THE COLD WEDDING
The wedding ceremony unfolds in heavy tension. During the vows, an ancient mate-bond flickers unexpectedly between them—disturbing both.
Hook: An assassin strikes mid-ceremony—but misses.
Part I
The sky above Shadowstorm's capital was the color of forged steel the morning Daisy Albert walked toward the altar of her enemy, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath as if the kingdom itself understood that this was not a union born of devotion but of strategy sharpened into necessity. The cathedral of wolves rose at the center of the citadel courtyard, its black spires piercing the clouds like the fangs of some ancient beast carved from obsidian and memory, banners snapping violently against their poles as nobles gathered in layered silks and armored commanders lined the perimeter in ceremonial steel. No one smiled. No musicians played love songs. The drums that echoed through the courtyard were war drums, low and steady, each beat reverberating beneath Daisy's ribs like a reminder that peace here had been negotiated at blade-point.
She wore white—not Riverfall white, not the soft ivory of spring ceremonies—but a stark, luminous white threaded with molten gold that caught the pale sun and reflected it mercilessly. It was the color of surrender rewritten as defiance. The gown had been constructed to signal legitimacy, not romance: structured shoulders, high collar, fitted sleeves concealing faint bruises still healing beneath silk. Around her throat rested no jewels, only a single thin chain bearing the Eastern wolf crest, small but unhidden. She had refused to remove it. Norman had not forced her.
Across the courtyard, he waited.
King Norman Schultz stood at the base of the altar steps clad in ceremonial black armor etched with gold runes older than the kingdom itself, the Shadowstorm crown resting unadorned against his dark hair. He did not look like a groom. He looked like a monarch preparing for coronation—or execution. His expression was composed to the point of severity, golden eyes unreadable as Daisy approached beneath the watchful scrutiny of hundreds. The air felt charged, volatile, stretched thin by politics and blood memory. She could feel the tension rolling off the gathered nobles like heat rising from sun-scorched stone. Some still believed this marriage was weakness. Others believed it a necessary calculation. All of them were watching for fracture.
As Daisy mounted the steps, she felt the weight of her people behind her—not physically present, but carried in memory. Riverfall's forests. The echo of her father's voice. The screams when the gates fell. This was not forgiveness. This was positioning. She stopped before Norman, close enough to see the faint shadow of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. Close enough to feel the restrained power radiating from him like a contained storm.
The High Elder of Shadowstorm stood between them, ancient and silver-haired, voice carrying centuries of ritual authority. "Today," he intoned, "bloodlines join to prevent further bloodshed. Today, conquest becomes covenant. Today, strength binds strength." Strength binds strength. The words were deliberate. No mention of love. No mention of destiny. Just power.
Daisy's gaze lifted to Norman's as the ritual blade was presented—a ceremonial dagger forged of tempered silver and gold, its edge symbolically drawn across their palms to mingle blood upon the altar stone. She extended her hand without hesitation. The blade bit shallow, precise. A bead of crimson welled at her skin. Norman did the same. Their blood dripped together onto ancient stone.
And in the instant their palms were pressed together by ritual command, something shifted.
It was not visible. Not audible. But it was undeniable. A current surged through her body, sharp and electric, as though some dormant force beneath her skin had awakened and roared to life. The contact was brief, yet the sensation did not fade when their hands separated. Instead, it coiled low in her spine, burning, humming, alive. Her breath caught involuntarily. Across from her, Norman's posture stiffened by a fraction. His fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to grip her tighter. The courtyard fell away. For a split second—no longer—she saw something else in his eyes. Recognition. Not political calculation. Not strategy. Something older.
The Elder's voice continued, but Daisy heard it distantly over the sudden pounding of her pulse. Mate-bond. The whispered legends of ancient wolves who found themselves tethered by fate regardless of allegiance or bloodline. She had dismissed those stories as romantic exaggeration told by firelight. Bonds were chosen. Bonds were built. Bonds were not imposed by unseen forces.
And yet—The heat between their palms refused to vanish. Norman's jaw tightened, golden gaze darkening, not with affection but with alarm. He felt it too. She saw the realization dawn, sharp and unwelcome. This was not part of the strategy. The Elder finished the vow invocation. "Speak your binding words." Norman did not break eye contact when he spoke. "I bind my strength to yours for the protection of this kingdom."Not for love. For protection. Daisy swallowed and forced her voice steady despite the unfamiliar fire thrumming through her veins. "I bind my will to yours for the survival of my people." Not for devotion.
For survival. The Elder raised his hands. "Then by blood and vow, you are bound."A wind tore violently across the courtyard at that precise moment, banners snapping so hard the poles groaned. Gasps rippled through the assembly. Some took it as omen. Others as coincidence. Daisy knew better. The air did not shift because of weather.
