After her mother’s death, she’d never prayed. What was the point? The gods had watched her mother die. They had watched her limp through life. If they didn’t care to see her, would her voice even reach them?
But now, desperate, she closed her eyes and tried anyway.Let him see me. Look past the blemish and see the woman who wants to belong here.
She straightened, knees aching. Yrenna squeezed her hand as they stepped out into the fading light.
“Alexander’s waiting just ahead, in front of Solthar’s temple.”
She’d always known Luneth’s and Solthar’s temples were never more than a stone’s throw apart. Tradition demanded it. The murmur of male voices quieted as she was guided forward, and her pulse skipped. Yrenna’s hand left hers. Through the narrow sliver of her veil, she saw: black boots against packed earth, their leather buffed to a shine. The edge of a crimson cloak brushing her periphery. Spruce and steel and something faintly smoky—familiar now.
Lord Wulfbane.
His bare hand found hers—large and warm, calloused, but careful. He didn’t speak. He simply closed his fingers, steady and assured. Together, they turned toward the temple gates.
A new male voice—Solthar’s High Priest—broke the silence.
“The gods do not bind lightly,” he began. “But when they witness two paths drawn together, they mark it with a thread of shared purpose. No sword forged by man may sever what is joined in their name.”
A length of silk cord, dyed in the deep crimson of Solthar’s flame, was produced. Her right hand was drawn forward. Lord Wulfbane’s left followed. The cord was looped around their wrists—once, twice—knotted not tightly, but deliberately, with the practiced grace of a thousand weddings before theirs.
The priest continued, “Bound in spirit. Bound in strength. Bound in flame and in shadow. May Solthar see this thread and strike no blow between it.”
JingYi didn’t speak; neither did Lord Wulfbane.
Together, they stepped over the threshold of the temple—bound.
The guests followed them inside. Through her veil, she glimpsed stone pillars looming at the end of the temple and the golden glow of Solthar’s sacred brazier on the altar beyond.
The High Priest led them to stand beneath the vaulted ceiling and recited the ancient vows, “Do you, Alpha Lord Alexander Henrye Wulfbane, take this Omega to be your wedded wife? To love her, shield her from all harm, and honour her as your hearth’s keeper and your heart’s ally, to bind your fate to his in faith and duty, from this day until the soil calls you home?”
She wished then—fiercely—that she could lift the veil. That she could meet his gaze as those words were spoken. Love. Honour. Duty. Such profound promises, wrapped in devotion.
“I do,” he said.
Those two words moved through her like a tremor. They held no hesitation, as though in that single utterance, he had anchored them both.
The priest turned to her. “Do you, Omega Princess Xûen JingYi, take this Alpha to be your wedded husband? To lovehim and weave your strength with his, to honour him as your hearth’s keeper and your heart’s ally, to bind your fate to his in faith and duty, from this day until the soil calls you home?”
Her mouth was dry, but her voice held. “I do.”
Readings followed, prayers in the old Tremesi that were beyond her learning. A mist of sanctified water felt cool against her veil, then came the ring. She felt his hand first, strong and warm, then the chill of metal and limyerite as he slid that perfect circle onto her finger.
She stared down at the ring through her veil. Such a tiny thing, yet its weight was absolute: It bound her to this man, to this land, to a future. The sheer, irrevocable permanence of it hit her, and a tremor—part fear, part awe—lodged in her chest.
The sealing of the marriage scroll was a formality, a blur of ink and wax. Then, the final words fell from the priest’s lips, “You may now lift the bride’s veil.”
Her heart stammered against her ribs. She fixed her eyes downward as his hands rose into the edge of her vision—long fingers that hesitated for a heartbeat before gathering the silk.
A soft hiss of fabric, then the world rushed in. Cool air caressed her cheeks, her brow, her lips. She blinked, the candlelight swimming between her lashes.
A deep, swallowing silence pressed against her eardrums.
She forced her gaze upward.
His breath hitched, sharp and audible. The sound was a small, dying thing. Her own breath froze, her stomach plunging to the floor. His eyes were no longer on hers. They were tracing the rose-coloured stain that bloomed across her left cheek—a mark she had carried forever, now seen by him for the first time.
The warmth in his expression dissolved, leaving behind a cold, blank stillness.
He hadn’t known.
