The wedding feast passed in a blur of dulled silverware and half-hearted toasts. Guests smiled out of obligation. Nobles murmured about politics behind goblets of wine.
Saoirse sat by Fenris's side like a well-placed ornament, nodding when spoken to, smiling when expected—but her soul floated elsewhere, untethered. Fenris spoke no more than a dozen words to her that evening, each one clipped, precise, and cold.
And now, hours later, Saoirse stood alone in the bridal chamber.
The Dankworths had provided a manor near the eastern barracks for the honeymoon—quiet, secluded, and secure, as befitting a general's bride. The room was large and dimly lit, filled with old velvet and darker woods, as if echoing the mood of the groom himself. A fire crackled in the hearth, struggling to warm the silence.
She stood before the mirror, still in her wedding gown, her hands trembling as they undid the last pearl buttons down her spine. Her personal maid, Aliya, had not followed—Fenris had ordered they be left alone.
The expectation was clear: consummation must occur before dawn. It was a condition dictated by both houses. The Raven legacy needed an heir, and the Dankworth line demanded proof of union before Fenris returned to war.
And yet, as the clock ticked deeper into the night, the groom had not come.
Saoirse heard the door creak open, and then, his boots on the wooden floor. She turned—slowly—and saw him standing in the doorway.
Fenris Dankworth.
Still in his uniform, the cloak dusted with ash from the hearth. He looked like a statue as always cast from war itself, every inch of him restrained, his jaw tight, his eyes had been distant since. He did not look at her, not truly. Not as a man looks upon his wife.
Her voice came out quieter than she meant. "You're late."
He didn't answer at first.
"I had duties to finish," he said eventually, shrugging off the cloak and placing it carefully over a nearby chair. "Tomorrow, I will report back to the capital to finalize my orders."
"You're returning to the front so soon?"
"Yes."
"But… they said…" Her voice wavered. "They said we had to uhm—before you leave."
"I know what they said. I heard it myself."
He turned to face her fully, and for the first time, his eyes met hers with something almost—pained. Not cruel. Not cold. Just restrained. Tired. Older than nineteen.
"I will not touch you tonight, Saoirse. I just couldn't."
Silence. The fire popped once, weakly, as if echoing the sound of her heart cracking.
She blinked. "But the agreement—"
"Let them say what they will," he replied. "I do not force myself onto women, even if their fathers sign it into law."
A rush of emotions swelled in her—confusion, humiliation, relief, and something else she couldn't name. Her hands clutched at the fabric of her gown, now halfway down her shoulders.
"Then why marry me at all?" she asked, her voice sharper now, tinged with the ache she could no longer mask. "Why go through the motions if you planned to leave me untouched and alone?"
His jaw tensed. "Because it was required. Just as it was for you. Just think of this marriage as a duty for the both of us."
"Am I... just a burden to you?"
He stepped toward the window, hands behind his back like a soldier awaiting orders. The moonlight caught his profile—stern, cold, painfully handsome. The firelight couldn't thaw him. Not tonight.
"You are not a burden, Saoirse," he said quietly, without looking at her. "But I do not know how to be… gentle. Not after what I've seen. Not yet."
She stared at his back. Her wedding night, reduced to silence and shadows. She had not expected tenderness—but she hadn't prepared for this emptiness either. It was crueler in its way.
He moved to the door adjoining the master chamber. "I'll take the other room. The guards will remain outside until morning. If you require anything, tell them."
He paused before opening it.
"I do not hate you," he said, softer now. "But I'll make things absolutely clear right now, do not wait for this marriage to grow love and affection."
The door clicked shut behind him.
And Saoirse was alone once more. In a gown meant to be undone by a man who wouldn't touch her. In a bed meant for two but occupied by none.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the fire until the flames went out.
The bride without a wedding night.
The wife without a husband.
The girl who would carry the Raven name into silence.
And outside, beyond the heavy stone walls, the wind whispered like a promise never kept.
On the other room, Fenris had been sighing for who-knows-how-many-times already. He didn't mean it to come out that way.
The way she looked at him—wide-eyed and fragile, like a dove cornered in a storm—stayed with him long after he'd closed the door. He sat now in the adjoining chamber, leaning forward on the edge of a modest chair, elbows braced on his knees, fingers curled into the sleeves of his shirt as if they might hold back the weight pressing on his chest.
The fire in this room had gone out completely, and he made no move to rekindle it. Cold suited him tonight.
He had meant to be honest. Firm. Clear.
But damn it all—not cruel.
Not to her.
Not to Saoirse, the woman he'd married only hours ago, who had looked at him with a quiet hope so innocent, so undeserved it made his guilt burn hotter than any battlefield scar.
But there was no undoing it. The words were said.
He clenched his jaw. That had been the worst of it. He could have said anything else—he could have kept it simple, could've let her believe it was just duty, just coldness. But he hadn't. Because it wouldn't be fair. And he was tired of pretense. Of expectations he had to wear like armor.
He couldn't touch her.
Not because she was unworthy—far from it. Saoirse was radiant in that gown, her voice trembling like the first note of a love song that might never be sung. She was brave, kind, and from the moment their eyes first met across the altar, he knew she was giving more to this than he ever could.
But his heart… belonged to another.
Caoimhe Abrams. A woman from another kingdom.
Even thinking her name now was like pressing an old bruise, the ache still sharp and sacred. The Priestess of Valoria. The woman with sunlight in her laughter and storm clouds in her prayers.
She had blessed him once before the war, touched his forehead with oil and her lips with restraint. They had met by accident—how foolish that sounded now—but their parting had never been chance. It was a promise. A curse.
He was seventeen when he first kissed her beneath the temple's starlit arches. And by the time he was eighteen, he was ready to tear the world apart just to be allowed to keep her.
But she belonged to the gods.
And he, to the kingdom.
So they had done what was expected of them: Caoimhe returned to her vows, and Fenris to the battlefield.
And now, here he was. Nineteen. A general. A husband.
And empty.
He let his forehead rest against his fists, breathing slow and deep, the taste of smoke still in his lungs.
He didn't lie. That part was true. War had carved out the softness in him, left only duty, discipline, and the ghost of a woman he would never be allowed to hold again.
He remembered the way Caoimhe had looked at him the last time they met, her fingertips brushing his before she stepped back into the temple walls.
"Your path will be dark, Fenris," she'd whispered. "But I will pray for the stars to guide you."
No vow. No promise. Just goodbye.
And still, his soul hadn't forgotten her. Not even on his wedding night.
Especially not tonight.
So how could he offer anything to Saoirse? How could he lie beside her, touch her, make her believe she mattered in a way that he had already given to someone else?
How could he give her a child born not of love but of politics, forged not from desire but desperation?
He couldn't.
He wouldn't.
Fenris stood slowly and moved toward the small desk by the window. He took up his pen, dipped it in ink, and began drafting his request to the capital—a postponement of consummation on grounds of military urgency.
A delay.
Perhaps cowardice. But the truth was still too raw to name.
He set the pen down, flexed his fingers, and stared out at the moonlight as if it might carry his thoughts across kingdoms.
Forgive me, Saoirse, he thought, even though he would never say it aloud. You deserve more than a man whose heart is already spoken for.