I want to tell them to calm down, tell all of them that they are overreacting, and inform Marcello that he has no right to act so concerned when he is my enemy. He should be celebrating my demise, but I haven’t the strength to do any of that.
Which is something of true concern to me. What good is a warrior who hasn’t the strength to even open her mouth, let alone lift an ax? I will tell you, there is no good.
Such a warrior dies, and from the feel of it I’m already halfway there.
Humiliation washes through me followed by an emotion that I have not experienced for some time. It feels as if I am drowning and suffocating and trapped all at once.Fear.
It’s a heady sensation and I find it crippling.
“We must act quickly,” the Werma says, her voice is distant as if I’m hearing her from the other side of the cavern. “Let me see your hand.”
I’m shifted slightly as I presume Marcello holds his hand out to the Werma. This is followed by a sharp intake of breath. “What was that for?” he asks, his voice now tinged with pain.
“To have a blood ritual, there must be blood, no?” the Werma crones. She moves into my blurred vision and grips my wrist tightly. She’s holding a small stone knife with jagged edges which she then slides across my palm, the serrated stone slicing through the tender flesh of my hand.
I wrinkle my nose but grit my teeth to keep from showing my pain. I feel foolish enough as is, I will not weep before Marcello or the Werma.
“Now place your hand against hers,” the Werma says.
“I beg your pardon?” Marcello asks.
“Your blood must mingle,” the Werma replies with a heavy sigh.
I am shifted again as Marcello places me so that I’m leaning against the hearth. He hesitates a second before he slides his hand against. His blood is warm against my palm. “Like this?” he asks, arching his brow.
I flick my gaze across the room now that I have a better vantage point than just staring at the Werma and the back room of her house. Tira is pacing across the length of the building, stopping every few seconds to stare at me, wringing her hands. My dragons are crowding the window both staring in concerned.
I think that if Tira wasn’t here to give them some assurances that I am in good hands, they would have tried to smash their way in. As it is, I’m grateful that they’re showing the restraint not to tear down the Werma’s hut.
Marcello follows my gaze to where Tira and my dragons are looking on worried. “She’s going to be okay,” he says to the room, then he turns to me, giving my hand a small squeeze. “You’re going to be okay.”
I am currently wedding my enemy since it is my only hope to not perish. I’m entirely at the mercy of both an Imperial and the mother who abandoned me. Even if I survive, I will never be justokayever again.
The Werma unwinds a cord that was wrapped around the sleeve of her dress. She stares at Marcello’s elbow and twines it up his arm, then she reaches my wrist. I have the strongest urge to yank my arm back but before I can give in to it, she wraps the string tightly around me, the edges cutting into the flesh of my arm.
“What is your name, boy?” she asks as she leaves the cord dangling at my elbow.
“M—Marcello. Marcello Placidus.”
She nods once. “Repeat this phrase and Laduga, you do the same with your own name. You must say this in unison.” Her eyes flick between us as if trying to ascertain that we are paying attention. “Marcello, you will say, I, Marcello Placidus, and Laduga you say I, Laduga Scaleborn, and then together you will say… bind myself to you. My mind, my spirit, my blood. All that I am and have is yours now.” She nods to us. “You must say this together.”
I lick my suddenly dry lips, turning to Marcello. He gives a small nod. “Ready?” he whispers.
No, I’m not ready. Something tells me that I’ll never be ready for this, and yet… what choice do I have?
It is either this marriage or I choke to death on the dark curse filling my lungs. I give a small nod.
“I—” I begin, my voice catching slightly.
“I Marcello Placidus,” he murmurs, his tone is steady and even.
Meanwhile mine is shaky and raw as I say, “Laduga Scaleborn.”
“Bind myself to you. My mind, my spirit, my blood. All that I am and have is yours now.”
“May the spirits of the dead, the forces of nature, and the eyes of the living bear witness to this union,” my mother says. “And that which is bound in blood can only be undone by blood.” The Werma closes her eyes, chanting under her breath as she pricks her own thumbs with the stone knife. First the left then the right. She reaches out, swiping her bloodied thumb across my cheek, and then does the same with Marcello who shrinks back slightly.
She opens her eyes. “May the crows eat those that disgrace these vows, may the wolves feast on the one who would shorten your love, and may the skies themselves tremble at the force of the terror of the fate of anyone who would dare to come between you.”