It shifted because something ancient had recognized them. Norman stepped closer as tradition required, lowering his head toward hers for the ceremonial kiss meant to seal the vow publicly. But instead of pressing his lips to hers immediately, he paused a breath away, voice barely audible.
"Tell me you felt nothing."The rawness beneath the command startled her. "I would be lying," she whispered back. A flicker of something dangerously unguarded passed across his features. Then he kissed her. It was not gentle. It was not tender. It was controlled—brief, deliberate, calculated for public optics.
And yet beneath the rigid composure, the heat surged again, stronger this time, spiraling between them like flame catching oxygen. The courtyard erupted in measured applause.
And then—The sound cut through it. A sharp whistle slicing the air. Daisy reacted before thought formed. She shoved Norman sideways. An arrow streaked past, grazing the side of his shoulder plate before embedding itself in the altar pillar behind them with violent force. Screams shattered the ceremony.
Guards surged forward instantly, shields raised, weapons drawn as nobles scattered in chaos. Another arrow flew—this one aimed lower, precise, deadly. Norman twisted, catching Daisy around the waist and pulling her down as the shaft tore through the space her head had occupied a heartbeat earlier. The mate-bond heat vanished beneath pure survival instinct. "Find the archer!" Damon's voice roared from somewhere to their right. Steel clashed. A third arrow cut through the smoke of rising panic.
It struck the High Elder in the chest. Silence fell in a single, horrific drop. The old man staggered backward, blood blooming across ceremonial robes as he collapsed onto the altar stone where their blood had just mingled. The assassin had not missed. He had adjusted. Chaos detonated fully.
Norman rose with lethal precision, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. "Seal the gates!" he barked. "No one leaves!". Daisy's heart pounded violently as she scanned the rooftops, searching for the glint of bowstring. There—a flicker near the western tower. "Left spire!" she shouted. Varik was already moving, vanishing into shadow with preternatural speed. Another arrow flew—Not toward Norman. Toward her. She saw it too late. Norman did not. But the mate-bond did.
He moved before conscious thought, stepping between her and the trajectory just as the arrow struck his armor at the collar seam, piercing through the gap and driving deep into flesh. The sound he made was not a cry of pain. It was fury. He broke the shaft instantly and yanked the arrow free despite the blood already darkening his armor. Daisy grabbed his arm. "You're hit."
"Superficial," he snapped, though the scent of blood thickened the air.
The guards formed a perimeter around them as nobles were forced to their knees for inspection. Damon dragged the Elder's body from the altar, checking for pulse.
Gone, The Elder was dead. Killed at the moment of union.
A symbol. Daisy's mind raced. The first arrow had grazed Norman intentionally—warning. The second targeted her. The third ensured chaos. This was not a random assassination attempt. It was choreography. Varik reappeared from the spire, blade wet. "Archer's dead," he said evenly. "Poison capsule crushed before capture."
"Identification?" Norman demanded. Varik tossed something onto the altar stone. A ring. Eastern crest engraved in steel. The courtyard froze. Every eye turned to Daisy. The implication struck harder than any arrow. Eastern assassin. Eastern steel. Eastern bride. The High Elder dead.
Daisy felt the shift immediately—the court recalculating. Was she bait? Was she conspirator? Was this retaliation disguised as union?. She lifted her chin slowly, refusing to shrink beneath the scrutiny. "I did not orchestrate this," she said clearly. No tremor. No defensiveness. Norman's gaze slid to her—not suspicious. Assessing.
Then he turned to the assembly, voice carrying over the stunned silence. "Anyone who suggests the queen conspired in this attack will answer to me."
The declaration rippled outward. Not princess. Queen. He had doubled down. But Daisy saw it now—the deeper fracture forming beneath the surface. The assassin had worn Eastern insignia too obviously. The ring had been placed deliberately for discovery. Just like the dagger. Just like the murdered nobles. Someone was escalating. Not to kill Norman outright. Not yet. But to erode unity before it solidified.
Damon approached, face grim. "The archer bore scars consistent with military training. Not a rogue." "From Riverfall?" Daisy asked sharply. Varik shook his head. "No. These scars are recent. Two years, perhaps three." Riverfall's forces had disbanded after the fall. Which meant—"He was trained here," Daisy said quietly. Silence fell again. Norman's golden eyes darkened. The attack had not come from outside Shadowstorm. It had come from within. A single realization passed unspoken between king and queen. This was not an assassination attempt. It was a declaration of internal war.
Norman turned toward the blood-stained altar where their vows had been sealed minutes earlier and the Elder now lay lifeless. His expression hardened into something far more dangerous than anger.
"Lock down the court," he ordered. "No one leaves the capital."As guards began herding nobles toward containment, Daisy felt the lingering heat of the mate-bond stir again beneath the adrenaline. She glanced at Norman. He felt it too. Not romantic. Not comforting. Binding.
