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“Why?” I somehow breathe, lower lip trembling.
“Little wonder, do you not know? For your love of the Corpse King.”
I purse my lips, bite my lower one to punish its trembling. Somehow, I force myself to gaze into those deep cavities, into those starless and moonless trenches, and wonder: could the God of Death himself desire...love?
“I feel like a peacock,”I grumble.
“Wrong region, brother,” Aydon scoffs, referencing the bird island of Isel-Sonne.
How I loathe all this pomp and circumstance.
Aydon insists on the finest of tunics?of gold-lacquered bone-lined armor and fire-gems to cover every inch of my cape. At least I have held my own on the Corpse Mask?one identity trait I will never forsake despite the desire of all the royals. Despite the Curse, my face is my own. My choice. My identity. No one else reserves the right to peel away my accursed mask. Not even my bride.
“You won’t fuck her tonight, will you?” Aydon questions while donning my head with the refter-tooth crown of the Corpse King.
“No.” But a part of me believes Isla will provide my greatest challenge?how I must ruin her to keep her at bay. Not that it’s any of Aydon’s business.
“Of course not. You and your silly games, Ally.”
“Only because I have far moreskinin the game, Aydon,” I sneer, tempted to confront him about what I’d witnessed earlier in the Elder Guild. But I know better than to disrupt this monumental evening. Aydon departs in short order from the secondary hall. I overhear his triumphant speech within the Great Hall crowded with more people than any other festival in our history.
Darkness, deeper than ever, shrouds the Underworld, signifying dusk has fallen upon Talahn-Feyal. By now, thousands will have gathered around the Citadel city along with countless ships and meager boats by water to bear witness to the future Bride of the Corpse King: the first tribute in centuries...and commoner. Ever since her illustrious plunge into the River Cryth, a sight I would have given my eye-teeth to behold, mass rumors have abounded among the people hailing her beauty, her spirit, her passion. By now, word has spread of her corpus roses offerings to the dying in the Hollows.
A deep breath of pride fills my lungs and rushes blood to my heart at the thought. How the people adore her.
Wait until they gaze upon her in her bridal garb,Kryach invades my musings, his tone amused, his pride dominating mine.
I curl my upper lip back behind my mask.What the devil are you talking about?
You will see soon, Allysteir. No need to thank me, but she certainly did.
I grind my teeth, incensed. All too soon, Isla will arrive, escorted by my mother into this secondary hall. From here, we will depart into an open coach to the main causeway bridge spanning the city to impart a glimpse of the bride to the people in all her majesty. Part of me wishes to delay it, to remain in the Great Hall with all the other waiting royals and witness Isla’s grand entrance down the River Cryth. But Aydon insists on my joining the procession?on casting us as star-crossed lovers due to Isla’s volunteering.
The moment he emerges into the secondary hall following his speech is when Feyal-maids issue inside from an adjoining hall, escorting Franzyna in her bridal wear. I smile at her traditional royal violet gown which accentuates her auburn curls gathered into a lustrous crown upon her head...and her amber eyes. A silver tiara adorns her brow, befitting her status as a Prince’s bride.
As he passes, I arrest Aydon’s elbow in a warning to tread carefully with Isla’s sweetheart. A conversation we had during our preparation. A vow he made to me after my personal guarantee of using Kryach’s power against him should he dishonor her in any way. Due to morerecentevents, such a guarantee was necessary.
Franzy offers a timid smile, chin tilted to her collarbone as Aydon greets her with a formal bow of his head and a brushing of his lips upon the back of her hand. “My deepest apologies our ceremony will not be so public or grand, my lady...”
Franzy shakes her head. “I prefer something smaller and quieter. Thank you, Prince Aydon.”
“From now on, you will call me Aydon. Franzy,” he lowers his voice to a deep lull and brushes his knuckles across her cheek. But I catch the gleam in his eye when he surveys her throat, his personal mark. Because while honor, desire to survive, and gratitude have me posturing whenever I view my bite mark upon Isla’s flesh, my brother preens with entitlement. With flesh lust.
Nothing matters. Nothing whatsoever when the Death-maidens embark into the secondary hall alongside Mathyr, who wears a knowing grin, her shoulders back, chest thrust so the pix-spun tulle and chiffon gown?studded with diamonds?catches the torch firelight.
Nothing whatsoever compared to Isla. She comes forth from the darkness like an angyl goddess descending from the Isles shining like a flaming sword!
Kryach, you damned devil!I roar inside my head, receiving a deep chortle.
She is the dawn rising upon a winter land to blind it into sparkling submission. She is the targeted point of a newly-forged lance in the moonlight. She is lightning at sunrise.
My breath stalls as Isla sways toward me. All these weeks, she has chosen a different gown, but this one is beyond my comprehension. While I’d theorized she’d ultimately choose traditional royal purple or a stunning white, she has adorned herself in the purest of gold!
Off-the-shoulders. A form-fitting floral bodice of nether-lace as black as midnight?broken by spun gold. And oh, gods! Spun gold forms the gown itself?skirts sweeping to an ethereal train disappearing beyond the hall. And sheer...so sheer and transparent to reveal her beauteous limbs of effervescent angyl frost skin made so by Isle-oil. I scent the tempting fragrance. And the attachments from the shoulders?sinuous golden, chiffon cascades?unite with the gown train.
Bound by corpus roses, her seductive curls bare her throat and flesh of her collarbone and spirit-fair upper breasts. My throat dries, tongue whetted from the barest erect edges of rosebud nipples peeking from beyond the bodice’s floral lace. She steals my breath and also my blood, my flesh, my bones, my damned, cursed heart.
Isla advances to me and curtsies, lowering her chin. “My Lord Alysteir, Corpse King.”
