47. The Third Wedding of Selene Duskbriar
R oselune Abbey is alive with activity, servants rushing through the halls with trays of food, freshly pressed linens, and last-minute embellishments for the ceremony.
The scent of beeswax and lavender polish lingers in the air, mingling with the crisp spring wind that seeps through the high windows.
Selene sits still as Cassie works the last of the pearl pins into her hair, securing the soft curls that frame her face.
Lady Duskbriar hovers nearby, clucking over every detail, plucking stray threads from the gown, adjusting the lace at her shoulders, smoothing out the delicate gold embroidery that glimmers against ivory silk.
“Oh, my darling, you look exquisite,” her mother sighs, stepping back to take in the full picture. “Just as a queen should.”
Selene says nothing. The dress is impossibly beautiful, every stitch crafted by the finest seamstresses. It suits her—elegant, regal, untouchable. But the beauty of it does not reach her.
There should be blue in the gown. Blue for Nightbloom. Even a tiny square of it would do.
Her mother’s eyes shine with something that might be pride, or relief. “It will be a fine match, my love. A strong match.”
A match that will end in blood.
Selene squirms. This way, her mother will never have to answer for her schemes. She will get away with everything. How has she done it? How has she hidden all evidence from the world of what she is?
The same way I did, Selene realises. Behind a smile or a disarming compliment. Selene learned from the best.
Still, there ought to be some physical proof of her mother’s treachery.
“This alliance…” Lady Duskbriar continues, “it could do a great deal of good for Haverland. The possibilities are endless. You… you could change so much.”
Selene intends to. In that way, her ideals align with her mother’s. She does want change. She will see it happen.
But her way, only one person needs to die. One person’s life and another person’s happiness is all that will be sacrificed.
No invasion, no genocide. Just a dead king and a devastated bride.
At last, Lady Duskbriar drifts away, leaving only Cassie in her wake.
The room quietens, the distant sounds of the household carrying on without them.
Selene exhales, pressing her hands to the cool marble of the vanity, willing herself to feel something—excitement, nerves, regret.
But all she feels is the slow, steady beat of inevitability.
I am going to marry a man I do not love, and I am going to kill him.
A knock at the door interrupts the silence. One of the housemaids peers inside, bobbing a quick curtsy before addressing Cassie in a hushed voice.
Cassie frowns in response.
“Is there a problem?” Selene asks. Please let there be a problem .
“There are two visitors, my lady—they are quite insistent upon seeing you, despite not being on the list. A Mrs Everfrost and a Mr Rookwood.”
Selene’s heart jumps. Ariella and Rookwood? What would they be doing here? Has Soren sent them? Why would he need—
“Send them up.”
“Up… here?”
“Yes.”
Cassie doesn’t ask questions. She’s taken everything in her stride these last few days. Selene has promised to send for her and Elspeth when she’s settled in Ashvold. It’s the least she can do, even if it’s a far cry from what she wants for them—what she wants for herself.
It feels like an age until the door opens again, and Ariella and Rookwood stroll in. Neither is dressed for a wedding, but that hardly matters.
When Selene sees them, she knows.
They remember her.
She claps her hands to her mouth. Ariella is across the room in seconds, arms around her before the tears can fall.
“Don’t cry, Selene,” she says. “It’s all right.”
Crying would be a terrible idea. She will ruin her makeup, and she’s just about to be married, but how can she not? They’re here, they remember her, she is known.
Rookwood crosses the room and folds his arms around the two of them. “You look beautiful, little sister,” he tells her, “though that hardly matters right now.”
It makes Selene cry even harder. Ariella plunks a handkerchief from Rookwood’s pocket and dabs her cheeks for her.
Finally, Selene pulls away from them. “How long?” she asks.
“Yesterday,” Rookwood tells her. “Around the same time—that was bloody confusing, I can tell you. We raced straight down here to speak to Dorian—”
“He doesn’t remember,” Selene murmurs, the tears threatening to come again.
