Page 16 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Yaoaya gave a curt nod—one that said I thought so. She finished her inspection of the gown, then set about fastening the veil. The dress was not what most women dreamed of for their wedding. Cream silk, modest lace, adorned only by the green ribbon. However, for a contract such as this, simplicity felt fitting.

“You wear your stone?” Yaoaya asked once the veil was set.

Kora nodded and drew the copper chain from a hidden pocket. She clasped it behind her neck, letting the pendant settle below her throat.

“Good,” Yaoaya grunted, stepping back. Her task was done. “Wear it.”

“I wish you could come with me,” Kora said quietly. Yaoaya had been her nursemaid, her constant, the only soul who had ever asked how she fared and cared about the answer.

“Wear the stone, and think of me.” The old woman bent and kissed Kora’s hair through the veil, then clasped her hand.

They stood together in the hush, reflected side by side in the mirror. Yaoaya regarded Kora with a distant look, as though she saw something Kora herself did not.

Before Kora could comment on it, Lorenthea’s reflection joined them. Her mother paused in the doorway, expression caught between disappointment and reluctant acceptance.

“I do not know how you managed it,” Lorenthea said at last, her tone dry.

Kora said nothing. There was nothing more left to say.

Seeing no argument forthcoming, Lorenthea rolled her eyes, gathered her skirts, and turned from the room. “It’s time. The Moongazer is here.”

Yaoaya’s wrinkled hand squeezed Kora’s in quiet reassurance. Kora glanced at her with an apologetic smile, then turned and followed her mother out.

Downstairs, the manor had remade itself into a shrine. A narrow table had been carried into the long gallery, dressed in fresh linen. Upon it, the Moongazer had arranged three saucers of salt for the Three Moons: one violet, one green, one amber.

The duke stood beneath a carved olivewood arch pressed into service as an altar. He wore a simple black doublet that broadened his shoulders and threw the darkness of his hair into sharper relief. A green sash crossed his chest, ending near the hilt of a ceremonial sword.

His shadowed eyes showed no unease as he watched her descend the stairs, though a faint crease at his brow hinted at something less calm beneath. Kora curled her fingers into her palms to hide an emerging tremor as she took her place beside him.

The duke’s captain, who seldom strayed from his side, and her family stood nearest the altar, each uneasy in different ways. Elysande’s composure barely concealed fury, and Lorenthea’s eyes struck like shards of glass whenever they turned on Kora. Their father had retreated into the distant look that often claimed him, while Jeachim smiled, striving for civility.

“Join your hands,” the Moongazer began.

They did. Kora gasped softly. The duke’s hands were cold, callused from years of sword work. Unyielding in their steadiness. After the shock passed, Kora raised her eyes slowly to meet his.

The Moongazer spoke of the moons and their witness. Of bread broken and salt shared. Of vows that outlast flesh and flavor alike. But Kora heard none of it. She and the duke regarded one another in silence, as two parties might study the final lines of a contract before the ink dried.

When the time came for the Oath Bread, the duke took the knife and cut cleanly. He offered Kora the first piece without emotion, as though it were a simple act of hospitality. She accepted it, salted the bread, and returned the gesture.

Rings followed, passed silently between them.

“By Selvarath, Hanurath, Amerieth,” the Moongazer intoned. “Be bound.”

“So be it,” the room murmured in response.

And it was done. What had begun as something to be endured once now stood sealed beneath the moons’ blessing and a lifetime of terms beyond reversal.

Chapter 9

Koraleise

Albrecht insisted the day be marked in some way, so a celebratory dinner was hastily arranged. The kitchen conjured festivity from what had already been planned, and by dusk the gallery glowed with candlelight, breathed of rosemary and lamb, and hummed with polite merriment.

Kora brushed a fingertip over the gilded asphodel sprig beside her plate—a blessing of Amerieth—and thought how easily such tokens wilted. It felt apt that the threshold flower appeared in both weddings and funerals.

She dared a glance at the duke. Her husband now, though the word felt foreign. He sat beside her, head turned toward his captain in conversation.

Nothing inviting softened the captain’s expression, though the severe beauty of his face was impossible to ignore. When he noticed her inspection, he inclined his head with the exacting respect of a man who understood his place in the world and held to it, then returned his attention to the duke and murmured something that drew a soft chuckle from them both.