The palace chapel gleamed like something out of a fairy tale Marin was fairly certain she didn't belong in. Sunlight poured through high stained-glass windows, scattering pools of red, gold, and green light across the polished marble floor. The scent of incense clung to the air, sweet and heavy, mixing with the faint metallic tang from the polished candelabras. Nobles filled the pews, glittering in silks and jewels, their conversations hushed but their gazes sharp, every eye on her.
Her palms were damp around the bouquet. She could hear the faint swish of her gown and the muffled creak of her slippers on marble as though each sound echoed in a cavern. Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears she almost couldn't hear the music.
At the far end of the aisle stood General Kael Draven.
The Iron Wolf of Dravenhold.
A man whose name ended battles, whose very presence made seasoned captains stand straighter and enemies hesitate. And — unfortunately — her soon-to-be husband.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and still as a statue carved from midwinter frost. Yet if one looked closely, there was the faintest tightening of his jaw, a slow blink that lingered just a fraction too long, and a subtle shift of his weight — tiny cracks in the mask of the unflinching general. His expression didn't otherwise shift as the orchestra began to play, though the sunlight striking his silver insignia made it flash like a warning.
Marin clutched her bouquet like a lifeline, fingers cramping.
Don't trip. Don't trip. For the love of all that's holy, don't trip.
She took one careful step. Then another. Her breath caught in her throat with each movement, aware of the rustle of silk and the weight of judgment in the nobles' eyes.
On the third, her heel caught on the lace hem of her gown.
The first stumble was small enough to recover. The second wasn't. Her stomach lurched as she pitched forward, bouquet flailing, the world narrowing to a rush of colored light and polished marble. She collided directly with a wall of black ceremonial uniform.
Kael's arm shot out, catching her waist before she could face-plant onto the altar. The sudden movement jolted the ceremonial sword at his side. Its tip struck the wooden floor with a sharp crack. For a heartbeat his grip tightened just a hair too much, as if bracing for the worst.
There was a faint hiss.
The bishop froze mid-phrase.
Guards stiffened.
From the cracked panel underfoot, a thin curl of green mist began to rise.
Kael's grip tightened, steady but unyielding. "Guards." The syllables were clipped, but underneath the steel was a current of cold urgency. His eyes narrowed, scanning the chamber in a sharp sweep, and a faint muscle feathered along his jaw as if he were calculating every possible threat at once.
Steel scraped from scabbards. Soldiers surged forward, boots pounding against the marble. The bishop stumbled back with a gasp as one guard knelt and pried open the split panel. More of the green vapour hissed upward, curling in lazy, sinister tendrils. Even Marin's untrained nose caught the sharp, bitter tang of poison, making her throat tighten.
"Evacuate the hall!" barked Captain Ren. His voice cracked like a whip, making even the haughtiest nobles scramble. Silks rustled, jewels clinked, and the pews emptied in a flurry of startled murmurs. Somewhere in the chaos, a wine goblet shattered against the floor.
Kael didn't let go of her. His stance remained braced, as though expecting another strike, until the guards had sealed the vents and declared the area safe. Only then did his shoulders ease fractionally, the tightness in his jaw softening for a brief, unguarded heartbeat before it returned.
"I… didn't do it," Marin blurted.
Grey eyes dropped to meet hers, cool but certain. "I know."
Still, his hand stayed at her waist until the last trace of mist was gone.
They finished the ceremony in a smaller, secured chapel inside the palace, the kind of place where even the candles seemed nervous. The royal aide, pale and jittery, practically herded them to the altar like a pair of wayward sheep, clearly determined to get this over with before anyone else tried to assassinate them.
The vows were repeated. Kael's gaze didn't leave hers. It wasn't romantic — it was steady, assessing, like a commander reading the battlefield, though every so often his focus softened imperceptibly, as if measuring more than her words. Marin found herself wondering if he was calculating her odds of making it through the rest of the day without tripping again.
When the bishop pronounced them husband and wife, Kael took her hand. His grip was warm, sure — and firm enough that she briefly wondered if he was holding on just in case she made a break for it.
"Don't fall again," he murmured, deadpan.
