Chapter 7 The Blood Wedding #2
Valen took my bleeding hand in his and pressed our wounds together.
The moment our blood mingled, a shock raced up my arm and through my chest, a sensation like lightning seeking ground.
My vision blurred at the edges, and for a heartbeat, the great hall seemed to fall away, leaving only Valen and me at what felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.
His pupils were blown wide, those full lips parting slightly, the only indication that he too felt this strange communion.
For a heartbeat, I thought I saw crimson bleeding into the depths of his irises, but the vision was gone before I could be certain.
I felt... something. A connection forming, tendrils of sensation extending from the point where our hands joined, reaching deeper, winding around something core and essential within me. It was not painful, not precisely, but deeply unsettling, like fingers probing at the edges of a wound.
And then, as suddenly as it came, it changed. A pulse of heat ignited within me, surging through my veins like molten fire. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. A potent mix of power and desire that wrapped around my senses with insistent urgency.
Valen leaned forward, his expression shifting from surprise to a dark hunger that mirrored the wildfire igniting in my chest. The scent of incense faded to nothing, replaced by the intoxicating blend of him.
My body swayed slightly toward him, feeling his breath warm against my cheek, and time itself paused.
Father Eidir cleared his throat, a sharp sound that cut through the haze enveloping us.
The world rushed back in with surprising clarity—the flicker of candlelight, the low murmur of the assembled court.
Valen’s grip on my hand tightened reflexively, anchoring me against the tide of sensation that had threatened to overwhelm my senses.
A smirk unfurled on Valen’s lips as he met my gaze, a knowing look that carried the weight of future promises and filthy intentions. In that fleeting instant, I saw not just a conqueror but a man who reveled in the chaos he had wrought. It thrilled me even as it terrified me.
Father Eidir began to finish the ceremony, murmuring blessings that sounded more like warnings. When he spoke the final words, pronouncing us wed in the eyes of gods and men, the hall erupted in formal applause that held no joy, only relief that the spectacle was complete.
Valen’s eyes never left mine as he raised our bound hands, a gesture of triumph that made my skin crawl. “You are now mine,” he said, the words barely audible beneath the sound of the gathered crowd.
Something inside me whispered that I had not merely become a wife this night.
I had been claimed by a force I did not understand, bound by words whose meaning I had only begun to grasp.
The crown upon my head seemed suddenly heavier, the garnets on my dress like drops of my own blood, sacrificed to seal a pact whose true terms remained hidden.
And Valen—the Blood King, my husband—smiled as though he could read every thought that passed through my mind.
As though he had orchestrated not just this ceremony, but every step that had led me to this moment, this binding, this surrender.
The feast that followed was a celebration in name alone.
Golden goblets overflowed with wine as laughter and music filled the great feasting hall, but the merriment rang empty, like the practiced smile of a prisoner awaiting execution.
I sat beside Valen at the high table, watching as the nobility of two kingdoms circled each other with the wary grace of predators sharing a kill.
The shadows seemed to deepen in the corners of the hall despite the hundred candles that blazed in their sconces, and I could not shake the feeling that something unseen watched us all with hungry anticipation.
Servants moved through the crowd like silent ghosts, bearing platters of succulent meats and delicate confections.
The palace kitchens had outdone themselves—roasted pheasant glazed with honey, venison swimming in wine sauces, pastries shaped like roses and dusted with sugar that glittered like frost. A feast fit for a royal wedding, they would say.
A proper sendoff for the bastard princess.
Yet, I found I had no appetite. Every bite tasted of dust and iron, every sip of wine only deepening the heaviness in my stomach. I felt uncomfortable with my earlier reaction to Valen, and now, sitting beside him, I did not know how to continue on as if nothing had happened.
“You’re not eating, wife.” Valen’s voice was low enough that only I could hear it, the word ‘wife’ carrying a weight that made my skin prickle. “The cooks would be disappointed.”
“I find my appetite has deserted me,” I replied, careful to keep my voice steady. “The excitement of the day, I suppose.”
