The bells of Eldrath tolled like thunder in the bones of the palace.
Each note rolled through the frozen air, solemn and vast, shaking frost from the spires and scattering the ravens that nested there. Snow fell in a thin, unending veil, fine as ash, soft as regret.
The Great Hall had been transformed for the wedding. Hundreds of torches burnt in their iron sconces, their light glinting off black marble floors and ancient banners that hung heavy with age. The crowned wolf of Eldrath loomed above the dais, stitched in silver thread. Beneath it, the throne stood bare, carved from onyx, wrapped in the pelt of a white bear.
And before that throne stood King Aedric.
He was dressed not in gold or finery, but in armour, dark steel chased with frost and runes that shimmered faintly blue when they caught the light. His hair was the colour of iron, his jaw shadowed, and his eyes colder than the river that cut through his kingdom. Yet when the doors opened, and she entered, even his breath stilled.
Maria walked in on Kael's arm.
The doors had parted like the sea before her, a breathless hush rippling through the gathered nobles. She was dressed in white silk so sheer it caught every flicker of torchlight, embroidered with threads of silver and seed pearls that scattered light like snowflakes. The veil trailed behind her, long enough to brush the black marble like a spill of mist. Around her neck, a single sapphire rested on her skin, the last heirloom of Sareen's royal bloodline.
Kael, solemn in his desert finery, walked tall beside her, his hand steady over hers. His dark hair was bound in a silver clasp, his sword sheathed but visible, the mark of one who came not as a guest but as an equal. His expression was carved of resolve, but there was something softer beneath: pride, sorrow, and the faint tremor of a man saying goodbye to a sister he could not save.
"You still have time to flee," he murmured low enough that only she could hear.
Maria's lips curved faintly. "And miss my own execution? Never."
He exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smile, then lifted his chin as they approached the dais.
The nobles of the North rose as one, their breath clouding the air. Whispers rippled through them: The princess of the South, they murmured, the desert flame, the silver bride. Some watched her with awe, others with suspicion, but all stared as though she were not a woman at all but a vision conjured from smoke and prophecy.
When she stopped before the king, the hall seemed to still around her.
Kael bowed low, his voice firm, ringing clearly in the frozen air. "Kael of House Qasira, Warden of Sareen's Gate, heir to the Sapphire throne, brings before you Her Highness, Princess Maria al-Rahim, first of her name, keeper of the Sunfire, daughter of the South." The old tongue of the desert rolled from his mouth like honeyed steel, proud, unbent.
Aedric's eyes flickered. His gaze moved from Kael to Maria, then to the veil that hid her face. "You honour the North with your presence," he said, his voice low, edged with something unreadable. "May your gods find peace in my house."
"And yours is mine," Kael replied. His tone was measured, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable, a warning cloaked in courtesy.
Aedric's mouth quirked, barely. "Then let the vows be spoken."
Kael stepped back, his hand slipping from Maria's arm with reluctant grace. For a heartbeat, their eyes met, hers trembling like candlelight, his hard as flint, then she turned to face the man who would become her husband.
Lord Varin stepped forward with the ceremonial cloak, a massive, heavy mantle of black wolf fur clasped with rough iron. Aedric took it and placed it roughly over Maria's delicate shoulders.
The moment the coarse, powerful fur settled on her silk, Maria felt the full weight of the Northern magic. The cloak was heavily warded, not just against magic but against spirits. It clamped down on her own innate power, trying to choke the vibrant, hidden life force she carried.
A priest stepped forward, ancient and bent, his robes white and fur-lined. Between them, he held a bowl carved of frozen wood, its surface covered with runes that pulsed faintly blue.
Aedric took the bowl and dipped his gloved fingers into the liquid inside, melted snow mixed with ash. "We bind fire to frost," he said, voice resonant, echoing through the hall. "We bind peace to blood."
Maria's voice came quiet, controlled. "We bind the South to the North, the flame to the storm."
