Chapter 3
Garrion POV
I drop onto the ground beside Mika, the firelight flickering across his amused face.
He’s still quietly chuckling at my expense, the sound grating against my nerves.
He has the luxury of laughter, happily married, a young son waiting for him at home.
He knows nothing of the chains that have just been fastened around my neck.
“What do you know about Tharion’s youngest daughter?” I ask, my voice low, clipped, already bristling.
Mika shrugs, leaning back with the ease of a man untroubled. “Not much. She must be around twenty now. Tharion sent her away years ago. Something about her resemblance to her mother, he couldn’t stand it.”
My jaw tightens. “What else?” I snap, the words sharper than I intend.
“Nothing certain,” Mika replies, unbothered by my tone. “If she’s anything like her sister, then brace yourself. Agatha rejected every suitor until the son of Lord Vorath stepped forward. Stubborn as a mule, that one. A diva, if you ask me.”
I spit my venom into the night, the words laced with contempt. “Great. That’s exactly what I need.”
The fire crackles between us, but its warmth does nothing to thaw the cold settling in my chest. Mika chuckles again, shaking his head, but I stare into the flames, imagining the face of a woman I do not know, bound to me by decree, by politics, by chains I cannot break.
“Can’t be all bad,” Mika says, still trying to convince me, his grin infuriatingly casual. “She comes from a great family. Her dowry will be substantial.”
I scoff, the sound sharp. “I don’t need money. I’ve earned enough through war to last lifetimes. Gold doesn’t buy peace, Mika. It doesn’t buy freedom.”
He raises his brows, but I press on, voice low and edged with venom. “There is one thing. The King promised me three winters without summons, as a wedding gift.”
Mika’s grin widens, and he claps me on the shoulder. “Well then, I’ll make sure to thank your wife for that. Three winters with my wife all over me, I can’t wait.” His laughter follows him as he strides off toward his tent, leaving me alone with the firelight and my thoughts.
The flames crackle, throwing shadows across the mask in my hand. Three winters without summons. It should feel like a gift, but instead it feels like a sentence with her.
Cora POV
After six long days of travel, the spires of Amberfall rise before us, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. My heart tightens as we pass through the gates, home, yet not home. The air feels heavier here, thick with memory and expectation.
Wrex is waiting at the courtyard steps, tall and commanding, his presence as steady as I remember.
Beside him stands a woman of striking beauty.
Her hair blazes orange, like fire caught in motion, and her eyes are piercing green, sharp enough to cut through pretense.
Her face is full, her expression poised, and she carries herself with the confidence of someone who belongs here.
“My little sister,” Wrex says warmly, though his voice carries the authority of his station. “Look at you. You have grown into a lady.”
I bow my head, as is proper, he is higher in our family, destined to rule where I am only expected to serve. “Hello, brother. It has been a while.” My words are polite, but my chest aches with the years we have lost.
“Cora,” he continues, gesturing to the woman at his side, “I would like to introduce you to my wife, Xenia.”
I lower myself into another bow, this one deeper, more formal. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my Lady.”
Xenia’s gaze lingers on me, unreadable, her green eyes sharp as glass. I wonder what she sees, an exile returned, a pawn in a game already decided, or simply a sister-in-law to be tolerated.
The courtyard is silent for a moment, save for the rustle of banners in the wind. I straighten, smoothing the folds of my dress, and force myself to meet her gaze. Whatever lies ahead, I must play the role expected of me.
“I have business to attend to, so Xenia will show you to your room,” Wrex says, his tone brisk, already half-turned away. Without waiting for my reply, he strides down the corridor, leaving me in the company of his wife.
Xenia turns gracefully, her gown whispering against the stone floor, and begins walking without a word. She expects me to follow, and I do, my steps echoing faintly in the silence.
My room lies on the first floor of the castle, tucked away where the servants also reside. A subtle reminder from my father of where I belong, close enough to be useful, far enough to be forgotten.
Xenia opens the door, revealing a small chamber. It is neat, almost painfully so: a narrow bed pressed against the wall, a polished mirror that reflects my face back at me, and a modest bathing chamber tucked behind a screen. Functional, unadorned. A cage disguised as hospitality.
“Thank you, my Lady,” I murmur, uncertain of what we are to each other, sisters by marriage, strangers by circumstance.
She sits on the bed, her movements deliberate, and pats the space beside her. “How do you feel about your marriage, Cora?” she asks softly. Her expression shifts now that the door is closed, her kindness more intimate, less formal.
I lower myself onto the bed, the mattress firm beneath me. “I don’t know,” I admit, the words heavy. “All I know is that Lord Darkmoor is ruthless.” The truth slips out, sharp and unvarnished.
Xenia nods, her green eyes thoughtful. “You know, before I married your brother, I was terrified. I only met him on our wedding day. I feared he would be like his father, cold, detached, unreachable. But Wrex surprised me. He is kind, gentle. I am beginning to love him.”
She smiles faintly, a warmth in her voice.