Whatever ancient force had flared between them had activated at the worst possible moment. They were no longer merely politically bound.
They were tethered in something neither of them had consented to. And someone inside these walls had just ensured their first act as king and queen was bathed in blood.
As Norman's shoulder continued to bleed beneath torn armor, Daisy realized with chilling clarity—The war had entered a new phase. And this time, it would not be fought on open fields.
It would be fought in corridors, in whispers, in vows. And in the space between two rulers who could not decide whether fate had chosen them—or cursed them.
The wedding bells never rang. Instead, the courtyard echoed with the sound of iron gates slamming shut. And far beyond the capital walls, unseen eyes watched the smoke rising from the cathedral spires and smiled.
The Cold Wedding had ended in blood. But the true betrayal had only just begun.
Part II
The courtyard did not return to order after the gates sealed; it calcified into something brittle and dangerous, like a frozen lake stretched thin over black water. Nobles were escorted under armed watch into the inner hall, their ceremonial robes stained at the hems with mud and fear, their whispers traveling faster than soldiers could silence them. Daisy walked beside Norman as though the wedding procession had merely shifted location, her posture straight despite the tremor still ghosting through her veins from the bond's flare and the near-kiss of death that had followed it. Blood continued to seep from beneath Norman's torn collar seam, dark and steady, and though he carried himself with iron control, she felt it—felt him—through that newly awakened tether, a pulse of pain not her own but brushing against her awareness like a distant drumbeat. It unsettled her more than the assassin's arrow. She had expected enemies. She had not expected to feel the king's injury as a faint echo inside her own ribs.
Inside the great hall, the High Elder's body was laid upon a stone bier draped in black. The symbol was catastrophic. An elder slain at a royal binding was not merely murder; it was omen, sacrilege, provocation. The council chamber doors were barred, guards lining the walls shoulder to shoulder. Varik moved like a blade through the room, issuing clipped commands, while Damon stood near the bier, jaw tight, eyes scanning every noble face for flickers of guilt. Daisy watched them all in return. Shock revealed more truth than interrogation. Some nobles looked afraid. Some furious. A few—calculating. She marked those.
Norman ascended the dais slowly, refusing assistance despite the blood loss. When he turned to face the assembly, the hall quieted by instinct alone. "You will remain within the palace until the assassin's collaborators are identified," he said, voice steady as forged steel. "Anyone found communicating beyond these walls without sanction will be executed." The word landed heavy. No one challenged him. Not openly. But Daisy saw it—the resentment tightening mouths, the subtle shift of alliances recalibrating in real time. This was what their unseen enemy wanted: suspicion turned inward, trust rotting from within.
A sharp wave of dizziness brushed her senses, not her own. Norman's. She glanced sideways without moving her head. His breathing had grown fractionally shallower. The arrow. She stepped closer under the guise of solidarity and murmured, low enough for only him to hear, "You are not as unaffected as you pretend." His eyes flicked toward her, irritation flashing, but beneath it—acknowledgment. "It did not strike deep," he muttered. "It did not need to," she replied. "The shaft was dark at the tip." A pause. Then, through the bond, a flicker—realization. Poison.
He did not react outwardly. That control would have impressed her under different circumstances. Now it frightened her. If he collapsed before the court, chaos would detonate. "Conclude this," she said quietly. "Now." His jaw tightened, pride warring with strategy, but he lifted his hand to signal dismissal of the broader assembly. "Return to your assigned chambers," he commanded. "You will be summoned individually." Guards began escorting nobles out in controlled waves. The hall thinned until only the inner circle remained: Varik, Damon, the captain of the guard—and Daisy.
The moment the heavy doors shut, Norman swayed.
It was subtle, but she felt it like a blade sliding between her ribs.
Damon lunged forward to steady him, but Norman shrugged him off, pulling the broken arrow from where it had been tucked into his belt. The tip glistened with a faint green sheen. Varik's expression darkened instantly. "Nightshade derivative," he said. "Refined. Fast-acting." Daisy stepped closer before thought could caution her. "There is an antidote," she said. All three men looked at her. "Eastern alchemists used it to counter assassination attempts during the border wars. It requires heat and immediate administration." Silence thickened. Trust balanced on a knife's edge. "You expect us to believe you carry the cure to a poison used against our king?" Damon demanded. "I expect you to decide whether you want him alive," Daisy shot back, already moving toward the side chamber where ceremonial braziers burned.
Norman caught her wrist before she could pass. His grip was firm despite the toxin threading through him. "If this is deception," he said quietly, golden eyes boring into hers, "you will not leave this room breathing." The mate-bond pulsed, hot and furious, offended by the threat even as it understood it. She met his gaze without flinching. "If I wanted you dead, I would have let the arrow fly true." A heartbeat. Then he released her.