The priest then turned to Aedric for the formal vows.
"King Aedric Veyne, do you take Maria of Sareen to be your queen, to stand as partner in rule, to hold fast in winter, and to suffer no betrayal until death releases you?"
"I do," Aedric stated, the sound ringing with finality.
The priest then turned to the bride. "Princess Maria of Sareen, do you take Aedric Veyne to be your king, to stand as consort in rule, to suffer the harsh demands of the North, and to hold no secret treason in your heart until death releases you?"
Maria held her breath, focusing on the hidden ritual she had performed. The cloak was a physical constraint, but the ash and water had protected her spirit. "I do."
As tradition demanded, the priest drew a small dagger from his sleeve, silver and ancient. "Blood must seal what words cannot."
He turned first to Aedric. The king extended his hand, unflinching as the blade nicked his palm. A bead of crimson fell into the bowl, sizzling faintly against the chilled liquid. Then, the priest turned to Maria.
She offered her own hand. The blade kissed her skin, a thin, deliberate cut. Her blood joined his. The moment it touched, the mixture hissed, smoke curling from it, a faint shimmer of light that made several of the northern nobles shift uncomfortably.
Only Maria noticed how the shadow near the wall thickened, how the torches bent ever so slightly, as though wind had passed through stone. Eldrin.
She felt him before she saw him. His presence pressed softly against her spine, invisible to all but her, a concentrated presence of comforting null. A whisper of warmth in a hall made of cold. His words did not sound, yet his voice unfurled in her mind: You are not alone, little flame.
Her breath trembled, but her face stayed composed. The priest turned to the bowl, murmuring the final rite, and Aedric extended his hand. Maria placed hers atop it. The priest bound their palms together with a strip of woven silver and wolf fur.
The cold bit through her skin, sharp and deep, but beneath it, something else answered, a warmth blooming faintly, hidden, ancient. Eldrin's pulse beating faintly beneath her own, protecting the core of her will.
"By oath and offering," the priest declared, "the North and South are one. By the blood of kings and daughters, the land shall rest."
Aedric's fingers tightened around hers, his touch firm, grounding. His gaze met hers through the veil, steady, assessing, not unkind, but unreadable. For a moment, she thought she saw curiosity flicker behind his restraint. Or perhaps recognition.
When he lifted her veil, the hall seemed to inhale as one.
Her face was pale and luminous, eyes like winter's first light, soft, cold, and unyielding. Her silver hair caught the torchlight and shimmered faintly gold beneath it. Aedric's expression didn't change, but his pulse betrayed him, a single heartbeat louder, sharper, before he forced it still.
As the heavy warded cloak, the blood binding, and the presence of Eldrin strained her control, the pressure on Maria's spirit manifested in a fleeting, physical betrayal. A single, perfect drop of crimson, born not of sorrow but of sheer, contained magical agony, welled in the corner of her right eye and slipped silently down her pale cheek.
Aedric, whose gaze missed nothing, saw it. His eyes narrowed, instantly fixing on the tiny, bright tear of blood.
Before the court could notice, and before the King could question it, Maria subtly lifted her thumb, a gesture so quick and smooth it could be mistaken for adjusting her veil, and wiped the crimson stain away. The movement was decisive, erasing the evidence instantly.
The priest's voice broke the silence. "Kiss, and seal your vow."
Aedric leaned forward, slow and deliberate. The world narrowed to the echo of her breath, the brush of silk, and the faint hum of magic that coiled between them. He did not kiss her roughly, but with a cold, firm possessiveness that lingered, his thoughts now focused entirely on the single tear of blood and what it meant.
And as his lips brushed hers, the flames in the torches bent toward them, every single one, drawn by the clash and union of their two immense, focused energies.
Maria's eyes fluttered open, her heart hammering. Eldrin's voice thrummed faintly in her mind, like the last toll of a distant bell: So it begins.