Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Daak is gone when I wake, but I’m not surprised. A flock of servants rush in and dress me for the betrothal ceremony.
By the end, I don’t recognize myself in the mirror.
My dark hair is left loose, gentle waves cascading down my back and a few loose curls framing my face.
Dark kohl lines my blue eyes, and the effect is so dramatic they appear almost too large for my face.
My lips are dotted with rouge, a soft pink against my pale skin.
Snowpowder, dusted across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose, conceals my faint freckles.
Servants lead me through the corridors, three carrying the train of my gown, until we arrive at the Hall of Ancestors. They form a neat line outside the towering double doors, arms folded and heads bowed.
Only Tundrayni royalty may enter the Hall of Ancestors.
I steel myself with a deep breath.
The door thuds shut behind me.
Hundreds of ice sculptures line the vast room, tall statues of men and women that no longer tread the snows. Icicles hang from the high, vaulted ceiling, casting long shadows across the carved faces—some are still sharp, though others bear features blunted by time.
“Honored ancestors,” I whisper, my breath misting in the cool air. “Today is my betrothal. I seek your blessing and wisdom.” I clasp my hands together and bow my head before weaving a path through the aisles. Though I stop briefly at each statue, there is one in particular I seek.
Turmah. My grandmother.
I crane my head, eyes squinting against the filtered sunlight. Her features are still crisp, not yet weathered by the years. Turmah appears regal and serene. In the straight bridge of her nose and smooth curve of her chin, I see Father.
Her ice robes are cold beneath my reverent fingers.
I’m not the first Tundrayni princess that was sent to Arbinj with the hope of peace. My grandmother made the journey decades before me. Her marriage lasted only three months—three months of agony and humiliation and abuse—before a group of Tundrayni warriors rescued her.
I trail my fingers higher until I reach Turmah’s sleeve. The ice here is sharp, jagged, where a piece of the sculpture was hacked off.
Because when Turmah returned, she was missing her left hand.
Before she escaped, her Arbinji husband had chopped it off, along with her betrothal ring.
After she returned home, Turmah married one of the warriors who had rescued her, later giving birth to my father.
According to stories from white-haired servants, she was never the same after her ordeal, always easily startled. Haunted.
The war with Arbinj has escalated since then, claiming more lives on both sides with every passing season.
I swallow around the lump in my throat and pray my marriage yields better results for my kingdom than Turmah’s, even as icy dread chills my heart.
With one final look, I briefly greet the remaining sculptures, then leave the Hall of Ancestors behind.
There is no statue of Mama.
The ice throne is freezing beneath me. My delicate betrothal gown is beautiful, but Tides, what I wouldn’t give to be wearing something warmer. My pajamas, even.
The murmurs of the assembled Tundrayni nobility, all dressed in their finest blue and white furs, ripple through the Great Hall. Even with such short notice, the servants managed to ready the large, circular room for the ceremony.
In the center, where I sit shivering, is a large dais made of solid ice. Beside me is another ice throne, gleaming in the sunlight seeping in through the large windows. The twin seats were carved specifically for the ceremony and are smaller than Father’s majestic seat that sits in the Throne Room.
Father enters shortly thereafter, dressed in formal sapphire furs, his white beard gathered together with a thin blue ribbon.
On his head sits the ice crown, its sharp, translucent spears rising toward the heavens.
The echoing stamp of boots rumbles through the hall as the nobility rises to greet their king as he sits beside me.
Father appears at ease, raising a regal hand to the assembled guests, but tension lines the set of his jaw.
Does he regret his decision? Sending his only child into the arms of his enemy? Especially given what King Varad did—
No. No, I must stop thinking this way. Father is doing this for Tundrayn. For its safety and future. And I must do my part. I want to do my part.
Minutes pass, but it feels like time has stopped.
My hands are clasped tightly in my lap, knuckles flaring white. Father strikes his staff repeatedly against the floor of the dais, the rhythmic tap, tap, tap echoing the beat of my heart.
The door swings open.
The hall goes silent.
There’s no sound save for the thud of heavy boots in formation.
Arbinji soldiers, clad in dark leather and armored chest plates march into the Great Hall.
My breath catches.
I’ve never seen an Arbinji soldier before, but I’ve heard enough tales of their prowess—and their cruelty. And I’ve certainly treated enough wounds inflicted by storm- and earthwielders for dread to pool in my lungs at the sight of so many of them within my palace.
They march closer.
At the head of the line is a towering, muscular man. A metal helmet conceals the entirety of his face. Except his eyes. They’re gray—like thunderclouds just before the rain starts—and calculating as they sweep across the room, scanning every face before settling on me.
Our eyes meet.
My brow furrows as I study him. Metal helmet, dark leathers, a large sword strapped to his waist. My gaze sharpens on the Arbinji crest on his chest plate—a massive tree with a bolt of lightning struck through it. He’s not dressed like the crown prince I expected. No, he’s dressed like—
Realization washes over me in a frigid wave.
It steals my breath, frosting over my lungs like a sheet of ice.