What followed unfolded with controlled urgency. Daisy crushed dried herbs from a small vial she had kept hidden within the lining of her sleeve—an old habit from less certain days—and mixed them with heated wine from the brazier, her movements precise, memory guiding her hands. She could feel the poison advancing through Norman's system in faint, sickening waves, the bond acting as cruel conduit. When she pressed the cup to his lips, their fingers brushed again, and the heat that had flared at the altar ignited sharper now, tangled with pain and something dangerously intimate. He drank without breaking eye contact. Minutes stretched. The room held its breath.
Then the tremor in his shoulders eased. The dizziness receded like a tide withdrawing. Through the bond, the echo of his pulse steadied.
Varik exhaled softly, the first visible crack in his composure. Damon's suspicion did not vanish, but it shifted shape. Norman straightened fully, color returning to his face, though fatigue lingered at the edges. "It seems," he said evenly, "my queen has saved my life on our wedding day." The title was deliberate. The statement, public even in a private room. Lines redrew invisibly.
Daisy stepped back, pulse unsteady for reasons she refused to name. "Do not mistake necessity for loyalty," she replied. "Your death would fracture this kingdom beyond repair. I will not inherit ashes." A corner of his mouth twitched—not amusement, not quite—but recognition of shared ruthlessness.
A knock sounded sharply at the chamber door. The captain entered, face pale beneath discipline. "Your Majesty," she said, bowing. "We have detained a stable hand attempting to flee through the lower gate tunnels. He bore this." She held out a small leather pouch. Varik took it, emptied the contents onto the table.
Eastern steel arrowheads. Identical to the one that struck Norman.
Damon swore under his breath. "Too convenient," Daisy said immediately. All eyes turned to her again. "If he were truly the assassin's accomplice, he would not attempt escape carrying evidence so obvious." She stepped closer to examine the arrowheads. "These are newly forged. The balance is wrong. Eastern fletchers weight the base differently." She met Norman's gaze. "Someone wants you to execute an innocent man publicly."
"To inflame tension," Varik finished quietly. Norman's expression hardened. "Bring him here."
Moments later, the stable hand was dragged in, terror wide in his eyes. He was young—barely more than a boy. Dirt still clung to his boots. "I didn't— I swear I didn't—" he stammered. Daisy moved before anyone else could speak, stepping into his line of sight. "Look at me," she commanded, voice cutting through panic. He did. "Who gave you the pouch?" A shaky breath. "A man in a hood. Said to deliver it to the western tower before sunset. Said I'd be paid." Damon's jaw clenched. "Description." "Tall. Scar on his chin. Spoke like… like us." Not Eastern. Not foreign. Norman exchanged a glance with Varik.
The conspiracy was not infiltration.
It was internal rot.
Before further questioning could continue, a horn sounded from the outer courtyard—three sharp blasts. Emergency signal. The captain stiffened. "Another incident," she said, dread tightening her voice. They moved as one back into the main hall.
A guard lay dead near the entrance.
Throat slit cleanly.
Pinned to his chest with a slender dagger was a parchment bearing a single line: One crown will fall before winter.
The blade was not Eastern.
It was Shadowstorm steel.
The message was clear now.
This was no longer about framing Daisy alone.
It was about forcing a fracture between king and queen until one destroyed the other—or both were destroyed by those who thrived in chaos.
Daisy felt the bond pulse again, not heat this time but awareness—an almost instinctive alignment, as though whatever ancient force had tethered them recognized the scale of threat. She met Norman's gaze across the fallen guard's body. Suspicion no longer lingered there. Nor simple political calculation. What replaced it was far more dangerous. Understanding.
"Who benefits most if we turn on each other?" she asked quietly.
Norman's eyes darkened. "Every noble who opposed this union. Every commander who fears shared power. Every faction that profits from prolonged war."
"Then this will not stop," she said.
"No," he agreed. "It will escalate."
Silence fell around them as the reality settled like ash.
Their wedding had been baptized in blood.
An Elder lay dead.
An assassin silenced.
A poison nearly successful.
A false accomplice planted.
And now an internal blade to prove the threat came from both directions.
Daisy looked down at the parchment once more, then back at the man who was now, by vow and by something far older, bound to her fate.
"This was never meant to kill us outright," she said softly. "It was meant to test whether we would survive each other." Norman's jaw tightened.
"And will we?" he asked. The mate-bond flickered between them again—unwelcome, undeniable, alive.
Beyond the palace walls, thunder rolled across the mountains. Inside, alliances shifted like tectonic plates beneath fragile ground.
Daisy lifted her chin, voice steady despite the storm rising in every direction. "We do not have the luxury of failing."
Somewhere in the shadows above the vaulted ceiling, unseen eyes watched the king and queen standing side by side
over a body and a threat, and adjusted their strategy accordingly.
The Cold Wedding was over, the real war had just begun.