Chapter 38
Cora POV
Tomorrow is Garrion’s birthday and our wedding.
The two occasions entwined into one day feel almost too immense to hold in my chest.
Soma has organized everything with her usual precision, every detail accounted for, every worry smoothed away before I could even voice it.
She is keeping Garrion’s ring safe for me, and I find myself praying he will like it, that he will see in its design the truth of what he means to me.
Mika has spirited Garrion away somewhere within the fortress, following Soma’s strict instructions to keep him from me tonight. Tradition, she says. Anticipation, she insists. But all it leaves me with is silence.
I sit alone in our room, the fire casting restless shadows across the walls.
My gown hangs ready, my hair brushed smooth, yet my heart refuses to settle.
My hands twist in my lap, my thoughts circling endlessly back to him.
I wish Garrion were here, his steady presence, his warmth, his laughter that always cuts through my doubts.
The room feels too large without him, the night too long. Tomorrow, he will be mine in every way that matters. But tonight, I am left with only the ache of longing and the knowledge that the hours between us are both a barrier and a promise.
Soma walks into my chamber carrying a pot of steaming tea, the fragrant herbs curling into the air.
Her belly is beginning to show now, a gentle curve beneath her gown, and I can’t help but notice it.
A pang of longing strikes me deep, I want that too.
A child that is part me, part Garrion. A living bond between us, proof of our love.
But I will wait. The world is not yet safe for such dreams. The King’s leash still binds us, and I will not bring a child into chains.
I wrap my hands around the warm cup Soma pours for me, letting the heat seep into my fingers as I steady myself.
My thoughts drift ahead to Prince Dorian’s wedding.
My brother will be there, and with his help, perhaps I can find a way to loosen the grip of the crown.
Perhaps together we can carve out a path to freedom, for Garrion, for me, for the life we dare to imagine.
Garrion POV
Spending a night away from Cora was harder than I could have imagined.
The absence of her presence, her voice, her warmth, gnawed at me like a hollow ache.
Now, as I stand at the steps of the Nordvaar cathedral, waiting for her, the ache is tempered by anticipation.
My people are gathered in celebration, their faces alight with joy.
It should have always been this way. Northern tradition dictates that a lord marries in the cathedral, before his people, binding not only himself to his bride but both of them to the land.
Yet the King stripped my people of that honor, forcing our union to be sealed in Amberfall, far to the south, where the ceremony was more spectacle than sanctity.
Cora, in her quiet strength, insisted we uphold the traditions here, in the north. For that, I love her all the more.
“My lord,” a small voice calls, tugging at my attention.
I turn and see a little girl, no more than six, peering up at me with wide eyes. I lower myself to her height, smiling gently. “Hello.”
“Mama said you are already married to Lady Cora,” she says innocently, “so why are you getting married again?”
Her mother rushes forward, mortified. “I am so sorry, my lord,” she pleads, bowing her head.
I shake mine softly. “It’s quite all right.” I look back to the girl, keeping my tone kind. “The King arranged for Lady Cora and me to be married at her home of Amberfall, all the way in the south.”
The girl tilts her head, frowning. “So… you didn’t marry her because you love her?”
Her mother gasps, horrified, but I only smile, the truth rising easily to my lips. “I do love her. That is why we are getting married again, here, in the cathedral, by northern traditions. This time, it is for us, and for our people.”
The little girl studies me for a moment, then nods as though satisfied, before darting off into the crowd.
Her mother bows deeply. “Thank you, my lord, for indulging her curiosity.”
I nod, offering her a reassuring smile. “Children often ask the questions adults are too afraid to voice.”
Straightening, I walk into the cathedral, the great doors closing behind me.
The air inside is cool and hushed, filled with the scent of stone and incense.
I take my place at the altar, waiting for Cora.
My heart beats steady, yet every breath feels heavy with the weight of what is to come.
Soon, she will walk through those doors, and before the gods and my people, she will be mine, not by decree, not by politics, but by love and tradition.
The cathedral fills quickly, the pews crowded with villagers and soldiers alike, while others stand pressed along the walls, unwilling to miss the moment.
The air hums with anticipation, the murmur of voices fading as the music begins.
At once, everyone rises to their feet. My heart pounds in rhythm with the solemn notes, each beat carrying me closer to her.
Mika had agreed to walk Cora down the aisle in place of her father, and now I see them, two figures framed by the great doors of the cathedral. My gaze finds her instantly, and the sight steals the breath from my lungs.
She wears a simple cream-colored gown, long-sleeved and unadorned, yet it radiates a quiet grace that outshines any finery.
Around her neck rests my mother’s obsidian necklace, the dark stone gleaming against her pale dress.
