Enya huffed, but the biting remark died in her throat as she felt the cool weight of the silver thread being twisted into the dark locks. Despite the tugging, there was something grounding about the ritual—the steady pull of a Claricia’s hand, the scent of lavender oil, and the quiet realization that she was being armored for the most beautiful battle of her life.
Enya felt the tension in her neck ease just a fraction under Claricia’s touch. A small, grateful smile tugged at her lips. "Thank ye. Both."
"Nay more talk," Claricia declared, her voice softening as she sensed the shift in Enya's mood.
Together, they moved with a synchronized, rhythmic grace to finish the transformation. They draped the heavy, silver-threaded over-gown across her shoulders, the fabric falling in shimmering cascades that whispered against the floor stone. Ada smoothed the silk over her hips while Amelia fastened a row of tiny pearl buttons along her spine with trembling, reverent fingers.
"Ye look like a queen," Amelia whispered when they finished, her voice thick with a sudden, quiet sincerity as she tucked a final, stray lock of hair behind Enya’s ear.
Enya took a deep, shuddering breath, her fingers grazing the cool silver at her brow.
"Fine," Enya said, her voice dropping into a low, stubborn vibration. She met their eyes in the reflection one last time. "Let’s go."
The walk to the chapel was a blur of cold stone. At the arched entrance, the women paused. The air was thick with the weight of the moment, the finality of the journey they had all taken to reach that door.
Claricia stepped forward first. She reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Enya’s ear, her eyes shimmering with pride. "Go tae him, Enya," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Show them all that yer flame can warm a Norseman’s hearth fer a lifetime."
Ada moved next and gave her a hug, before they peeled away, their silhouettes dark and imposing as they moved to stand beside their husbands.
Amelia lingered for one heartbeat longer. She gripped Enya’s hand, her fingers trembling slightly with a sudden, raw heat ofaffection. "Be happy, me lady," she breathed, her voice a fragile thread of hope. "Ye’ve paid the price fer it ten times over."
She gave Enya’s hand a final, quick squeeze—a small touch that nearly broke the fragile mask of her composure—before she, too, vanished into the shadows of the nave.
Enya stood alone at the threshold, took a breath, the air tasting of iron and salt, and forced her feet to move.
The villagers were packed into the back, a sea of weathered faces and rough wool. There was no cheering. No flower petals littered her path. Instead, they stood with a heavy, watchful restraint, waiting to see if this alliance would be a bridge to peace or merely a swifter road to the grave.
As she passed, she felt their eyes crawling over her, a mixture of pity and awe that made her skin prickle. Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to turn and run, to find a dark corner where she could be just Enya Cameron again, but she kept her gaze fixed forward, her spine a line of unyielding steel.
Then, her eyes found him.
Harald was standing at the altar and seemed to draw all the light in the room toward him. He looked terrifyingly vast against the flickering candlelight, his shoulders blocking out the pale morning sun that struggled through the high window.
But then he turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto hers with a raw, savage intensity that scorched the breath right out of her lungs. In that gaze, there were no politics, no king’s decree, and no village scrutiny.
The weight in her chest shifted from fear to a staggering, soul-deep recognition.
Enya felt the strength return to her legs.
She reached the altar, the distance between them closing until she could feel the radiating heat of his body. Harald stepped forward, his hand reaching out to catch hers before she could even offer it. His palm was a shock of heat and rough callouses against her skin, his grip so firm it was the only thing keeping her from swaying.
The ceremony began. The priest, a man whose voice sounded like the grinding of sea-stones, stepped into the space between them.
"In the eyes o’ the Heavens and the witness o' this earth," the priest intoned, his hands raised over their joined fingers, "we bind Laird Harald Alvsson tae Lady Enya Cameron. This is a union o' blood and bone…"
The priest looked at Harald, his expression stern yet reverent. "Harald Alvsson, will ye take this woman? Will ye be the shield that blunts the wind, the hearth that holds the fire, and the sword that guards her rest until the sea takes ye back?"
Harald’s voice didn't waver. It was a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. "I will. Beyond the end o' days, I will."
The priest turned his heavy gaze to Enya. "Enya Cameron, will ye take this man? Will ye be the light in his darkness, the wisdom in his counsel, and the heart that beats beside his own until the stars fall from the sky?"
Enya felt the sting of tears, her stubborn heart finally, fully cracking open. "I will," she said, her voice gaining strength as she looked into Harald’s amber eyes. "Through storm and sun, I will."
Harald squeezed her hand, his thumb grazing her knuckles in that rhythmic, grounding pressure.
The priest smiled—a rare, fractured thing. "Then what the heavens and earth have joined, let nay man dare tae sever. The kiss," he murmured, the words finally breaking through the fog.
Harald didn’t wait. He moved with sudden grace, his large hands moving up to frame her face. His fingers disappeared into the silk of her hair, his touch both reverent and possessive. He tilted her head back, his dark eyes searching hers for one final, heartbeat-long second?—