The Dark Commander stops at the foot of the dais, his soldiers flanking him.
Life crashes back into the stunned hall with hushed whispers and muttered disapproval. The temperature in the room seems to drop once my people realize the Dark Commander stands amidst them.
There’s a good chance every person in this room mourns someone because of him.
Father eyes him with derision, lips curled with disdain.
“Prince Zevayr. We weren’t expecting you. Has Prince Faramir been delayed?”
“Faramir sends his regrets.” His deep, gravelly voice is quiet, yet somehow still booms like thunder. “I’ll perform the ceremony in his stead and deliver his betrothed to Arbinj for the wedding.”
Deliver? I bristle at being likened to goods.
Father’s scowl deepens. “It is beyond insulting that Varad expects me to betroth my heir via proxy.”
Zevayr gives a casual one-shouldered shrug. A wave of outraged murmurs sweeps the hall at his blatant disrespect.
“Prince Zevayr,” I say sharply before I can stop myself. His gray eyes snap to me. “Recently, several warriors returned severely injured from the border. After the ceasefire was negotiated.”
Father stiffens, and the hall falls silent once more, like the quieting of the wind before a catastrophic storm.
The Dark Commander studies me with that cool, unyielding gaze. His helmet hides most of his face, but I catch it—a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly smothered by anger. The sky darkens, dimming the light in the hall.
Tides drown me.
He’s a stormwielder—he literally holds my greatest fear in the palm of his hand.
I swallow, refusing to break his heavy gaze.
“My apologies, Princess,” he finally rumbles. I blink in surprise. “We had reason to believe that particular battalion was planning an attack. I only received notice of the ceasefire afterward.”
I regard him carefully, then give a small dip of my chin.
“Shall we begin the ceremony, King Tormik?” Zevayr asks.
Father doesn’t respond, just rises from the throne and descends the dais, gesturing for Zevayr to take his place. As the Dark Commander climbs the stairs, I realize how massive he is—when he finally looms before me, his broad, muscled torso blocks out everything else.
He sinks into the vacant, too-small throne without a word of complaint. Once again, those unreadable gray eyes study me. I hate that I can’t see his face.
But I don’t wonder long.
He unstraps his helmet. I brace for a monster—for the ugly face of the murderer I know him to be.
My lips part in surprise.
His cheekbones are sharp, jawline chiseled and darkened with stubble. Black hair, mussed and slightly matted. He rakes a hand through his dark locks like he has all the time in the world.
He’s handsome. Irritatingly so. And I hate that more than anything.
The Dark Commander is a ruthless killer. A murderer.
It’s only fair he look the part.
His eyes lock on mine, and a smirk tugs at his mouth—as if he can sense the reluctant shift of my thoughts. But I won’t cower before him, this man who thrives on terrorizing my people. I narrow my eyes, meeting his gaze with defiance. The smirk ebbs, but he doesn’t look angry. He seems curious.
Father clears his throat, and I tear my eyes away.
Zevayr addresses me directly, his deep voice impossibly low, as if meant only for my ears.
“Before the ceremony, I need a demonstration of your powers.” Before I can respond, he pulls a dagger from his belt and slashes his palm.
Bright red blood oozes from the deep wound, dripping onto the white floor.
I purse my lips at him, half-tempted to leave him bleeding.
He arches a brow in challenge.
With a loud sigh, I call to my power and quickly heal his cut, leaving his skin flawless and smooth. When I steal a glance at him, his eyes are wide, as if awestruck. My lips tip up at the corners. It pleases me more than it should that I’ve impressed this formidable wielder.
Zevayr retrieves a small box from within his heavy, leather-lined cloak, opening it to reveal a sparkling ring with a massive dark stone—a black diamond, perhaps?
It’s flashy and ominous. I hate it.
“Princess Mayah of Tundrayn, on behalf of my brother, Crown Prince Faramir of Arbinj, I accept you as his betrothed. I vow to protect you from all harm and deliver you to him safely. Lightning strike me should I fail.”
Zevayr reaches for my hand when—
“It is customary in Tundrayn for the man to kneel before his intended when accepting her as his betrothed,” Father drawls, arms crossed over his chest, his staff dangling casually between his fingers.
It’s a bald-faced lie. There’s no such custom.
A hush falls over the audience. Every eye is pinned to the Dark Commander.
Zevayr glares at Father, his fingers curling into tight fists. A powerful rumble of thunder rattles the hall. My heartbeat ratchets up, palms growing damp.
“Would you dishonor my daughter?” Father demands when Zevayr doesn’t move.
A muscle jumps in the Dark Commander’s jaw. “I would never dishonor my brother’s intended,” he grits out. Then, he gracefully kneels before me and takes my hand in his larger one, his callouses scraping against my palm.
My mouth parts in surprise—I was certain he’d refuse. His eyes don’t leave mine. I want to look away, but I can’t.
A begrudging flicker of respect blossoms in my chest before I regain my senses.
He’s a murderer.
Zevayr slides the ring onto my finger and seals my fate.