of the great cathedral, dressed in a gown not of her choosing, sewn with threads that felt more like chains than silk.
The cold air smelled of incense and old stone. It settled heavily against her bare shoulders. The vast stained-glass windows above her head told stories of love and salvation—but today, she felt neither.
She stood in front of the priest, trembling not from nerves but from the weight of inevitability. Her hands were cold, clasped tightly in front of her as though in prayer, though no gods answered.
And beside her stood the man—him—Fenris Dankworth.
The name had once been only a whisper in the hallways of noble courts, a half-legend spoken of in the same breath as battles and glories. The Young Wolf of Dreven, they called him. The Ironblooded Heir. And now—he was her husband.
Or, rather, he would be, once the vows were said.
Saoirse turned her head slowly, cautiously, to glance at him.
He stood tall and proud, even in stillness, like a blade forged and cooled in war. Only nineteen, yet already wearing the burden of a hundred lifetimes in his eyes.
He had the build of a soldier sculpted from the battlefield: broad shoulders, calloused hands, the faintest scar trailing down the line of his neck—faded now, but still there, still real. His dark hair was cropped just enough to maintain discipline but long enough to fall in a rebellious curl over his brow. His jawline was sharp, his cheekbones high and defined, and his expression—
Empty.
He did not look at her.
He didn't need to.
His eyes, the color of a storm before the first crack of lightning, stared straight ahead, fixed on the altar. His lips were a hard line. He looked as though he were bracing for war—not for marriage.
Saoirse swallowed hard.
This was not a love story.
It was a contract.
A transaction wrapped in lace and velvet.
When the Raven family declared quiet bankruptcy and the king himself turned his back on them, there were only whispers of hope. Her mother had fallen ill years before. Her brother—gone in the fire that destroyed their second estate and died.
Only Saoirse remained, the last jewel of a dimming crown. And in desperation, her father unearthed the long-forgotten agreement: a betrothal arrangement signed decades ago between Lord Raven and General Dankworth. A political match. A safety net in times of hardship.
The Dankworths were rich in blood, gold, and military favor. The Ravens were rich in history, though now that too began to fade like old parchment.
Fenris had no choice, just as she hadn't.
Neither had spoken a word to each other until the morning of the ceremony. Their brief greeting was stiff, formal. Saoirse had tried to smile. Fenris had merely nodded, his face is truly blank. Cold.
And now, under the weight of divine silence, with flower petals scattered at their feet and a thousand eyes watching from the pews, she stood beside a stranger bound to her by paper and duty.
Her breath hitched. The priest began the rites.
Fenris did not glance her way.
He didn't need to. In his mind, this was not a union. It was an obligation. One battlefield exchanged for another.
And yet—even in the hollowness of the moment, Saoirse couldn't help but look at him again. Because no matter how detached he seemed, how cold and distant, Fenris Dankworth was undeniably handsome—breathtaking, even.
He radiated strength not just in posture but in presence. He moved with the confidence of someone who had faced death and won. His youth was wrapped in scars, not softness. But still—he was beautiful in the way that swords are beautiful: cold, sharp, and forged with purpose.
And now… he was hers. Not in heart. Not in soul. But in name.
Saoirse's breath trembled in her chest.
She could hear nothing but the thrum of her heart, the low echo of the priest's voice blurred beneath a haze of doubt and finality. But then—like the tolling of a bell—his question rang clear in the cathedral:
"Do you, Saoirse of House Raven, take this man, Fenris of House Dankworth, as your lawful husband? To honor and obey, in fortune and in fall, in peace and in war, from this day to your final breath?"
Her eyes lifted slowly to the priest, then turned, almost unwillingly, toward Fenris. He hadn't moved. Not an inch. Still a statue of duty carved from cold, unwilling stone.
And yet—something flickered. A small thing. Almost imperceptible.
His fingers twitched at his side.
Her throat tightened. She could feel the weight of the Raven legacy pressing down on her shoulders like iron. This marriage would rescue what was left of her name, patch together her father's broken legacy, and offer her people some measure of protection. But it came at the cost of herself—of everything she once dreamed love to be.
But what choice did she have?
None.
So she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and with a voice softer than she expected—but no less steady—she said:
"I do."
The words hung in the air like frost.
There was no applause. No warmth.
Just silence.
Then, the priest turned toward the groom. "And do you, Fenris of House Dankworth, take this woman, Saoirse of House Raven, as your lawful wife? To shield and keep, to defend and stand beside, in wind and ruin, from this day until your final breath?"
A pause.
Longer than it should have been.
Saoirse did not dare to look at him—but she could feel him. The way his breath caught. The way his gaze—unreadable—tilted slightly downward toward the stone floor, as if searching for something he lost long ago.
For a moment, she feared he might say no.
But then, with the sure, commanding tone of a soldier accepting an order, he said:
"I do."
It sounded more like surrender than promise.
The priest nodded solemnly and stepped back. "Then by the authority granted to me by the Crown, I now bind your fates, your names, and your blood. What has been divided shall be made whole. What has been promised is now fulfilled. You may seal your vows with a kiss."
Silence fell again.
The entire cathedral seemed to hold its breath.
Fenris turned toward her, and at last—at long last—Saoirse looked up at him.
His expression was unreadable. Not cruel. Not unkind. Just… distant.
Duty.
He leaned in, slow and careful, and pressed the faintest kiss to her lips. It was cold and brief—more like a benediction than a lover's gesture. She did not close her eyes. She did not feel warmth.
And when he pulled away, he did not look into her eyes. He offered her his arm, and like a well-rehearsed act, she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.
Together, the newlyweds turned to face the gathering of nobles and spectators, who rose politely but offered no cheers—only measured, knowing applause.
It was done.
The ink was dry. The vows were spoken.
And in that cold cathedral, beneath towering spires and shattered expectations, Saoirse Raven Dankworth began a life she had not chosen.
Bound by name.
Married by necessity.
Standing beside a man made of war and silence.