Chapter 5
Cora POV
They dress me in this monstrosity of a gown, layers upon layers of fabric so vast that if a gust of wind caught me, I swear I would be carried away like a fragile bird. The skirt swallows me whole, a cage disguised as finery.
I glance at the mirror, watching as Xenia works with steady hands. She braids my hair around my head into a crown, exposing the length of my neck as though I am being prepared for display. Her touch is gentle, but the transformation feels merciless.
She fastens a diamond necklace at my throat, its weight pressing down like a chain. “This is a gift from your father,” she says, her voice warm, almost proud. “He has spared no expense to make a statement, that North and South are now bound in matrimony.”
The words echo in my chest. A statement. Not a gift. Not love. Just politics wrapped in jewels.
Finally, she clips the veil into my hair and pulls it over my face. The world blurs, softened by fine lace, and my body begins to tremble. In less than an hour, I will be bound to a man I do not know, a man I do not love.
Xenia guides me down a narrow, private walkway, the stone walls cool against the faint candlelight. She pauses at a small arched window and pushes it open, revealing the great hall below.
The room is already alive with ceremony, people seated in their designated places, voices hushed, anticipation thick in the air.
My eyes find my father, rigid in his general’s uniform, speaking to a man who towers over him by nearly a foot.
I see only the back of his head, but I know it is Garrion.
His black hair is neatly brushed, falling just over his ears, every strand disciplined.
Questions coil in my chest: Is he wearing the mask? The mask that everyone fears? Will he ever show me his face, or will I be bound to a shadow, a man hidden behind steel?
“You will have to walk down the aisle alone,” Xenia murmurs beside me, her voice steady, practical. “Then your father will hand you over to Lord Garrion.”
Her words strike like iron.
“After the ceremony,” she continues, “the celebration will be held in the dining room. A chamber has been prepared for you both tonight, on the top floor of the castle.”
Fear grips me, sharp and merciless. My body trembles, and tears threaten to spill. Tonight, I must give myself to him.
The hall below blurs as my vision swims, the weight of inevitability pressing down until I can scarcely breathe.
Xenia guides me into a small sitting room, it's walls close and quiet, the air heavy with expectation.
She turns to me, her hands briefly squeezing mine.
“When you hear the music, that will be your cue to go,” she says softly.
She gives me a quick hug, warm, fleeting and then slips out, leaving me alone.
I begin to pace, the hem of my gown whispering against the floor. My heart pounds, each beat louder than the silence. I force myself to breathe, to steady the trembling in my hands. I will not cry in front of him. I will not yield to my fear.
The minutes stretch, taut and unbearable, until at last the faint strains of music drift through the door. My body stiffens, the sound pulling me forward like a summons.
I draw myself tall, veil trembling with my breath, and step out into the corridor. Each step carries me closer to the hall, closer to the man who will be my husband, closer to the future I cannot escape.
As I step onto the carpet leading to the altar, the great hall rises as one. Every guest turns to face me, their eyes heavy with expectation. The air thickens, pressing against my chest, each step echoing louder than the last.
At the end of the aisle, Garrion shifts, turning slightly. His mask hides his face, but I catch the hard line of his lips pressed together, unyielding. His uniform is fitted, tailored to perfection, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders, the strength carved into his frame.
My gaze drops to the sword hanging at his right hip, gleaming in the candlelight. It is not ceremonial, it is real, sharp, a weapon carried into battle. He looks less like a groom and more like a conqueror awaiting his prize.
A chill runs down my spine, fear curling through me like smoke. He is menacing, a figure carved from steel and silence, and I am walking straight toward him.
Garrion POV
I turn as the hall rises, every guest standing in unison.
My hand rests instinctively on the hilt of my sword, a soldier’s habit I cannot shed.
My eyes find her—Cora. She moves with the music, draped in a ridiculous gown so vast it seems designed to swallow her whole.
The veil hides the top half of her face, leaving her a mystery, a stranger walking toward me.
In my peripheral vision, I catch Tharion. His expression is blank, carved from stone, not the look of a father proud to see his daughter wed. He steps forward, takes her gloved hand, and leads her to me. I extend mine, steady, and he places her trembling fingers into my grasp.
We walk together up the aisle. Her hand quivers against mine, fragile, terrified. I know she fears me. I would never harm her, but I will never love her either. Duty binds us, not affection.
We face the priest, who drones on about God and vows, words that mean little to me. His gaze fixes on me. “Do you, Lord Garrion Darkmoor, General of the Northern Armies, take Lady Cora Blackthorn as your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do,” I answer, the words forced through clenched teeth.
Then he turns to her. “And do you, Lady Cora Blackthorn, take Lord Garrion Darkmoor, General of the Northern Armies, as your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do,” she replies, her voice steady but soft, like a whisper carried on fragile air.