"Too late," Marin whispered back before she could stop herself, flashing the faintest grin. If she was going to be remembered as the bride who tripped into a poison trap, she might as well lean into it.
The reception was a muted affair. Nobles whispered behind fans and cups of wine.
"She's clumsy."
"Clumsy or not, she just saved the royal family."
"Perhaps the king's luck has turned."
Marin tried to ignore them, standing by a tall window with a plate of untouched food. Kael joined her silently, as if he'd always been there.
"They'll talk," he said.
"They already are," she muttered. "I'm just glad no one was hurt."
He inclined his head slightly, as though conceding the point. "That part was… fortunate."
His gaze lingered. "You're lucky you weren't injured."
"I'm clumsy, not cursed."
A flicker of dry humor touched his expression. "Luck can be a form of armor. But armor can dent."
One corner of his mouth twitched — maybe amusement, maybe doubt. "We'll see."
The guests trickled out until the hall was nearly empty, their footsteps echoing faintly through the grand space. The scent of wine and polished wood lingered in the air, mixing with the quiet hum of distant conversation fading away. Kael walked beside Marin through the long, candlelit corridors toward her new chambers. His steps were slow, measured — like a man deliberately matching the rhythm of his thoughts. Hers… less so. She found herself nearly tripping on the hem of her gown again, saved only by a last-second hop that made her skirt swish embarrassingly.
"You haven't said much," she ventured after a stretch of silence long enough to count her own heartbeats.
"I rarely do." His reply was simple, but not unkind.
She gave a faint huff, her lips twitching. "That's comforting. I married a man of mystery."
They passed a row of tall windows, the city sprawling dark and glittering beyond. The view should have been calming, but Marin found herself replaying the scene in the chapel.
"Back there…" she hesitated, fiddling with the folds of her skirt. "If I hadn't tripped—"
"The king would have been standing over that trap," Kael said without looking at her. His tone carried a matter-of-fact certainty that made her stomach twist.
"So… you think I saved him?"
"I think you stepped in the right place at the right time," he said. After a beat, he added, "And I think that's not the first time you've done that."
She blinked, caught between surprise and curiosity. "That's oddly specific."
His eyes slid to hers — sharp, unreadable, yet for a heartbeat something warmer flickered there, like a candle guttering before catching again. "Just an observation."
They reached the door to her chambers. Kael paused, hand resting on the handle, and regarded her for a moment longer than was necessary. "You should rest. It's been… a long day."
"You make it sound like I fought a battle."
"You may have." The faintest trace of wryness colored his voice.
Before she could summon a reply — something witty, something that would make her sound braver than she felt — he opened the door, waited for her to step inside, and closed it gently behind her, the sound clicking softly in the quiet hallway.
Marin stood in the quiet room, bouquet still clutched in her hands. The chambers were grand, the bed enormous, the fire warm — the sort of scene she might have once imagined for a fairytale princess. Yet now, standing in the middle of it, she felt less like royalty and more like a child wearing someone else's crown, trying not to drop it.
She kicked off her shoes, wincing as one bounced off a chair leg, and flopped face-first onto the bed. Her muffled voice escaped into the pillows. "Well, congratulations, Marin. You survived your wedding… and almost gassed the nobility. Really starting married life strong."
She laughed once, but the sound fizzled out, leaving a pocket of silence that pressed in around her.
Kael's words replayed in her head. Right place, right time. The way his hand had steadied her — firm, grounding — and the sharp, unreadable look in his eyes. It lingered in her memory like the heat of a candle flame even after it's gone out.
Her chest tightened. Not unpleasantly, but as though an invisible thread had given a single, deliberate tug.
And then she felt it — a ripple, warm and fleeting, moving outward from her in all directions, like a silent breath pushing against the edges of the room. The air itself seemed to sigh in response.
"…What was that?" she whispered, glancing around as though expecting to see something shift in the shadows.
The room offered no answer. Only the fire popped in the hearth, a soft, steady rhythm like a heartbeat she was suddenly aware of.
She shook her head. You're tired. Imagining things. That's all. Pulling the covers over her, she curled into the warmth, determined to will away the strange sensation.
