He waited at the far end of the hall, beside the ancient anvil. Breathing. He was dressed in the deep royal blue, his hair was neatly combed back, yet a stray lock had fallen onto his forehead. His beard had beentrimmed into stubble.
The colors were too bright. The glint of a sword at a guard’s hip made her flinch. Her lashes fluttered once, twice, as if to clear away the hallucination that hadn’t yet arrived.
She wanted to run.
But she kept walking.
Alaric’s lips curved ever so slightly. She felt the eyes of hundreds upon her, but she chose to focus just on him.
As they reached the dais, Rhaedor’s grip on Evelyne’s arm tightened with an almost imperceptible reluctance before he finally released her hand, placing it into Alaric’s waiting grasp. She felt the warmth of his fingers immediately.
Calm.
He led her toward the sacred anvil. Its surface caught the flickering light of the tall ceremonial candles, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Evelyne’s eyes landed at the figure standing at the altar.
That… was not Keeper Halwen.
Standing before her now instead was The High Preceptor of Orvath.
His grey robes were immaculate, his features stoic. He regarded them with the kind of expression that suggested everything he saw fell short of his expectations.
This was wrong. All wrong.
Why was he here?
Evelyne’s pulse spiked, she was breathing hard and fast, her ribs pressed against her corset.
She briefly scanned the crowd for Halwen, but he wasn’t there. And that alone told her everything she needed to know. They had replaced her goddess with a god who did not care for women’s thoughts.
Something bad was about to happen. She knew that.
Alaric angled his head, concern flickering in his expression. She met his stare and managed a small, deliberate smile.
He drew her gently forward, closing the distance until they stood face to face. Her hands settled in his and his thumbs began to trace slow circles against her gloves. She glanced around the hall, taking in the scene with the detached clarity of someone watching their own life from a distance. Her father joined Thalen and Ysara in the front row.
She met Alaric’s eyes once more, her grip firming subtly around his. Together, they faced the Preceptor. He regarded them with the distant coolness of a man who neither approved nor cared. With a slight rustle, he unfurled the long strip of paper before him and cleared his throat.
Murmurs faded to nothing. The hall stilled. The ceremony began.
Focus.
“We are gathered here beneath the gaze of Orvath, Keeper of Order, to witness the union of two sovereign realms, bound not by conquest, but by choice. In the eyes of gods and men, this vow shall be spoken and sealed.”
He turned to Alaric. Nothing happened.
“Prince Alaric of Varantia, son of Empress Aurevia and Emperor Emrys, do you swear before the gods and your people to take this woman as your wife? To stand beside her as sovereign, to guide and uphold the legacy of your houses, and to rule in unity? Do you vow to protect her, as you protect the throne and the people entrusted to your care? To ensure that together, you reign with justice, strength, and resolve, as husband and wife, until the gods call you home?”
A beat of stillness passed. Evelyne angled her head toward Alaric, who met her stare without wavering. Still no scream.
“I swear it,” he declared, looking her directly in the eyes, his thumb continued that slow, grounding stroke across her knuckles. “With my name, my crown, and my blood, I take Evelyne of Edrathen as my wife. I vow to stand beside her in rulership, to uphold our lands and our people as one. I will protect, respect, and reign with her, unshaken by storm or war, for as long as breath remains in my chest, and beyond.”
She hadn’t expected to feel anything. But his words, or rather the way he spoke them, found something raw and waiting inside her. Something that didn’t want to be alone anymore.
The priest turned to her. His face soured even more. “And you, Evelyne of Edrathen, daughter of King Rhaedor and Lady Serenya,” he intoned, “do you swear before the gods and your people that you will take this man as your husband? To be his partner, his equal, his light in the darkness? Do you swear toshare his burdens, triumphs, and trials, to stand by his side as a woman who chooses him above expectation? Do you swear to love him, to know him, to let trust and loyalty bind you in ways that go beyond the law?”
They were not the traditional Edrathen vow. No, these were gentler. Softer. Words that might have lived in poems.
This was Varantia’s vow.
