Chapter 34
I ’ve never given much thought about my wedding day. Never thought about the type of flowers I’d want displayed, the style of dress I would don, or which delicacies would be served at our feast. Nor did I ever lose myself to thoughts of who I would one day marry. Perhaps a part of me assumed I never would. My secret was too grave a burden to ever share with someone else, a bloodwitch too vile a creature to ever be loved.
In the stories I read as a girl, the heroine was always swept up in the arms of the hero, usually in the final moments before her demise. She’d look upon her savior with starry eyes, thank him for being her saving light, and then he’d begin to court her.
I never did care much for those stories told within my leather books, always losing interest the moment the characters declared their love and knew without a doubt they had found the person the gods intended for them to marry.
How very different my own story unfurled from the pages of my heart. No hero to sweep me off my feet, no courting gifts to earn my favor. Sin and my story is a dark fable. A reckoning love neither of us asked for, a match no gods in the heavens planned.
Our love was fated.
Since the dawn of time until the very end of it, power will be challenged. Arguments over land, cries of heresy for a mortal man to wield god magic, nations devastated over secular spats, and down and down the vicious cycle spirals.
But fate… fate regards not the gods in the stars, the men on the earth, or the ashes in the wind. Fate is a god-less magic, as all-consuming and black-hearted as the man I love.
Sin did not sweep me off my feet, and he was never my saving light. He was a darkness that seeped into my heart, tinted my blood the color of pitch, and dragged me down, down, down to be trapped by his shadows. For months, I tried to force my way out, always to be chased by his demons and swallowed back up in that unforgiving dark. But sometimes, it is the absence of light that allows us to see the opaque parts of our own hearts.
I see it now.
The blackest parts of my spirit and the lightest parts of his, fated to tangle together until the very stars fade into nothingness.
It’s a good thing I never wasted much time debating the frivolous details of weddings; Sin and my ceremony tonight will be intimate. There is no time to plan for a royal wedding. All the kingdom’s coin is currently being allocated to stockpile resources, and it certainly wouldn’t be appropriate to hold such an event while teetering on the precipice of war.
If we survive this, I have no doubt there will be a grand wedding in our future. Not because Sin or I desire one, but because we will be establishing a new era, a rule that is fair and just but never cruel. A kingdom that celebrates the differences in our ancestries, and one that sees us as people , regardless of the magic in our blood or the beast in our veins.
Sin and I will wed tonight. We will swear our vows and fasten our hands in front of our family and friends, and we will be joined in every way that matters. The extravagant décor, gowns, and feast will come later, as the people of our isle will expect it, and because Zorina would sooner throw herself onto a pyre before she missed out on the opportunity to spearhead the planning for it. Ironically she is the one who has held onto her hate for the Black Art the longest, yet earlier she was fussing at the coin master that he would need to ensure there were enough funds to allow for a private workshop. A wedding gift to Sin, she had said, flashing me a half-grin and telling me it was in hopes it may keep him in a better mood.
Sin is a forging hobbyist, and a decent one at that. With more time and a private space to dedicate to his interest, I’m certain he’d be phenomenal, and an image of him sanding and polishing our first cradle turns over in my mind. I smile warmly at the thought, refusing to acknowledge the other sinister futures that could become our path instead.
As if she heard my thoughts of her, Zorina pokes her head around the propped open doors that lead out into the castle’s western courtyard. Cosmina follows in behind her, and they both stand before me, as they’ve done a hundred times tonight, both their heads canting with tight-lipped smiles and rounded eyes.
“What?” I bite out, nerves serrating my tone.
“You just look so beautiful,” Zorina drawls out, her eyes taking on a wet sheen. “Aww, Wren.” She clasps both her hands around my arms and huffs out a deep breath, blinking furiously. “Okay, I am done with the tears. I’m done. Done, I say.”
A laugh falls from my lips, and my chest swells with my own deep inhale.
“Your heart is going to be bruised by the end of the night, with how ferociously it beats upon your ribs, child. I can call for some tea before we walk out, it will help ease your?—”
“We’re not calling for any tea, Mama!” Zorina scolds, eliciting a sharp humpf from our mother.