“Perhaps it could be the same for you, Cora.”
I shrug, shoulders tight. Fate is not mine to shape. “Perhaps,” I say, though the word feels hollow.
Xenia rises, smoothing her gown. “I will let you settle in. I’ll see you at dinner, and we can talk more then.”
She leaves me alone in the quiet chamber, the door closing softly behind her. I sit on the bed, staring at the mirror, at the reflection of a girl who looks like her mother and carries the weight of a future she cannot escape.
A knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts. “Yes,” I answer, my voice sharper than I intend.
The door opens and one of the servants steps inside, bowing low. “My Lady,” she says, her tone careful, deferential.
“Lady Xenia asked me to prepare a bath for you. If it pleases you, I can arrange it now?”
Relief washes over me at the thought of warm water easing the stiffness from travel. “Yes, please. I would love a bath. Thank you,” I reply.
She blinks, startled, as though the words have unsettled her. Please and thank you—simple courtesies, yet here they seem rare, almost foreign. Perhaps kindness is in short supply within these walls.
She moves with quiet efficiency, setting a bundle down upon the bed. When she unfolds it, my breath catches. A gown of blue velvet spills across the sheets, rich and heavy, its sheen catching the candlelight. I reach out, fingers brushing the fabric, and marvel at its softness.
It is beautiful, far beyond anything I have ever worn. Exquisite, regal, a garment meant for someone who belongs in this castle. For a moment, I wonder if I am meant to disappear into its folds, to become the lady they expect me to be.
Steam curls around me as I sink deeper into the hot bath, the warmth loosening the ache from days of travel. Servant, moves with quiet precision, sliding a brush through my damp hair.
“What is your name?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“It’s Samina, my Lady,” she replies softly, her voice careful, almost rehearsed, as though every word must be weighed before spoken.
“How old are you?” I press, curious.
“I’m eighteen, my Lady.”
I close my eyes, the title grating against me. “While you’re in this room with me, please don’t call me ‘my Lady.’”
She hesitates, the brush pausing mid-stroke. “Okay… what would you like me to call you?”
“Cora is fine,” I tell her, hoping for something simple, something human.
Her voice tightens, almost fearful. “I cannot possibly do that, my Lady.”
The words sting, though I expected them. I sigh, defeated. “Fine.”
Silence settles between us, broken only by the gentle rhythm of the brush through my hair and the drip of water against stone.
When the bath is finished, Samina helps me into the velvet dress laid out on the bed. The fabric is heavy, rich, unlike anything I’ve worn before. She works quickly, her hands deft as she braids my hair into a long, neat plait, letting it fall down the length of my back.
I catch my reflection in the mirror, tannedskin, white hair, the braid trailing like a tether. The dress gleams in the candlelight, transforming me into someone I barely recognize. A lady, yes. But not myself.
Samina leads me up the winding stairs, her steps light and practiced, until we reach a small dining room tucked away from the grandeur of the main hall.
The chamber is warm, lit by a single chandelier that scatters soft light across polished wood and velvet drapes.
Xenia is already waiting, seated with the poise of someone who belongs here.
Her eyes brighten as she sees me. “I knew this dress would look beautiful on you,” she says warmly.
I bow my head slightly, settling into the role expected of me. “Thank you. You are very kind.” She gestures for me to sit, and I obey, folding into the chair opposite her.
“I thought you could use a womanly chat tonight,” she says, her tone gentle but deliberate.
“Why?” I ask, wary of what she means.
Her smile deepens, and she places a hand on her belly with quiet pride. “Well, marriage comes with certain duties… like producing children.”
“Congratulations,” I say quickly, the words polite but sincere.
“It’s early days yet,” she beams, her green eyes glowing with anticipation. “But I cannot wait.”
She leans forward, lowering her voice as though sharing a secret. “So, has anyone told you how....”
I cut her off, sharper than I intend. “I know how children are made.” The memory of Aliah and Bastion’s whispered laughter, their stolen moments behind closed doors, flashes through my mind. I had heard enough to understand.
Xenia chuckles softly, unbothered by my interruption. “There are other ways of pleasing a man,” she says, her tone playful, almost conspiratorial. “Ways that do not involve him being between your legs.”
Her words hang in the air, heavy with implication. I shift in my seat, the velvet of the dress suddenly too tight, too heavy. The conversation feels less like guidance and more like a reminder of the cage I am stepping into.
“I’m sorry… I don’t understand what you mean by that?” I admit, my voice low, betraying how completely out of my depth I feel. Still, there’s a flicker of gratitude, I know she’s trying to guide me, even if the subject unsettles me.
Xenia leans closer, her voice drops to a whisper, so faint it barely carries across the space between us. "All men love having their dicks sucked” she says carefully, as though speaking any louder might invite scandal.
The words hang in the air, heavy with implication, and I feel my cheeks burn. The chamber suddenly feels smaller, the candlelight sharper, as though the walls themselves are listening.