Chapter 7 The Blood Wedding
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE BLOOD WEDDING
My wedding was a spectacle of red and gold.
The Grand Hall of Vareth’s palace had been transformed for the occasion, the usual banners of my father’s kingdom now interwoven with the dark crimson standards of Nocthar.
Candlelight flickered against walls hung with tapestries depicting great victories, though tonight they seemed to tell a different story—a silent prelude to something far more sinister.
The air carried the scent of incense and crushed rose petals, but beneath it lurked something else, something metallic and sharp.
I knew it was my own mind playing tricks on me, but for a fleeting moment, I could have sworn it was the scent of blood.
My reflection caught in one of the gilded mirrors lining the processional path.
A bride in bloodred, my gown falling in heavy folds to the marble floor, garnets dripping from my bodice like fresh droplets.
The fine fabric of my veil cast a crimson haze over the world, transforming the assembled nobility into blurred specters. Above it all sat my mother’s crown.
I had not wept after my father left, tears being a luxury I’d long since learned to deny myself.
But the sudden knowledge that my mother had been real enough to leave this behind—that she had worn this crown, that her fingers had traced these same intricate patterns—had opened something inside me.
Twenty-six years I had lived with nothing but rumors and whispers of the woman who bore me, and now this tangible piece of her history sat atop my head on the day I was to be given away.
Given away. Such a quaint phrase for what was happening. As though I were a parcel to be handed from one owner to another.
I supposed that was precisely what I was. The bargaining chip that bought peace for Vareth. The king’s shame, finally serving a purpose.
I focused on the assembled guests, noting how they had segregated themselves despite the pretense of unity.
The nobility of Vareth clustered together, their finery a riot of jewel tones and summer hues, though their faces were pale and drawn.
Across from them stood the Nocthari delegation—a small contingent of warriors who had accompanied their king.
They were not numerous, but their presence was oppressive, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
They dressed differently from my father’s court, all in shades of black and deep red, with silver ornaments that caught the light like the edges of blades.
Their eyes—assessing, calculating—followed me as I moved down the aisle.
These were not people who had been told they were witnessing a joyous union.
These were conquerors watching the surrender of a prize.
And there, at the altar, waited the prize-taker himself.
King Valen of Nocthar stood perfectly still, a statue carved from shadows.
He was dressed in black, embroidered with silver so fine it might have been woven from the light of a dying star.
A crown of dark iron rested upon his head, wicked in design, its jagged points reminiscent of fangs.
The dim candlelight cast shadows across his sharp features, making his already piercing gaze seem even more unnatural.
I had expected cruelty in those eyes. I had braced myself for arrogance, for hunger. But what I saw unsettled me far more.
Amusement, as though all of this—the ceremony, the kingdom, even me—was nothing more than an elaborate game he alone understood.
The countless stories I’d heard of the Blood King, tales of battlefields left drenched in gore, of enemies flayed alive, of dark rituals performed beneath a moonless sky, seemed simultaneously too fantastical and not terrible enough to encompass the man who watched my approach with that calm, knowing smile.
My father stood to one side, his expression carefully neutral.
Beside him, Queen Ira’s face betrayed nothing, though I knew she must be rejoicing at the prospect of finally being rid of me.
My half-siblings were arranged around them in order of age and importance, a tableau of the perfect royal family I had never truly been part of.
Only little Lysa looked openly happy to see me, and I felt a pang of sorrow at the sight.
The music faded as I reached the altar. The hall completely silent as I stood before King Valen, my eyes lowered to the fine details of his attire.
The silver thread that formed patterns too complex to be merely decorative, the way his crown seemed sharp enough to cut.
I was close enough to notice that his scent was not the same as the previous night.
No perfumes or oils, but something earthier, elemental.
Like soil after rain, like metal left to rust, like something ancient unearthed after centuries buried.
The High Priest of Vareth shifted, his hands trembling as he cleared his throat.
Old Priest Eidir, a follower of the Twin Goddesses, had served the royal family since before I was born.
He had blessed me as an infant despite the scandal of my birth, had taught me prayers when no one else would acknowledge my existence.
