Thank you for considering it.
—JingYi
She rolled the letter and set it aside for Yrenna to fasten to a Sparo—one of the swift messenger birds bred for carrying urgent news across the Nine Kingdoms.
As hours passed, JingYi kept to her room, nerves coiling tighter and tighter beneath her skin. Aliz came and went with meals, always available to assist but never lingering, and she was grateful for the solitude.
By the time the sun dipped low, she’d bathed and dressed. She prepared as tradition demanded: hair pinned neatly for the jade-and-gold headdress, body wrapped in the heavy, layered robes of an Xûen bride. Her veil, embroidered with gold phoenixes for luck, turned the world to gauzy shadow.
As she finished, her fingers brushed the embroidered pouch she’d placed on the dressing table and stopped. Should she wear it?
The thought of facing the coming hours without the suppressant unlocked a cold, familiar fear. But its presence wasa relic of her old life—ill-suited for a bride, an insult to Lord Wulfbane as her husband and Alpha. She understood the theory. A true mate could calm the turbulence that suppressants merely stifled. A beautiful idea. A promise, even if it required walking through fire first.
A knock came.
“Sister?” Yrenna’s voice reached her. “Are you ready? We’ve come to escort you to Luneth’s temple.”
JingYi stood and adjusted the fall of her veil. “I am ready.”
Shewasn’t, of course, but there was no way but forward now.
Yrenna entered the room, a warm shadow accompanied by the lighter, quicker presence of Aliz. They paused before her, two blurred forms in the dim light filtering through her veil.
“You look every bit the royal bride,” Yrenna’s voice came, soft and close.
From behind, Aliz’s voice, bright with awe, added, “The embroidery on your sleeves is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Your Highness.”
Yrenna’s hand found hers, its grip sure and gentle. “Let us go now. The women are waiting outside to escort you to the temple.”
She was guided through the empty corridor and out into the open air. The courtyard was lined with the noble ladies—she could see only the tips of slippers and the hems of ceremonial cloaks, soft greys and dusky blues brushing the flagstones. The rest of the world was a tapestry of muted shapes and shadows behind the veil’s dense weave.
A ripple of admiring whispers moved through the gathering, Lady Reave’s voice among them. Somewhere ahead, a brazier burned, the sharp tang of juniper needles curling in the wind. They took their places.
Then, an ominous hush settled over the courtyard. The rustle of robes stilled.
“Princess,” Yrenna muttered, her hand squeezing gently. “They’ve arrived.”
Jing Yi didn’t need to ask who. She heard them before she could see them: the swish of court silk, the chime of ornamental bells tied to embroidered sashes. Sounds from a world she was no longer part of.
LánYàn’s voice floated up, almost a sigh. “It’s going to take such a long time for her to climb up there, she might miss her own wedding.”
The other two answered with a smothered giggle. JingYi felt them as keenly as a pressure along her spine. Watching. Waiting for a slip.
“Don’t let them trouble you,” Yrenna said low enough for only JingYi to hear as they began to walk. “Alexander said they’re here as your father’s witnesses, that’s all. The moment the ceremony ends, they’ll be escorted back to the village and depart for Niewberg in the morning.”
JingYi didn’t answer, but her next step landed a little firmer on the stone.
Luneth’s temple stood not far from the keep—a small, domed structure of white stone and marble, said to be older than Parandor itself. Climbing the path, Jing Yi focused on her gait, trying not to limp, not to lean too heavily on Yrenna’s arm. Her injured leg burned, each upward step a negotiation between pain and balance.
She couldn’t see the altar when they entered, but the air told her where they were. Woodsmoke and beeswax, the bitter edge of blackthorn—each offering chosen from Tremore’s own land. Ahead, the low chants of Luneth’s maidens looped slow and rhythmic.
A warm, earthen bowl filled with blooms was placed in her hands—moonflowers, Luneth’s favourite. She knew them by their fragrance. She knelt, poured oil, and the scent of juniperresin and bitter orange rose at once. Not the perfume of a bride, but a land preparing for winter. A maiden lit the offering. Fragrant smoke curled as petals and leaves sizzled.
The priestess’s hand, when it came, was light atop her head.
“May Luneth receive your vow and shelter your hearth,” she intoned in Isseric. “And may your bond with your Alpha be a lantern in the long dark.”
The acrid-sweet smoke stung her eyes. Salt threatened—from the sting or the terror, she couldn’t tell. Beneath the drone of prayer, her heart filled the cage of her ribs.