They bow their heads. He must have gone home to Ebonrose after their initial meeting in the gardens. They must have witnessed something between him and Soren.
“I didn’t think you’d follow us,” Selene carries on.
“We had to,” Ariella continues, glancing around her, as if to check for spies. “After… we got to the temple not long after the three of you were… dead.”
Selene looks down. That can’t have been easy to witness.
“I’ve… I’ve never wanted to go back, according to Dorian. I think I didn’t want to remember, that whatever I’d experienced during those loops, I wanted to forget it. But seeing my little brothers that way, seeing you… I think I probably would have wanted to come back even if it hadn’t been for…”
Selene raises an eyebrow. “For?”
Rookwood looks behind him, as if still waiting to be interrupted. There was a reason they’d waited until now to come to her, Selene realises. A reason they’d tried to go to Dorian first.
“Your mother,” Rookwood says. “She followed us. She… she saw your bodies on the ground and demanded to know what had happened. We tried to lie to her, of course, but… she could tell that we were concealing something, and then she threatened Ariella and I…”
“He sang like a bird,” Ariella concludes. “I’d have done the same thing for him, so I can’t judge him too harshly.”
Selene can’t either. She would have divulged any secret to spare Dorian. “And… and then?” she asks, already feeling that she knows the answer.
“She turned the knife on herself,” Rookwood explains. “We tried to get her away from the altar, but… I don’t think we were quick enough.”
Selene sways in her spot. Ariella and Rookwood grab her arms, guiding her into the nearest seat.
Her mother knew. Her mother knew.
Since she’d returned, she’d had this awful feeling that something had gone wrong. And it had. Because six people had tried to return rather than three, and one of them …
Well, why would the goddess want to take her mother back? She wouldn’t have. So either it hadn’t worked, and her mother was still in the dark, or her mother had fought the goddess herself for the chance to turn back time, to do it over.
Selene can imagine her mother doing that.
She might not know, Selene tells herself. Dorian hadn’t come back. Ariella and Rookwood had taken days. There was no reason to suspect…
And yet, Selene thinks about how her mother has been attached to her since the engagement, barely leaving her side. Like… like she was keeping watch.
She hadn’t been that way when Selene was engaged to the Duke.
And where was the evidence? Selene had been sure it would be in the bower house—it made sense that it was. She’d even found that secret panel. The only reason it wouldn’t be there is if Lady Duskbriar had moved it. If she knew Selene would look.
Which begged the question had she now moved it back?
Selene froze. If the evidence could be found, it would change everything. She wouldn’t have to marry Eirik. Her mother would face the consequences of her crimes. But if she was wrong…
“Selene?” Ariella asks, clutching her shoulder. “What should we do?”
Selene glances at the clock. The wedding will be starting soon. They have so little time…
But if there’s even the slightest chance she can get out of it—
She has to take it.
She turns to her writing desk. “Where are Dorian and Soren?”
“We… don’t know,” Ariella admits. “They weren’t at the townhouse.”
Selene doesn’t like that, but there’s nothing she can do at present. She’s already scribbling a letter. A letter addressed to King Alden, telling him of her suspicions, letting him know where the evidence is. She melts the wax, adding her seal, cooling it as quickly as she can—
She hands it to Rookwood. “Find the evidence first,” she tells him. “If anyone reads this letter but the King— ”
The consequences would be catastrophic. If Eirik discovers she’s been working against him, he will kill her.
Rookwood nods.
“Check the bower house,” Selene tells them. “Find Soren and Dorian if you can. Get them to help you.”
There’s a rush of hugs and promises, and then there’s a knock on the door—Selene is being summoned.
Her wedding is about to begin.
Selene sits stiff-backed in the study of Roselune Abbey.
Across from her, the Ashvoldian delegate smooths out the marriage contract, speaking in a measured tone as he explains the terms. Lord and Lady Duskbriar nod along, her father murmuring approval at each clause.
It is all a grand formality, nothing left to negotiate.
Selene keeps her hands folded in her lap, her nails pressing into her palm, counting heartbeats, counting breaths.