But just as sleep began to fold over her, the thread stirred again — stronger this time, purposeful. It reached outward, as if searching… and then she knew, without knowing how, that it was pulling toward someone standing just beyond the door.
The knock came just as her eyelids were sinking shut, jolting her out of that delicious half-dream state. For one absurd moment she thought it might be the thread itself, somehow knocking.
Marin startled, nearly rolling off the bed. "Yes?"
The door opened a crack. Kael stepped inside without waiting for permission — though his movements were quieter than she would have expected for a man in heavy uniform boots. Even his presence seemed to hush the air.
"You're still awake," he said.
"Yes," she muttered, sitting up and clutching the covers like they were armor. "Did something happen?"
His eyes swept the room as though expecting danger to be lurking behind her wardrobe, under her bed, maybe hiding in the curtains. Then he stepped closer, stopping beside the bed. "No. But I… felt something."
She blinked. "Felt something?" Her pulse quickened; a tiny part of her wondered if he somehow knew about the strange tug she'd felt.
He studied her in that same steady, searching way that made her wonder if he could see through her skin. "A shift. Subtle. But not nothing."
Marin had no idea what that was supposed to mean. "Maybe you're imagining things."
"Maybe," Kael agreed. But his tone suggested otherwise — as if he were filing this moment away like a clue.
He didn't leave. Instead, he pulled a small flask from his coat and set it on her bedside table. "It's calming tea. Drink it before you sleep. It will help."
Marin tilted her head. "You bring tea to all your new brides, or am I special?"
One dark brow lifted. "You nearly tripped into a poison trap on our wedding day. I'm not taking chances."
Her mouth quirked despite herself. "You're really not much of a talker, are you?"
"No," Kael said. "But I'm a good listener."
Something in his voice made her stomach flutter unexpectedly. She looked away quickly, focusing on the flask. "Thanks. I'll… drink it."
His gaze lingered a moment longer, as though weighing an unspoken thought. Then he inclined his head and stepped toward the door.
"Goodnight, Marin."
She hesitated. "Goodnight, Kael."
The moment he closed the door, the invisible thread tugged again — harder this time, as though it had latched on to him specifically. Her breath caught. She couldn't see it, couldn't name it, but the sensation was there: a faint pulse, like the echo of a heartbeat that wasn't hers. It was stronger when he was near — she knew that now.
She pressed her palm to her chest. The feeling didn't fade; if anything, it warmed, as though trying to follow him down the hallway.
"What are you?" she whispered to the empty room.
No answer. Just the soft crackle of the fire and the faint scent of his tea drifting from the bedside, mingling with the whisper of something unseen and persistent.
When sleep finally came, it was strange and vivid.
She had always seen threads. Since childhood, they would flicker at the edges of her vision in moments of heightened feeling — shimmering, fragile things she could never quite touch. She had learned to ignore them, telling herself they were tricks of light, fancies of an overactive mind.
But now, in the dream, they blazed into being — countless gossamer strands unfurling from her hands, her chest, her very breath. They tangled and wove through the air, touching people she couldn't see clearly. Wherever the threads brushed, warmth bloomed and shadows thinned, like frost retreating from the morning sun.
One thread in particular was brighter, stronger, pulling her forward with a magnetic insistence. She followed it through darkness, heart pounding, until it led to a lone figure standing at the edge of a cliff.
Kael.
He turned toward her, eyes glinting silver in the dreamlight, and said something she couldn't hear — words that felt important, urgent, almost within reach.
The thread between them pulsed like a heartbeat, strong and steady, as if it had always been there.
Marin woke the next morning to pale sunlight spilling across the bed. Her bouquet still rested on the side table, petals slightly wilted.
A knock came — brisk, official.
"Come in," she called, still rubbing her eyes.
It wasn't Kael this time, but Captain Ren, looking far too alert for this hour.
"Lady Draven," he said with a stiff bow. "The general requests your presence in the strategy room."
Marin blinked. "The… what? Why?"
Ren's mouth twitched in what might have been sympathy. "He didn't say. But he rarely asks twice."
Wonderful. Not even twenty-four hours into marriage and she was already being summoned to war council.
She grabbed her robe and muttered, "This had better not involve more poison traps."
Somehow, she had the sinking feeling it would involve far more than that.