Chapter Fifty-Six
CHAPTER
FIFTY-SIX
Ilaria found it positively absurd that both she and her husband had to be veiled. Between the gauzy lace draped over her own face and the beaded swath of silver masking his, she couldn’t so much as make out the shape of the man who stared back at her.
Or at least she assumed he was staring back at her, not that it particularly mattered given that they both were here out of duty.
She wanted to hate this stranger from across the sea who now bore claim to her, but Ilaria surprisingly felt no ire toward him.
There was only the cold, aching resentment that came from knowing neither of them had chosen this.
For all she knew, he’d left someone behind, too.
The archbishop’s voice murmured at the edge of her hearing, reciting scripture in the old tongue.
Ilaria barely registered the words. Her stomach was drawn tight as wire, her throat dry.
She thought of the mischief in Lute’s smile and the many nights they’d spent sneaking out to steal short moments together, aching from the memories.
Ilaria had always known loving a demon would come at a cost. Still, some stubborn, impossible part of her had believed things could change.
That if she fought hard enough, she’d find a way to fix Rhovar before it ever mattered.
But it was always going to end like this. She’d been a fool to ever believe otherwise.
The only balm was that Frienen women wielded more than just beauty or title. They had power and authority. Freedom. It had never been her hope to marry Prince Asterion, but he was no tyrant and her father had chosen well, all things considered.
Ilaria would not be bound to some brute with greedy hands and a temper. She would have her own quarters. Her own voice. Her own time. And with it, perhaps she could see Lute again.
“You may kneel,” the archbishop said, apparently having finished his prayer.
Ilaria startled, only then realizing she was already on the floor.
Her body had obeyed the command on instinct, but her mind had been far away from this chapel and the heat of several eyes on her back.
She tensed as the archbishop reached for her hand and guided it toward the prince’s.
The moment their skin met, she inhaled sharply.
He was startlingly warm, like iron left too long in the sun. The oddness of the sensation stole her breath, but she didn’t pull away.
The archbishop drew silver thread from the folds of his sleeve and began to bind their hands.
Two loops at the wrist: one for unity, the other for fidelity.
He spoke as he worked, but Ilaria heard none of it.
Her attention was caught entirely by the heat beneath her palm, and by the figure kneeling across from her.
Prince Asterion had not moved or spoken once since he took his place before her. She was hyperaware of him despite not being able to see his eyes, knowing without a doubt that even through the veil, he was watching her closely.
Behind him, the Frienen queen stepped forward, and Ilaria heard the echo of her mother’s boots as she did the same.
Queen Sybil’s fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her veil. Ilaria went still, clamping her eyes shut and holding her breath as her mother drew it back. She could feel the moment all eyes turned toward her, could picture their flinches, their pity, the awkward averting of gazes.
And yet seconds passed, and she heard nothing.
No gasping. No whispers.
The cathedral remained silent, as if nothing had changed.
Her breath drew sharp as she felt a sudden touch against her skin, calloused fingers brushing across her jaw with gentle reverence.
Ilaria’s eyes flew open.
The veil had been lifted from the prince’s face, and the man who looked back at her had the gentlest eyes she’d ever seen. They were the most beautiful gray, like the darkening of a storm, and they held her stare without flinching.
There was no pity in those eyes. No revulsion.
Instead, she felt only kindness.
“Hello, Ilaria.” His voice was low and smooth, and there was something about it that calmed her very soul. “Or should I say my bride?”
Asterion was beautiful, but it was the softness of his voice that stole the tension from Ilaria’s spine. She hadn’t known what to expect from the prince, but this man staring kindly back at her was certainly not it.
Behind her, Queen Sybil sniffled. As quiet as the sound was, it rang so loud in the silence that Ilaria nearly laughed.
By the Light, what was happening to her?
She was getting married, and she was smiling.
She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to will the expression away. She ought to be wary. Guarded. But the warmth of Asterion’s hand hadn’t left hers, and as she held it tighter, her body stopped trembling.
He let go slowly, his touch lingering a breath longer than necessary before his hand slipped to his side and he offered her a small, boyish smile that, to her absolute shock, made her heart stutter.
What in the Divine’s name was happening to her?
“Shall we proceed?” the archbishop asked, his tone patient as he looked between the two.
“Please do,” Asterion said, though his eyes never left hers.
The archbishop raised his hands again. “Do you, Prince Asterion Veythar of Frienen, agree to take Princess Ilaria Noriclat of Rhovar as your wife and ally, to protect and honor her as your equal and companion, according to the laws of both mortals and the Divine?”
“I do.” His words were simple but spoken with jarring sincerity.
Ilaria felt herself getting flustered, her cheeks warming before she could compose herself.
She heard her mother breathe a soft, happy laugh behind her, and across from them, the queen and king of Frienen held each other close, smiling as they watched their son.
“And do you, Princess Ilaria Noriclat, agree to take Prince Asterion as your husband and ally, to protect and honor him as your equal and companion, according to the laws of both mortals and the Divine?”
“I do,” she said, and was surprised that her voice did not waver.
The archbishop bowed his head and murmured the final prayer. Then his fingers lifted, the silver cord loosed and gathered away.
“With this knot and this vow, let this union be sealed by the will of the Divine.” He made the symbol of the Divine Eye upon his forehead. “May your union be prosperous.”
And just like that, they were wed.