Her hair falls in loose waves, just as I love, crowned with a small obsidian tiara that once belonged to my mother as well.
The heirlooms, the simplicity, the way she carries herself, it is all perfection.
She is so beautiful that for a moment, I forget the crowd, the music, the priest. There is only her.
Step by step, Mika guides her down the aisle, his grin wide and proud. My anticipation builds until it feels unbearable, my hands tightening around themselves as I wait.
At last, they reach the altar. The priest’s voice rings out, solemn and clear: “Do you give this woman to this man?”
Mika takes Cora’s hand, his expression brimming with joy. He places her hand firmly into mine, his voice carrying with conviction. “Absolutely,” he says, grinning from ear to ear.
Her fingers curl into mine, warm and steady, and in that instant, the world narrows to just us. The cathedral, the crowd, the ceremony, all of it fades beneath the weight of her touch.
We stand facing each other as the priest begins the traditional prayers, his voice echoing through the vaulted cathedral. Yet the words blur into nothingness for me. All I see is Cora. She lifts her gaze, her lips curving into the faintest smile as she mouths a silent “Happy birthday.”
The world falls away. The crowd, the priest, the ceremony, all fade until there is only her, her blue eyes holding me captive. I forget to breathe. She squeezes my hand gently, a subtle reminder, as if to say pay attention, Garrion.
The priest’s voice cuts through my haze. “Do you, Lord Garrion Darkmoor, take this woman to be your wife?” He places Cora’s obsidian ring in my hand, the stone gleaming like a fragment of night.
“I do,” I say firmly, sliding the ring onto her finger. My voice carries more than duty, it carries devotion, the weight of every promise I have ever made to her.
Then the priest turns to her. “Do you, Lady Cora Darkmoor, take this man to be your husband?” He hands her a ring I have never seen before.
My breath catches. It is a signet-style ring, bold and strong, with a northern star carved into its center, obsidian stones circling the edge like guardians of the night.
It mirrors her own ring, yet it is unmistakably mine.
Did she have this made for me? The thought strikes deep, filling me with awe.
“I do,” she says, her voice steady, radiant. She slides the ring onto my finger, and the weight of it feels like more than metal, it feels like destiny.
The priest lifts a rope of white and gold, draping it over our joined hands. Then, as tradition dictates, an older couple steps forward—the longest married among us. Their hands tremble with age, yet their movements are sure as they tie the rope around ours, binding us together.
The knot is simple, but its meaning is eternal: a lifetime bound, not by decree of kings, but by love, by tradition, by the will of our people.
“You may now kiss your bride,” the priest declares, his voice echoing through the vaulted cathedral.
I close the distance without hesitation, capturing Cora’s lips in a kiss that seals every vow we’ve spoken. The cathedral erupts in applause and cheers, the sound swelling like a tide around us. For a heartbeat, it feels as though the entire north rejoices with us.
Hand in hand, I lead her outside. The winter air greets us, crisp and sharp, but the warmth of the crowd gathered beyond the cathedral doors softens it.
They cheer again, voices rising in celebration.
As tradition dictates, we begin the walk back to the fortress, our people lining the streets to witness the procession.
Mika and Soma follow close behind, their smiles as wide as the day itself.
I glance at Cora, my thumb brushing over her hand. “Did you have the ring made for me?” I ask, curiosity tugging at me.
Her eyes flicker with mischief. “You don’t like it?”
“I love it,” I say quickly, my voice firm with sincerity. “Thank you. Today is the best day of my life, Cora.”
She tilts her head, her smile sly, her tone playful. “The day is still young. No doubt it will get better.”
The dining hall has been transformed into a lively standing banquet.
Long tables groan under the weight of roasted meats, fresh bread, wheels of cheese, and trays of sugared sweets.
Barrels of ale line the walls, their frothy contents poured freely into waiting mugs.
Laughter and conversation ripple through the room, the air thick with celebration.
It was Cora’s insistence that we not have a formal dinner, and though it breaks tradition, I find myself grateful.
This feels more alive, more honest, our people mingling freely, eating and drinking as they please, rather than sitting stiffly through ceremony.
One tradition I am more than willing to break for her.
We move separately through the crowd, each of us speaking with our people. I clasp hands, exchange words of thanks, listen to their stories. Yet even as I speak, I feel her presence. My eyes find her across the hall, her laughter carrying above the din, her smile lighting the faces around her.
And then she looks at me. Just a glance, fleeting but powerful, her blue eyes catching mine across the sea of revelers. It’s enough to make my chest tighten, enough to remind me that though this hall is filled with people, she is the only one who matters.
I force myself to turn back to the conversation at hand, but the truth is undeniable,I cannot wait to have her all to myself. To leave behind the noise and the crowd, to hold her in quiet, where the only voices are ours.