Chapter 33
Cora POV
We spend the rest of the day tangled together, making up for the four long weeks of silence. Time slips away unnoticed, the world beyond our chamber forgotten until hunger finally drives us from the bed.
Dragging ourselves to the dining hall feels almost ceremonial. Garrion’s strength is returning, but he still leans on me, his hand clasped firmly in mine as we descend the stairs. I hold him steady, refusing to let him falter, and there’s a quiet pride in being the one he allows to support him.
The hall is warm with firelight, voices low and familiar. My eyes catch on Mika immediately, he’s back, seated beside Soma, looking far too relaxed for someone who has just returned from an ambush mission. Relief washes through me, though I mask it with a teasing smile.
“I see you made it back in one piece,” I say, my tone light but edged with genuine gratitude.
Before Mika can answer, Garrion’s voice cuts sharp, snapping like a whip. “You told her.” His glare is enough to silence half the hall.
Mika only smirks, unbothered, leaning back in his chair with that infuriating ease. “She threatened me with a sword,” he replies, amusement flickering in his eyes.
I bite back a laugh, though my grip on Garrion’s hand tightens.
He bristles beside me, but I know Mika’s words are true, I had pressed him, blade in hand, unwilling to be kept in the dark.
And though Garrion’s anger flares, I sense beneath it the unspoken truth: he is not angry at Mika, not truly.
He is angry at the distance, at the secrets, at the way fate keeps pulling us apart.
I set Garrion’s plate before him, along with a heavy mug of ale, and only when I return with my own food does he reach for me. Without hesitation, he pulls me into his lap, holding me there as though it is the most natural thing in the world.
The gesture shocks me. Garrion is not one for public displays of affection, and yet here I am, perched against him in full view of the hall.
Heat rises in my cheeks, though I cannot deny the comfort of his arms around me.
Across the table, Mika and Soma exchange knowing smiles but wisely keep their silence.
Soma, ever bold, breaks it first. “So,” she asks unapologetically, “what did the letter say?”
I glance at Garrion, uncertain if he wishes to share. His eyes meet mine, and with a subtle nod he gives me permission.
“We have been invited to Prince Dorian’s wedding,” I say bluntly, letting the words fall heavy into the room. Then, unable to resist, I tilt my head toward Garrion with a teasing smile. “Though I suspect my husband here would rather march off to war than attend.”
My jest earns a ripple of amusement from Mika and Soma, but Garrion’s jaw tightens, his silence betraying the truth of my words. Beneath the laughter, the tension lingers, an unspoken reminder that peace is never as simple as a wedding invitation.
“Well, he did act like he was bracing for war at your wedding,” Mika says, amusement flickering in his eyes. His tone is light, but the words carry a sting of truth.
I laugh, unable to help myself, though the sound falters when Garrion’s arm tightens possessively around me. The pressure of his hand is firm, almost warning, and I feel the shift in him, his pride bristling at the reminder.
“Perhaps you should correct that, my lord,” Soma adds with a sly smirk, her gaze darting between us. There’s mischief in her voice, but something sharper too, as though she’s testing him, daring him to respond.
Her words leave me momentarily confused, caught between their teasing and the weight of Garrion’s silence. I glance at him, searching his face, but he gives nothing away.
“Don’t mind my wife,” Mika interjects quickly, his jab playful, though his eyes betray a flicker of caution. He knows Soma’s tongue can cut deeper than intended, and he tries to soften the moment before Garrion’s temper ignites.
The hall hums with quiet tension; laughter balanced on the edge of unease. I sit still in Garrion’s lap, acutely aware of the strength in his grip and the storm simmering just beneath his calm exterior.
Garrion POV
Mika's words cut deeper than I care to admit.
He was right, I had braced for this marriage as though preparing for war.
Duty, obligation, survival… those were the shields I carried into the ceremony.
I never expected to fall for Cora. I never expected her to shatter the walls I had built around myself.
She dragged me out of the darkness I had lived in for so long, showing me that love was not a weakness, but a light. With her, I learned there is still warmth in this world, still something worth fighting for beyond blood and steel.
Mika married Soma out of love, not obligation. I envied him for that. And now, perhaps, I could have the same with Cora. Not a union forged by duty, but one sanctified by choice, by devotion.
I think of the ring, my mother’s ring, kept locked away in the vault all these years.
It has passed from hand to hand, generation to generation, worn by every woman who bore the title of Lady Darkmoor.
I never thought I would give it to anyone.
But now, I cannot imagine it belonging to anyone but Cora.
Mika finally pulls me from my thoughts, dragging me away from her warmth. His eyes narrow, studying me with that infuriating intuition of his. “I can see your mind working, Garrion. What are you thinking about?”
I meet his gaze, the decision already burning in my chest. “I want to redo my vows with Cora,” I say, the words heavy but certain. “A wedding like you and Soma had. Not an obligation to fulfill, not a bargain struck in shadows. A true wedding"
Mika’s eyes go wide, shock flashing across his face before amusement quickly follows. “Well, I never expected you to be the romantic type,” he says, grinning like he’s caught me in some great secret.