The weight of the knot was gone, and yet Ilaria’s skin still hummed where their hands had been joined. She flexed her fingers, surprised when Asterion’s curled tighter around hers.
“In Frienen, we mark the wedding night with a blessing of wine and dancing beneath the stars.” His smile was tender as he watched her. “Though I understand Rhovar keeps its own traditions.”
She flushed. Rhovar certainly did have its customs. There would be a feast, followed by a bedding ceremony with a swarm of servants ready to pull back the sheets and confirm a stain of blood they wouldn’t find.
But that could be dealt with later.
For now, it was time to introduce her husband to Rhovar.
The townsfolk found themselves in for a happy surprise when Ilaria and Asterion emerged from the cathedral.
Unveiled, the Frienen prince drew audible gasps as he stepped through the doorway.
He was handsome—well-groomed and finely built, with a strong jaw and a wide set of shoulders.
His hair was the color of wet sand, curling faintly where it brushed against his collar.
But it was those stormy eyes that caught the most attention, unlike any Ilaria had seen before.
Someone flicked water in their direction, and others soon followed the old Rhovarian tradition meant to bless the newlyweds and keep ill omens at bay.
The prince laughed, shielding his face from several children who were having far too much fun misting him. The sound was warm and effortless, and something about it stopped Ilaria cold.
She turned toward the prince, brow furrowed.
What was it about him that made her breath catch like that? She didn’t even know this man, so why was it that his laughter had such a hold on her heart?
The thought clung to her like a burr, impossible to ignore. But as quickly as the worry had come, it was forgotten again as Asterion squeezed her hand tight, using his body to shield Ilaria from the water as he guided her down the path away from the cathedral steps.
The crowd parted as they passed, falling easily for the young prince, who charmed them with smiles and warm greetings.
Only once they’d made it some distance down the cobbled road were the townsfolk permitted to follow.
They kept a respectful distance, trailing behind the broad silhouette of Azriel, who walked at the rear with his wings spread wide.
He shouldn’t have been here.
The angel wore his mask of strength well, but Ilaria knew better.
His skin had grown ashen, his hollow eyes sitting atop dark circles.
He hadn’t yet regained the use of his magic, but her father had insisted on him making this appearance.
He was a symbol, after all—a reminder to the Frienens of Rhovar’s Divine blessing.
It didn’t matter how weak Azriel was. As far as these visiting royals were concerned, the angel needed to appear powerful.
At least, that was how her father saw it.
But as Ilaria watched him walk, his shoulders straining just to keep his wings lifted, guilt clawed at her.
Azriel had been there the day she was born. She remembered numerous occasions of him playing with her as a child, never anything but kind. Even now he was smiling at her, so gentle and genuine that it broke Ilaria’s heart.
She wished he’d stayed behind.
That way, at least she wouldn’t be reminded of her guilt every time she looked upon him.
The road curved toward the lower gardens, and the cheers from the townsfolk began to fade as Ilaria and Asterion reached the castle doors. Guards stepped forward, escorting Azriel and the royals to the back entrance of the grand hall.
Inside, the master of ceremonies was announcing each guest. The Frienen nobles came first, elegant in their celestial finery. Then came the Rhovarian lords, many of whom wore the sigil of their guild or houses upon their crimson cloaks.
The names continued—clergy, high-ranking nobles, favored knights, foreign envoys—until every seat had been filled.
She watched each of them arrive from behind a silk screen set just off the dais, hidden from view. Her hands rested on her skirts, fingers curled to still their restless tapping.
The grand hall had been transformed. Long tables stretched beneath a vaulted ceiling draped with banners of crimson and indigo.
The scents of roasted meats and spiced wine lingered thick in the air, while wax candles flickered along stone pillars, casting soft light onto floors scrubbed to a sheen.
At the far end, beneath a high arched window, two finely carved chairs awaited them, backs stitched with the crests of Frienen and Rhovar.
She searched the crowd for familiar faces, spine stiffening when she caught the sweep of black hair pulled into a neat tie and recognized Severin, playing the role of a prestigious vintner.
Her gaze shifted immediately to his right, looking for Lute but instead finding a girl who sat with her chin lifted, surveying the crowd as if memorizing every face and confirming each possible exit.
Aurelie.
Ilaria nearly turned away, shame and frustration settling thick in her throat.
She was glad her friend was here, though Ilaria wasn’t sure friend was still the right word for what they were.
She hoped so, but it was impossible to know what the future held for them when Aurelie didn’t even know the half of what she’d done.
The cry of a trumpet was a welcome distraction from her thoughts, and all in the room fell silent.
“All rise,” called the master of ceremonies.
Chairs scraped back as the room stood to attention.
“Announcing Their Majesties King Edric and Queen Sybil Noriclat of Rhovar, and King Thalorian and Queen Selanir Veythar of Frienen.”
The royal couples entered and took their seats at the high table beneath the crest of the realm, long robes trailing behind them.
Ilaria’s stomach flipped. She wrapped her arms around herself, skin itching at the thought of all the eyes that would soon be crawling over her.
“Announcing Their Royal Highnesses,” the man continued. “Princess Ilaria and Prince Asterion Veythar of Frienen!”
The crowd’s cheering rose, a chorus of “Huzzah!” echoing through the hall.
“Ready?” Asterion offered his arm.
She took it, and just like that her nerves began to clear.
“As I’ll ever be,” she said, and together they stepped into the celebration.