But tonight, the familiar comfort of his presence was absent. His eyes darted nervously between Valen and the assembled Nocthari warriors, and there was a hesitancy in his usual confident stance.
I had been raised with the vows he would speak, had seen countless unions bound by these words. Yet as I stood at this alter, something felt different.
“We gather beneath the eyes of gods and men,” Father Eidir intoned, “to bind these two souls, these two bloodlines, these two kingdoms.”
Souls? Bloodlines? An odd choice of words for a Varethian ceremony, which typically emphasized the joining of hearts and minds. I glanced up at Valen, but his expression remained one of polite attention toward the preist, offering no acknowledgment of the deviation.
I wanted to step back, to demand an explanation, but Valen’s hand suddenly grasped mine with surprising gentleness. His skin was warm, too warm, as though fever burned beneath the surface. The contrast to his cold demeanor sent a strange shiver up my arm.
“Blood calls to blood,” Father Eidir continued, his voice wavering slightly, “as power calls to power.”
I felt it then. The subtle shift in the air, like the pressure change before a storm.
The candle flames throughout the hall trembled in unison, though no draft disturbed the heavy tapestries.
I looked out toward the guests but no one seemed to find anything amiss.
But I knew… something was off with this ceremony.
Valen’s eyes met mine, and I saw knowledge there. He at least had expected this, perhaps had orchestrated it. The corner of his mouth lifted in the barest suggestion of a smile as Father Eidir produced the ceremonial cord, a length of red and gold intertwined, representing the union of our houses.
“As has been since the first binding decreed by the primordial gods,” the Priest continued, his voice steadier now, as though reciting words he had been instructed to memorize, “so shall it be with this union. Through blood freely given, through power freely shared.”
His hands shook as he began to wrap it around our joined wrists, binding us together in the ancient tradition of Vareth.
“In the presence of these witnesses,” Father Eidir said, “I ask now for both parties’ vows. Once spoken, will never be unbroken.”
“I, Valen of Nocthar, take Mireille of Vareth as my queen and consort. By blood, I claim her. By will, I bind her. By oath, I keep her.”
A murmur rippled through the Varethian nobility.
These were not the traditional words of love and safety.
They were changed ever so slightly, and I felt my pulse quicken as I tried to keep my face impassive.
I had known of the blood exchange, but this claiming of blood, this binding of will. .. this was something else entirely.
Father Eidir turned to me, his eyes pleading. For what, I couldn’t say. To refuse? To run? It was far too late for either.
I repeated the words as required, changing them to match Valen’s vows, my voice holding steady. “I, Mireille of Vareth, take Valen of Nocthar as my king and husband. By blood, we are bound. By will, we are one. By oath, we are eternal.”
The moment I uttered the last vow, something in the air shifted. The candles flickered violently, the flame nearest to Valen momentarily darkening before reigniting in a shade of brighter orange. A chill danced along my spine, but when I turned to look up at him, he merely smirked.
Father Eidir produced a ceremonial knife.
Not the silver blade traditionally used in Varethian weddings for the symbolic cutting of binding cords, but something older, darker.
Its hilt was black iron, twisted into shapes that hurt the eye to follow, its blade curved and gleaming with an edge that seemed impossibly sharp.
“The blood exchange,” Father Eidir announced, his voice barely above a whisper, “to seal the union in the tradition of Nocthar.”
Valen took the knife, handling it with the casual familiarity of a man accustomed to blades. Without hesitation, he drew it across his palm, a precise, controlled cut that welled with dark blood almost instantly. Then he extended the knife to me, handle first.
I took it, careful not to reveal how my hand wanted to tremble. The hilt was cold against my skin, unnaturally so, as though it had lain in a snowbank rather than the warm hall. The blade seemed to hum with anticipation as I brought it to my own palm.
I had prepared myself for this moment, had told myself it was nothing but barbaric symbolism, a relic of Nocthar’s bloody history.
And yet, as I drew the blade across my skin, watching as my own blood rose to meet it, I could not suppress the feeling that I was surrendering something far more precious than a few drops of blood.