I grunt, shifting uncomfortably, feeling foolish for letting the words slip. The weight of my confession sits heavy in my chest, and I hate how exposed it makes me feel.
“Alright, alright,” Mika says, raising his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk never leaves his lips. “What can we do to help?” His tone makes it clear he’s already plotting to drag Soma into this, whether I like it or not.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” I admit, the frustration raw in my voice.
Mika leans forward, his expression softening just enough to show he’s serious. “Well, you can start by asking her to marry you.”
I frown, confused. “We’re already married.”
“Yes,” he says patiently, “but you didn’t ask her to marry you. She was told she had to. That’s not the same thing.”
The truth of his words stings. I remember the fear in Cora’s eyes on our wedding day, the way duty and obligation overshadowed everything. My jaw tightens.
“So… what?” I mutter, half defensive, half uncertain. “Get down on one knee and make some grand gesture?”
“Precisely,” Mika replies, his grin returning, sharper now. “Show her it’s not about duty anymore. Show her it’s about choice. About love.”
His words linger, and though I bristle at his teasing, I can’t shake the thought. Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps it’s time I gave Cora the wedding she deserved, the one the King denied her and where I treated our union like a battlefield instead of a vow.
“I will retrieve my mother’s ring from the vault tomorrow,” I say firmly, the decision already carved into my mind. “I expect you to keep her busy with training.”
Mika nods in approval, his expression steady, though I catch the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He knows what this means.
I continue, my thoughts spilling into words. “It’s winter, the gardens are buried beneath snow. Hardly the ideal setting for a proposal.” The image of white drifts and barren branches feels too cold, too lifeless for what I intend.
“I’ll let Soma organize that,” Mika replies calmly, as though it’s the simplest solution in the world. “It needs a woman’s touch.”
I nod, conceding the point. He’s right. Soma has a way of turning even the bleakest setting into something alive, something worthy of memory.
“What if she says no?” The doubt slips from me before I can stop it, heavy and raw.
Mika doesn’t hesitate. His hand smacks the back of my head, sharp and scolding, like a mother disciplining a stubborn child. The sting is nothing compared to the bite of his words.
“That woman slept on the floor beside you while you burned with fever,” he snaps, his voice edged with frustration.
“She took on your duties when you couldn’t lift a hand, kept this place running when you were too weak to stand. She knows the ins and outs of this hall better than I do. If that’s not devotion, if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”
His words hit harder than the swat. The memories rise unbidden: Cora curled on the cold stone floor, refusing comfort, her hand resting against mine even as I drifted in and out of delirium.
The way she carried the weight of my responsibilities without complaint, her quiet strength holding everything together.
Shame coils in my chest, tangled with something softer, hope. Mika’s rebuke strips away the fear I cling to, leaving me with the undeniable truth: Cora has already chosen me, not through duty or command, but through sacrifice, loyalty, and love
With the plan forming clearly in my mind, I turn back toward the hall. My steps carry me to Cora, who is seated with Soma, their heads bent close in deep conversation. The sight of her, animated, engaged, her eyes bright despite the long weeks of strain, fills me with a quiet resolve.
She has no idea what I’m planning, no idea that tomorrow I will place my mother’s ring on her hand and ask her not as Lord Darkmoor, not as a man bound by duty, but as Garrion, the man who has fallen hopelessly in love with her.
I rise with Cora before dawn, watching as she readies herself for training with Mika.
The morning light catches on her shoulders, and I notice how much she has changed—muscle carved into her arms, strength honed through discipline.
She has grown into her power, and I cannot help but feel a quiet pride.
“Where are you off to so early this morning?” she asks, amusement dancing in her voice.
“According to Mika, I’ve been slacking on my duties as a Lord,” I reply, careful to keep my tone casual, hiding the truth of my intent.
She nods, a soft smile curving her lips.
As we descend the stairs together, she takes my hand, her touch grounding me.
At the bottom, she rises on her toes to press a kiss to my cheek.
“I’ll see you at breakfast,” she says, before slipping away, leaving me with the warmth of her affection lingering like a promise.
I turn toward the dungeons, toward the vault that holds the remnants of my family’s legacy. The air grows colder as I descend, the silence heavy with memory. Shadows cling to the walls, and each step feels like a journey into the past.
Inside, I wander through relics long forgotten, paintings of my mother, hidden away after her death, her eyes still alive in the brushstrokes though time has stolen her presence. My chest tightens as I move deeper, until I find the small jewelry box that once belonged to her.
I lift the lid, and there it is, the ring.
The silver setting gleams faintly in the dim light, wrought in the shape of the northern star, its points sharp and precise, a symbol of guidance and constancy.
At its heart rests a polished black obsidian stone, dark as midnight yet glimmering with hidden fire when it catches the light.
It is a piece of history, passed down through generations, worn by every Lady Darkmoor before her.
I hold it in my palm, the weight of it both physical and symbolic. This ring is more than an heirloom, it is a promise, a bond, a legacy. And now, for the first time, I want it to mean something beyond duty.
I hope she likes it. More than that, I hope she understands what it means, that she is not bound to me by command or obligation, but chosen, cherished, and loved.