“She just wants an excuse to dump a bit of mead into her cup when no one’s looking, isn’t that right, Morrinne?” Eldridge asks, suddenly appearing in the threshold. Galen runs in behind him, followed by Theon.
“Gods fetch you all, is everyone here to witness me sweating profusely and about to vomit on my own shoes?” I ask, not meaning a lick of it. My heart swells with immense gratitude as the room shrinks with so many of us packing into the tight foyer.
“If I wanted a drink, boy, I’d bloody have one out in the open,” Morrinne shoots back with a tilt to her lips.
Galen rushes to wrap his arms around my hips, and I bend to wrap my own around his back, careful to avoid the curls his mother forced into obedience with the help of a holding agent. “You look so pretty, Wren,” he exclaims.
“Yes, she does, and you’re going to get your little paws off her so you don’t mess up her dress,” Zorina says, causing Galen to retreat with a sheepish grin.
Cosmina clears her throat and steps in front of me. She looks stunning in a shimmery black dress with tasteful beading along the scooped neckline and down the front center seam. “He’s ready for you,” she says, and this time, I’m certain I really might vomit.
“How is he?”
She chuckles. “Nervous. I dare say the mighty warlord looks as if he’s about to meet his most vicious opponent to date on the battlefield.” Cosmina leans in and hugs me, and before pulling away, she whispers, “Go to him. Before his heart gives out thinking you changed your mind.”
Never.
The room goes silent then, everyone’s attention trained on me, waiting, expecting. My eyes flit to the standing mirror once more, and I assess myself, though I have no doubt either of my sisters would allow me to take a single step out of here if anything was amiss.
How different the Wren in the mirror looks than the hatchling I remember. My hair has been swept into a voluminous low updo, an elegant crystal hairpiece with gold veined leaves pinned along the side, the strongest features of my face highlighted with cosmetics. My eyelids have been shimmered to a powdery white that bleeds into dark corners, ground coal dust darkens my lashes to pitch black, my cheeks have been swept with a shade of pink that sharpens my cheekbones and accentuates the gold flecks in my eyes, and my lips have been colored with rouge.
And the dress… oh, the dress.
I wear a gown of blood.
It is made of deep red satin with black lace sewn across the fitted bodice, and another layer of black chiffon drapes over the red train, giving the dress a pronounced wine color. A corset back laces up my spine, the ribbons the color of murder, the only part of the gown not accentuated with black lace. An equally elegant throat-gripping necklace of soft black lace and delicate beading drapes across my collar.
A small smile graces my lips because the entire ensemble feels like Singard. The blood gown made even more stunning with the black lace overlay and choker necklace to add balance and depth. Just like our love. A constant push and pull that allows for balance, both colors so startling in their own right, but together blend into a harmonious shade of sweet wine.
“I’m ready,” I say. And with every barbed edge of my heart, I mean it.
I recoil as Zorina’s screech tears through the foyer, and Eldridge playfully clamps a hand over her mouth, tugging her out the door with his arm loosely strung over her shoulders, flashing me one of those wide, goofy grins. Theon, Cosmina, and Galen follow after them, leaving me and my mother, who now steps forward to look at her own reflection.
“Ease an old woman’s nerves and tell me I look presentable,” she says, fussing with her hair that’s been twisted into a simple, low bun.
I reach up and lower her hand but don’t let go of her. “You look perfect, Mama.” And she does. She wears a gray knee-length dress with ornate, stretch lace, and a matching simple wrap, giving her a stunning timeless appearance. Morrinne meets my eyes then, hers softening when she does, and silence stretches between us, each of us saying so much in these quiet passes.
“Thank you,” I finally whisper, my voice barely audible.
She reaches for my other hand, and we stand face-to-face, our joined hands between us.
“Thank you for taking me in. For giving me a home, a… a family. I don’t know where I’d be without you, and I owe you so much. Thank you for loving me.”
Morrinne clicks her tongue, angles her head, and gives it a sharp shake, but her eyes are beginning to glisten. “None of that, child. You do not get to thank me for something that has only ever brought me joy. You may have been born to another, but you have always been my daughter. ”
Oh shit. I blow air through my lips, blinking furiously, and Morrinne tsks. “Bah—none of that! You have endured enough tears for your life; now it is time you start enjoying it. Happiness is not found, child, it is made. And you have the very thing that lights you up like the sun standing just segments away in those trees, so you best straighten up and go seize it. You understand me?” she asks, dipping her head to force my eyes to meet hers.
