Chapter 4
Cora POV
I sit on the edge of my bed, the velvet gown heavy against my skin, as though it carries the weight of everything Xenia confided to me.
Her words echo in my mind, circling like vultures.
Intimacy with a man, acts whispered about in scandal, things spoken of only behind closed doors.
Shameful, secret things that I had never dared to imagine.
Will Garrion expect this from me? The thought coils in my stomach, sharp and cold. I do not know if I can do such things, if I can surrender myself in ways that feel more like humiliation than duty.
Xenia’s voice lingers, soft but unrelenting: your first time will hurt, but afterwards it can be pleasurable. I cannot reconcile the two, pain and pleasure, bound together in the same act. It feels like a trap, a cruel paradox designed to keep women compliant.
I press my hands into the mattress, grounding myself, but my mind refuses to quiet. Images rise unbidden, his mask, his reputation, the ruthless man I am to call husband. Will he be gentle? Or will he take what is owed to him, as men of power always do?
The chamber feels smaller, the walls pressing in, the silence thick with expectation. I want to scream, to run, to vanish into the night. Instead, I force myself to lie back, pulling the covers over me as though they can shield me from the future.
I close my eyes, willing the thoughts to scatter, to dissolve into nothing. Sleep is the only escape left to me, though even in dreams I fear he will find me.
In the morning, Aliah slips quietly into my room, her presence a comfort against the heavy silence. She helps me into another gown left by Xenia, the fabric stiff and formal, a reminder that I am to meet with my father after breakfast. My stomach knots at the thought.
Before I can dwell on it, Aliah produces a small package, tightly wrapped in cloth. Her eyes gleam with mischief and affection. “Bastion and I have a present for you, but you mustn’t let anyone see it.”
I blink, startled. “You didn’t have to, Aliah… thank you.” My fingers tug at the string, loosening the knot, and the cloth falls away.
Inside lies a set of training leathers, black and unused, the scent of new hide rising faintly. My breath catches. They are beautiful in their simplicity, practical and strong, a gift that speaks of freedom rather than duty.
Aliah kneels beside me, her voice hushed but proud. “There’s a sheath on each thigh for your daggers,” she explains, running her hand lightly over the seams.
I trace the leather with my fingertips, the weight of it grounding me. In this world where gowns and silks are meant to bind me, this gift feels like armor, a reminder of who I am beneath the layers of expectation.
I tuck the leathers deep into the bottom of my trunk, hidden beneath gowns and linens, buried where no prying eyes will find them. The rest of my belongings are already on their way to the place that will become my future home, a word that feels more like a sentence than a promise.
The climb up the stairs to my father’s office feels heavier than it should, each step echoing like a drumbeat of inevitability. I pause at the door, steadying myself, then knock.
“Enter,” his voice booms, full of authority, stripped of warmth.
I slip inside, closing the door behind me, the sound sharp in the silence. Dropping into a low bow, I keep my head bowed. “My lord,” I say, addressing him not as my father but as my superior.
For a fleeting moment, his brown eyes soften, a glimmer of awe flickering there, as though he sees me not as a daughter but as something almost worthy. Then recognition returns, and with it disdain. His expression hardens, the familiar frown lines carving deep into his face.
“Sit, Cora,” he orders.
I obey, folding into the chair across from him, spine rigid.
“You will not embarrass our family in front of Lord Garrion,” he says, his tone cold and clipped. “The King is extremely fond of him. If he is not pleased with you, it will reflect poorly on our house.”
“I understand, my lord. I will do everything in my power to keep my husband happy,” I reply, forcing reassurance into my voice though it tastes bitter.
His gaze sharpens, unyielding. “You will give him children. As many as he desires.”
The words strike like iron chains, binding me tighter than any gown or vow.
“Yes, my lord,” I whisper, because it is all I have to give him.
I steady my breath before speaking. “May I ask for a favor, my lord?”
His head snaps up, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”
I keep my voice calm, measured. “May I please take my horse, Zeus, with me to my new home?”
He exhales sharply, the sound halfway between a scoff and a growl. “Fine. I don’t know how you manage to ride that demon of a horse anyway.”
Relief flickers through me, though I keep my expression composed. “Thank you, my lord. Is there anything else you wish to speak to me about?”
His gaze slides past me, already disinterested. “No. You can leave.”
Dismissed without another glance, I rise from the chair, bow once more, and walk out. The door closes behind me with a heavy thud, sealing the distance between us.
I find Xenia in the great hall, her hands busy arranging bolts of fabric and baskets of flowers across the long table.
The room hums with quiet activity, servants moving in and out, the faint scent of roses mingling with polished wood and candle wax.