His lips curved into that same knowing smile I’d seen at the altar. “Indeed. Such momentous occasions often overwhelm the senses.” He lifted his own goblet, the dark wine within almost black in the candlelight. “Though I do hope your appetite will return in time. For all manner of things.”
I did not miss the implication in his words, nor the way his eyes traveled briefly over my form before returning to my face.
The heat of his gaze ignited something within me that I couldn’t quite temper, something dangerously close to attraction.
How infuriating it was to feel this rush of desire when all I really wanted was to wipe that smirk off his face.
Instead, I lifted my goblet, the golden vessel cool against my lips.
The wine was strong and sweet, a vintage I did not recognize.
Nocthari, perhaps. I drank deeply, welcoming the slight burn as it slipped down my throat.
Perhaps if I drank enough, the warmth would spread, thawing the chill that had settled within me.
The goblet was empty before I realized it, and a servant appeared at my elbow to refill it with practiced efficiency. I drank again, willing the wine to wash away the taste of fear and uncertainty. To blur the sharp edges of this day, this night, this new life bound by blood and iron.
Valen watched me with an amusement that bordered on indulgence.
He gestured for my goblet to be filled once more, and I did not refuse.
As the wine flowed, so too did a looseness in my limbs, a lightness in my head that almost felt like relief.
For the first time that evening, I found myself able to breathe without feeling the consuming grip of a hundred eyes pressing against me.
“You’re quiet,” Valen observed, his gaze steady beneath dark lashes. “Does married life leave you speechless already?”
“Only momentarily,” I replied with more boldness than I’d intended. “I assure you, it will not last.”
He laughed then. A low sound that seemed to vibrate through me, unsettling and yet horribly compelling. I could not look away from him, from those dark eyes that absorbed all light and gave back none in return.
“And here I thought to enjoy a few moments’ peace,” he said, his voice threaded with mock despair. I sat securely in my chair, although the room spun slightly around me, blurring into a swirl of colors and sound.
The wine was doing its work well.
“You should enjoy it while you can,” I said softly, but Valen’s sharp gaze told me he missed none of my words, “for peace is not what you will receive with me, husband.”
I turned my attention to the guests below, not caring to see his reaction to my words, instead watching the interplay of alliances and rivalries unfold like an elaborate dance.
My father’s court kept their distance from the Nocthari contingent, though their eyes strayed often to the black-armored figures who stood out like shadows cast upon new-fallen snow. I imagined King Aeldrin watching from his place across the hall, pretending indifference as he always had.
Valen, for his part, played the role of the victorious groom with unsettling ease. He laughed, he drank, he spoke in low, silken tones to the nobles who dared approach him. And yet, beneath it all, I could feel something else. A pulse, steady and dark, like the beating of a great unseen heart.
It was in the way the candlelight seemed to bend around him, in the way the shadows clung to his form just a fraction too long before dissipating. It was in the way his fingers drummed idly against the table, as though counting something unseen.
And his eyes. Gods, his eyes. Every time I looked at him, I felt as though I were standing on the edge of an abyss. There was something in them that went beyond cruelty, beyond arrogance. A depth of something ancient and patient and terrifying.
The music swelled, a dark and haunting melody that wound its way through the hall like smoke. It was not a tune I recognized from Vareth, too minor, too mournful, but it suited the mood of the evening perfectly.
Valen took my hand, his grip firm, unyielding. “Dance with me.”
The command should have ignited a spark of defiance, yet I found I had no will to resist. Perhaps it was the wine, warm and thick in my blood, or the curious shift that came with this almost surrender.
Or perhaps it was the way he looked at me, not even trying to hide the desire in his gaze.
Regardless, I rose without hesitation, allowing him to draw me towards the open floor, aware of every eye tracking our passage.
The whispering ceased, replaced by an expectant hush as we took our place, alone, beneath the vaulted ceiling.
His hand rested at the small of my back, drawing me close with an intimacy that felt almost obscene in its public audacity.
The music slowed to match our movement, strings and flutes weaving a mournful tapestry around us.
Valen’s grip was possessive as he guided me through the steps, but there was something else there too…
a heat that made me shiver despite my best efforts to suppress it.