Page 163 of Given to the Black King

“No.”

“He is mostly joking.”

The bond says he is not joking at all.

The priest clears his throat.

He has been staring at the soldiers, the horns, Torgan’s claws, and the visible bite with increasing concern.

“I understand there is a southern civil rite still outstanding.”

Torgan looks at him.

The priest nearly steps backward.

I squeeze Torgan’s fingers.

“No one is going to eat the priest,” I say.

“I did not suggest it.”

“You thought it loudly.”

Maren makes a small choking sound.

The priest opens his book.

Perr places the civil register on a stone bench and uncaps his ink.

The priest begins with Torgan.

“Do you enter this marriage freely, without order, debt, or compulsion?”

Torgan looks offended that anyone needs to ask. “Yes.”

“And will you honor the envoy Iona as wife, household, and lawful representative⁠—”

“Wife and equal,” Torgan says.

The priest blinks. Maren inclines her head. “Record the correction.”

Perr does.

The priest starts again, more carefully. Torgan lets him reach the end. “Yes,” he says.

Then the book turns toward me.

“Iona of Serath, do you bind your residence and loyalty, and the lawful issue of this union, to the peace established between⁠—”

“No.”

The sheltered court goes silent.

The words are nearly the marriage annex. Softer in ceremony. Identical underneath. Residence. Loyalty. Children assigned before they exist.

Callas’s ink is gone, but my body remembers the paper trembling once between my hands.

I keep my voice level. “My residence is mine to choose. My loyalty is not collateral. No child of ours will be born owing peace to either country.”