She is focused, her green eyes sharp as she compares shades of silk, her movements precise and assured.
“These are for the wedding,” she explains, gesturing to the spread.
I glance at the fabrics, the flowers, the endless choices.
They mean nothing to me. I have no taste for such things, no patience for the details of beauty.
“Please choose, Xenia,” I say, forcing a smile.
“You are so much better at this than I am.”
The words are meant to flatter, to ease my way out of decisions I cannot bring myself to care about.
She looks up, her expression softening into a smile. “You know, Cora, flattery will get you anywhere.”
Her tone is light, teasing, but there is warmth beneath it. For a moment, the weight of duty lifts, replaced by the simple comfort of her kindness.
The dressmaker arrives in the afternoon, her assistants trailing behind with armfuls of fabric. Soon the long table is buried beneath endless swathes of white, silks, satins, lace, each shimmering under the light like snow.
Xenia hovers over the display, her eyes bright with excitement.
She selects a soft white fabric kissed with the faintest blush of pink.
“This will be phenomenal, Cora,” she declares, her voice brimming with certainty.
“I’m thinking a grand skirt, a tight corset, something that shows your husband exactly what he is getting.”
The thought makes my stomach twist. I force myself to speak, though my voice trembles. “Could we do something… a bit more subtle? Less in-your-face, please.” My words are almost a plea.
The dressmaker freezes, her gaze snapping to me as though I’ve sprouted horns. Her expression is sharp, incredulous, my request is not what a lady should make. Not here, not now.
Heat rises in my cheeks, but I hold her stare for a moment before looking away. I doubt Garrion will care what I wear anyway. The gown is for them, for my father, for appearances. Never for me.
In the end, Xenia gets her way. I cannot bring myself to refuse her, she has shown me kindness in a house otherwise carved from cold stone.
That evening, we dine together again, the hall quiet save for the clink of silver against porcelain. Xenia studies me with her usual calm before asking, almost casually, “When is your next bleed, Cora?”
The question catches me off guard. I never bothered to keep track; it comes when it comes, usually around the same time each month. “I don’t know,” I admit, my voice low.
“Right,” she says briskly, already thinking ahead. “I will get a potion for you to start it early, so it doesn’t ruin your wedding night.” Her tone is practical, decisive, as though she is solving a problem no different than choosing fabrics or flowers.
I nod, though unease coils in my stomach. Even my body is being managed, timed, prepared, another piece of me shaped to fit into the ceremony of duty.
Garrion POV
I arrive four days before the wedding, a hundred of my best men riding at my back. Tharion has granted us a small farm an hour’s ride from the city walls, a place humble but sufficient. The people here are kind enough, offering bread, ale, and small comforts that feel almost like home.
For the first time in a month, I have a proper bath. The river cleans only so much; grime from the road and the stench of war cling stubbornly to the skin. Steam rises, carrying away the weight of travel, and for a moment I feel almost human again.
My formal uniform hangs on the door, polished and waiting, a reminder of the role I must play. Lord, not soldier. Husband, not commander.
Mika strides in without ceremony, as he always does. His eyes flick to my hair, and he smirks. “You need a haircut” he says flatly. “You must look like a lord, not a soldier.”
I meet his gaze, half amused, half weary. He is right, of course. The battlefield has shaped me into something rough, unrefined. But here, in Amberfall, appearances matter.
“Have you managed to find out more about my future wife?” I ask, my tone clipped, the question heavy with impatience.
Mika nods. “Yes. Her name is Cora. She’s lived on a farm for the last ten years, six days’ ride from here. Everyone I spoke to described her as beautiful and kind.”
I scoff, the sound sharp. “Of course they did. They’d say anything to make Tharion look good.” My words bite, laced with suspicion.
Mika doesn’t flinch. He meets my gaze steadily. “Maybe so,” he concedes, his voice calm but firm. “But give the girl the benefit of the doubt.”
I look away, jaw tight, unwilling to admit the truth in his plea. Doubt is easier than hope.
------Four Days Later--------
Today is the day.
I dress in my general’s uniform, the weight of the fabric familiar, grounding me in the role I know best. My hair has been cut shorter, though not enough to erase the soldier from me. I fasten the mask over my face, the steel cool against my skin, hiding what I do not wish the world to see.
I stand before the door, ready or as ready as I will ever be.
“Time to meet your wife, my lord,” Mika teases, his grin sharp as he swings into the saddle. His words carry more humor than ceremony, but they strike like a drumbeat all the same.
I mount my horse, the leather reins firm in my hands, and together we ride toward the castle. The men follow, a hundred strong, their banners snapping in the wind. The road stretches ahead, each hoofbeat carrying me closer to the fate I cannot escape.