I nod. “Yes, Mama.”
With that, she reaches up and grabs the black chiffon veil pinned into my hair and lowers it over my face, casting my world in filtered black. We walk down the stairs and into the courtyard, my mother’s arm looped through my elbow. My stomach twists into knots, each one pulling tighter and tighter with each step that brings us closer to the Spiritwood trees.
No music announces our arrival. My sisters do not precede me in our procession to the arbor. Nothing about this union is traditional or elegant or grand. The extravagant wedding will come later, but it and all its frills will only be a fraction as special as this intimate ceremony. One without the distractions of formalities, or a bustling crowd filled with strangers.
This… this is perfect.
Morrinne and I step into the trees, and my wedding stares back at me. All of it stunning, from the lattice arbor adorned with vermillion roses and vining plants of deep green, to the floral banners strung through the bordering trees, to the small arrangement of chairs our family and friends sit in, all eyes trained on me.
I barely notice any of it. Couldn’t, if I wanted to.
The Black Art is a thing of dark, wicked beauty.
His hair is partially tied up in a topknot, the rest hanging past his shoulders with several braids woven tight to the sides of his scalp. He wears a black collared, slim fitting waistcoat with ornate red embroidery swirled across the front, and black pants that are tailored to perfection, just snug enough in all the right places to highlight his muscular build.
My heart somersaults in my chest. He is so handsome, so sexy, caught in the space between royal-blooded and black-hearted, sovereign and warlord, the king who fells men to their knees and the one who begged for my forgiveness on his. Everything about him screams danger, the kind I want to find myself tangled up with in silken sheets, but it is his eyes that enrapture me so completely.
The Black Art doesn’t just look at me. He’s staring at me like he’s beholding everything he’s ever held near to his heart, as barbed and fortified as it may be. Like I am caught in the space between his liberator and captor, his salvation and his ruin, his poison and his antidote.
I must have stopped walking because Morrinne gives a subtle tug of my elbow, and my feet hurry back into motion. We continue past the small gathering of seated guests, Sin’s serpentine eyes never veering from mine, something I can’t quite place twinkling in their depths. Morrinne releases my arm when we’re a few strides away from the archway, and she lifts my veil.
I walk to him then.
Sin reaches for my waist and gently pulls me into him, his lips skimming my forehead in the most featherlight of kisses, before lowering them to murmur in my ear. “You are ethereal, love.”
He releases my waist but holds my hand firmly as I take my place across from him. It’s only then that I notice the woman standing behind us, or just how quiet it is in this little copse of trees. The woman— priestess —welcomes us, and she picks up a bundle of herbs from the small altar next to her and dips the ends into the flame of a white candle. She moves the burning herbs up and down as she circles us, using her hand to guide the smoke. To cleanse us, she explains, ridding us of past hurts so we are free to welcome new joys.
She takes her place behind us, her deep green robes blending harmoniously with the surrounding forest, and she picks up three long strands of rope.
“Please take each other’s right hands,” she instructs. Sin drops my hand to reclasp it with his other one so both our arms reach across our bodies. The priestess drapes the cords across the tops of our wrists. A white rope for his white-haired witch , one the color of coal for my Blackheart , and a cord of deep red to unite us.
“We will now join Wren and Singard in handfasting, as their individual journeys now merge to continue as one, guided and blessed by Slaine, the first transcendent, and Elysande, the first blood mage.”
My eyes widen, and Sin gives a slight dip of his head, a devastating smile pulling at his mouth as he watches my reaction. I blow out a controlled breath through my lips, steadying my heart that now pounds at the sound of my goddess’s name, uttered from the tongue of a priestess of Slaine. He must have arranged for it beforehand, something so simple, but it sends a pang of longing straight to my chest. Longing to be closer to him still, to crawl inside him and melt my blood with his.
“Singard, do you stand here today to join your path with Wren’s and bind yourself to her completely, declaring your fates forever entwined?”
Sin’s smile is annihilating. “I do.”