We turn to face each other. I lift her veil, and the sight of her strikes me like a blade to the chest. Her piercing blue eyes lock onto mine, unflinching. Her hair is white as winter’s snow, her lips full but trembling. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
I remove the glove from her left hand, her skin smooth as silk against mine. I slide the gold band onto her finger, the symbol of a bond neither of us chose. She takes the ring from the priest, her hand shaking as she slips it onto mine.
“By the power granted to me by God and our great King,” the priest declares, “you may now kiss your bride, Lord Darkmoor.”
I lean down, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. They are soft, inviting, but I pull away before the moment lingers.
“Dear guests,” the priest proclaims, “please join me in congratulating Lord Darkmoor and his wife, Lady Darkmoor.”
The hall erupts in applause, but I hear only the pounding of my own heart. I take her hand once more and lead her down the aisle, toward the doors that open into the entrance hall, toward the life that now binds us both.
“Do you ride?” I ask, my voice low but firm. We will not be staying for the celebration. Ten days’ ride lies between us and Nordvaar, and I have no patience for feasts or empty words.
She hesitates, and irritation flares. I repeat myself through gritted teeth, sharper this time. “Do you ride?”
Her eyes snap to mine, startled but steady. “I do, my lord,” she replies, her tone soft but certain.
I nod once, curt. “You have half an hour to change out of this ridiculous dress and meet me at the stables.” The order leaves no room for argument.
She bows her head, silent, and turns to ascend the stairs. The gown trails behind her like a shroud, swallowing her small frame as she disappears from sight.
I watch her go, my jaw tight. She obeys, but I can feel the tremor beneath her composure. Fear clings to her, yet she does not defy me. That, at least, is something.
Tharion approaches, his boots echoing against the stone floor. “Is something wrong with my daughter?” he asks, his tone carefully measured, feigning concern. But I see through it now, there is no warmth in his voice, no true care for her.
“Everything is fine,” I reply evenly. “We will not be staying for the celebration. It is a long ride back to my home, and I want to begin the journey now.”
His jaw tightens. “As you wish,” he says bluntly, though disappointment flickers across his face. He had hoped for spectacle today, for the grandeur of a feast to parade his success.
“Cora’s dowry will be brought to the stables then,” he adds, as if eager to rid himself of the obligation.
I shake my head. “No need. You can keep it, use it to cover today’s expenses.” My voice is clipped, final. I do not want his money. I already have his daughter to contend with, and that is burden enough.
Cora POV
I climb the stairs, each step heavier than the last, fighting to keep my composure. But the moment I reach the sanctuary of my small room, everything shatters. The truth crashes down on me, I am married. Bound to Garrion. And he is terrifying.
The door creaks open and Aliah slips inside.
I collapse into her arms, my body trembling.
She holds me tightly, whispering, “All will be alright, my sweet girl. You two will figure things out, as you grow together, as you learn more about yourselves.”
Her voice is gentle, but it cannot quiet the storm inside me.
“I need to change into riding clothes,” I manage through my tears. “We are leaving now.”
Without hesitation, she pulls out the riding leathers she and Bastion gifted me. Her fingers work quickly, undoing the corset of the gown. The weight of it falls to the floor with a heavy thud, and relief floods meit must have weighed as much as I did.
I step into the leather pants, snug against my skin, showing the strength carved into my legs from a decade of sparring with Bastion.
Aliah helps me into a grey shirt, then the long-sleeved leather top, laced at the front.
It fits like a second skin, protective, familiar. Boots follow, solid and grounding.
Finally, she produces my daggers, sliding them into place at my thighs. “Don’t hesitate to use them, Cora,” she instructs firmly.
I scoff, shaking my head. As if I could overpower him. Garrion is a force of steel and shadow.
The last piece is my long riding cloak, draped over me, concealing the leathers beneath. It covers me entirely, a shield against prying eyes.
I turn to Aliah and embrace her tightly. “Thank you for being my friend all these years. I’m going to miss you.”
Her arms tighten around me, and for a moment, I allow myself to feel safe, before the world outside demands me again.
Aliah walks beside me, her presence a quiet comfort as we step into the stables. The air is thick with the scent of hay and leather, the low shuffle of hooves echoing against the wooden beams.
Garrion is already mounted, towering on his horse, a hundred of his men lined behind him, armored and waiting. Their eyes follow me as I enter, silent and watchful, and the weight of their gaze presses against my skin.
At the far end stall, I see him, Zeus. Alone, isolated, as he always is. He does not tolerate people, not their touch, not their voices. Only me.
I approach, my steps soft, my heart easing as I draw near. “Hello, my love,” I whisper, reaching for him. My fingers scratch gently at his head, and he exhales in a sharp huff, nostrils flaring, ears flicking back and forth.
“Are you ready to come on an adventure?” I murmur, leaning close. His dark eyes meet mine, fierce and loyal, and I feel the tension in my chest loosen. He is restless, eager, ready to be unleashed.
In this moment, Zeus is my anchor. My freedom. My only choice in a world where everything else has been taken.