Page 164 of Given to the Black King

The priest looks at Maren.

Maren removes one glove and holds out her hand for the book. “The council approved a revised civil form after the inquiry. Mutual choice of residence. No claim over unborn issue. The old language should have been struck.”

“Should have been?” I ask.

Her mouth tightens. “Was not. Strike it now.”

Perr draws one clean line through the clause. He writes the correction in the margin, reads it aloud, and turns the register so both delegations can see.

Torgan has not spoken. He has not threatened the priest, the minister, or Serath. He waits with his hand open between us.

I take it.

The priest asks again whether I enter freely, whether I choose this household, and whether I accept no duty not named by my own consent.

“Yes.”

The word belongs to me before it belongs to the register.

Perr witnesses. Maren signs beneath the correction. Torgan’s claws retract fully when I take his hand in both of mine.

The priest ties our wrists with blue ribbon.

Torgan looks down at it.

“It would not hold,” he says.

“It is symbolic,” the priest says.

“Of poor rope?”

“Of union.”

“I have a bite for that.”

The priest goes pale.

I kiss my husband before he can improve the conversation.

The soldiers cheer.

The priest drops the book.

Torgan puts one hand at my waist and lifts me against him in full view of both delegations.

The kiss is not polite.

Neither is the old voice that says mine against my mouth.

I answer where everyone can hear.

“Yours because I chose.”

The black-country court answers by striking fists to armor.

The southern delegation stares.

Maren smiles.