“Wren, do you stand here today to join your path with Singard’s and bind yourself to him completely, declaring your fates forever entwined?”
“I do.”
The priestess grabs the three braids of rope and loops them over our wrists in a figure eight pattern twice. “By the fashion of this knot, you both are now bound to your vows. May these cords remain forever tied with the blessings of Slaine and Elysande.”
The priestess carefully slips the knotted cords off our joint wrists and places it on the table. “You two may now exchange your expressions.”
Sin lowers my right hand to pick up my left. The expressions are merely for us to have an outward symbol of our union, but it will be the Mark Sin leaves on me later, when his bite carries Slain’s magic and sinks into my flesh like venom, that will snap our Bond into place. Sin and I agreed to forgo jewelry in the place of something more permanent—brands that will forever mar our skin, just as our Bond will forever tether our hearts.
He runs his thumb across the backs of my knuckles, then instructs me to close my eyes. I do, and Sin’s magic bites into the top of my index finger. It weaves through my skin like frost-glistened threads, nipping at the tendons and tiny veins, permanently etching his love into a symbol for me to forever bear. When he finishes, he gives my hand a gentle squeeze, then murmurs for me to open my eyes.
When I do, it’s not my finger I notice first—it’s him. Sin watches me with such intensity, his chin slightly raised as he stares down at me, tight-lipped, like it’s taking every ounce of his self-control to not dump one of the priestess’s tonics down his throat, carry me into the woods, and knot me into submission.
I tear my gaze away to assess his expression, and passion overwhelms me.
Spanning nearly the entire length of my index finger is a labyrinth of elegant black lines. They sweep across the top of my joints, the ends brushing the edge of my nail bed, but it is the design forever inked just above my knuckle that lures tears from my eyes.
Blackheart’s black heart.
When I look back to Sin, I find nothing but pride in his stare. Not pride for his design, but that I am the one that wears it. His wife .
I hold my hand out expectantly, and he places his left one in mine. After ordering him to also close his eyes, I call forth my magic as I sweep the pads of my fingers across the back of his. It only takes me a minute to span the length of his finger like he did with mine, his now bearing a long, slender dagger with a wren hovering mid-flight, its wings spread and spanning the length of the crossguard.
I tell him to open his eyes, and he beholds his digit as if it were the dawn itself. My own pride lodges deep in the cavern of my chest as I admire my own Mark on him, my husband .
The priestess ignites a second bundling of herbs, this one emitting a more floral scent, and again circles us as she wafts the smoke. When she completes her orbit, she returns the herbs and clasps her hands together at her waist. “Under the watchful eyes of Slaine and Elysande, I now pronounce you married.”
The next few moments are a blur as Sin palms my waist and tugs me against him.
His kiss is dizzying.
Slow and tender, his lips mold to mine. He tastes like dusk and rain, the kind that trickles slowly from swollen clouds and perfumes the air with hints of sweetness. Ever so gently, his tongue laps at the seam of my mouth, and I open for him, allowing him to taste his wife.
That’s when he dips me.
His hand grips the side of my thigh as he leans me back, and a crescendo of cheers erupts around us. Sin slowly pulls his lips away from mine to nuzzle my neck, then places his mouth directly against my ear. “This is where I’m going to Mark you tonight, wife ,” he murmurs, dragging two claws down the side of my throat, stopping just above my clavicle. “Right here where everyone can see that you are mine, and I am yours.”
He rights us then, and when I look out into the small gathering, at Eldridge whistling on his fingers, Cosmina framing her mouth in a holler of cheer with her other hand firmly clasped in Blythe’s, at Morrinne who watches with a controlled smile on her lips, her eyes guarded but something so deeply proud peeking out from them… I know that I am home .
It panged me for a long while, having to abandon the cabin my chosen family and I dwelled in for so long. Walls that are worn thin from our laughter, the earth floor made smooth with the pitter patter of our feet, the furs in our windows that will forever smell like my mother’s lavender tea. But they are just that: walls and floors and furs.
But my family—the ones subtly wiping tears from their eyes and hollering their blessings—they are my forever. Wood and earth eventually decay, but the bloodless bond between us is timeless.
Reaching for my newly inked hand, Sin leads us away from the arbor and out of the woods, the two of us taking our leave as husband and wife.