Lady Duskbriar beams as the contract is signed and sealed. It will not be binding until the vows are exchanged (and, legally speaking, annulled in an instant unless the marriage is consummated), but her mother looks like a cat presented with cream. A done deal, as far as she’s concerned.
Selene searches her face for some acknowledgement that her mother has travelled back in time, but of course, there isn’t one. She’s a master of the mask. She won’t betray anything.
She can’t possibly think that Selene is doing this because she agrees with her, can she? Surely she must know Selene would never betray Haverland?
Unless, of course, her mother thinks she’s so devastated by Dorian’s forgetting that she’ll do anything. That she’s realised how worthless love is .
And, she supposes, her mother would never think she’s capable of murder.
The customs follow—an exchange of ceremonial gifts, a priestess sewing beads in her dress, a prayer spoken in the old tongue by a visiting Ashvoldian priest. Servants weave fresh blooms into her hair, drape her in a veil of gossamer lace. The weight of tradition settles over her like chains.
Then the trumpets blare, announcing the start of the procession.
Selene walks on her father’s arm, through the rose-strewn path in the abbey gardens.
The guests rise, a sea of silk and velvet, their murmurs a low hum beneath the swelling music.
High spring perfumes the air, but it may as well be midwinter.
She is frozen, moving only because she must.
Her first wedding was defined by joy. Her second by apprehension. Selene has no idea what to fill about this wedding.
Horror comes close.
Eirik waits at the altar, a thin, quiet smile curving his lips. The weight of his gaze pins her in place.
The wedding begins. The priest speaks.
“Let all present be still, and let their hearts bear witness.
We stand beneath the heavens, on soil shaped by time and tide, to honour a bond both ancient and ever new.
Marriage is not only the joining of two souls, but the weaving of purpose, promise, and shared path—and so we call upon the Divine Four, who shaped this world and guide us still.
“May Aurelis , the Silver Star, cast his lantern-light upon this union, that truth may always walk beside you, and your hearts never stray too far from understanding.
“May Liriel , Keeper of Waters, bless your bond with grace and renewal, that it may bend but never break, and flow ever forward, even through storm.
“May Vannor , Flameforger of hearth and ruin, strengthen what you build together, lend warmth to your home, and courage to your hearts .
“And may Veridia , our Green Mother, cradle your days in her roots and bounty, grant you peace in each season, and remind you always to give as you take, and grow as you love.
“What the Gods bring together, no mortal may temper. Let you be true and steadfast in your devotion, until death tears you apart. With these witnesses—mortal and divine—you may now speak your vows…”
Eirik goes first, as per custom. He makes no promises of love, but offers solidarity, partnership, equality. His voice lingers on the final word, as if to sting the members of the audience that do not believe in such a thing.
Selene repeats the vows she knows she’s meant to make, voice steady, hollow.
“I vow, by the stars of Aurelis, to walk beside you in the dark and guide you in turn when light feels far.
“I vow, by the tides of Liriel, to renew my love with each rising sun, and to carry you when your strength runs low.
“I vow, before the flames of Vannor, to protect what we forge and to stand, steadfast, in the face of all that may come.
“I vow, beneath the branches of Veridia, to grow with you—wildly, patiently, and always in truth…”
The words are not for Eirik. They belong to another. To Dorian. They have belonged to him since before she even knew it. She has spoken these words to him before. But she means them now. She means them so much she fears that they may break her.
The priest calls for objections. A hush falls over the gathering. Her mother beams, triumphant.
Stop this, Selene wants to shout. She wants to tear her mother’s smile from her face, but she also wants to stop this wedding. This is wrong, this is all wrong. She cannot marry this man. She isn’t his.
He wants to destroy you. The words scream around her skull. He’ll destroy everything—
“I object!”
A voice cries through the gardens, shattering the silence.
Selene turns.
Dorian stands at the edge of the aisle, breathless, disheveled, his eyes blazing.
“Selene cannot marry the King,” he says, voice firm, “because she’s already married to me.”