The Hall of Binding was filled with the scent of old stone and a hint of magic. Nexarina Riot stood before the gathered witnesses, their faces filled with anticipation and curiosity. The pronouncement was made, its words echoing like a solemn promise: "Bound by eternity, love, loyalty and patience. Nexarina Riot, do you take this man to be your rightfully wedded husband?"
Her gaze, sharp as shattered glass, dropped to the cold, unyielding chain that linked her wrists. It was a tangible symbol of her lack of freedom. Seven attempts at escape, each one a desperate struggle against confinement, had failed. Five times, her plans had fallen apart due to unexpected events or perhaps a force stronger than her own. And three times, the dark appeal of giving up had tempted her, a final, silent protest against her situation.
Brought her here. To this moment. Before him. The man whose presence emitted a commanding authority that seemed woven into the hall's very atmosphere. All those frantic attempts, those desperate maneuvers, now felt like the futile struggles of a trapped creature. A bitter thought, sharp and cold, cut through the weary resignation that had started to form within her: she should have saved her strength. Preserved it for the one act of defiance that remained, the swift, silent act of ending her own life. The question hung in the air, unanswered, a heavy silence that pulsed with unspoken histories and the weight of a destiny yet to be determined.
Every eye in that ancient hall remained fixed upon her. A sea of expectant faces. Each one was like a silent mirror reflecting a judgment she felt deeply. As if any among them had the strength to stand in her place, to bear the weight of her chains. The stones of the walls seemed to absorb the silence, heavy, oppressive, the stillness that intensified the frantic pounding of fear against her ribs. A darkness, thick, clung to the air, a silent sorrow for the difficult path stretching before her. Even the cold flagstones beneath her bound feet seemed to offer a grim kind of understanding.
Two paths lay before her, both equally bleak: speak and be bound, or remain silent and still be bound. Her legs, shackled and heavy, were immobile. Her hands, confined and useless, symbolized her captivity. She was a prisoner, and this was a prisoner's wedding.
With a painful swallow, Nexarina's gaze swept the assembled company, a desperate search for the person responsible for her downfall. The face of the man who had planned this cruel deception, who had forced this bitter pill down her throat. They spoke of a binding, a necessary break from the ancient ties between humanity and the powerful Dragon Riders. But were there not other options? Paths that did not lead to Nexarina being permanently linked to the being who haunted her every waking moment and invaded the dark corners of her nightmares. The one she had hated for what felt like forever. The one whose presence sent shivers of cold fear through her entire being.
The pronouncement hung in the air, each syllable a bitter taste on her tongue, far more unpleasant than the medicinal herbs her father had made her take as a child after sneaking sweets. Rougher, even, than the gritty sand she'd once chewed in youthful defiance. And sour, incredibly, more sour than a million unripe limes crushed between her teeth.
The two small words, "I do," when they finally escaped her lips, felt heavier than the stones of the imposing walls that held her captive. What was it that now stung her throat with a venom fiercer than any hornet's sting? Defeat.Utter, crushing defeat.
She had fought with a ferocity that now seemed almost laughable in its hopelessness. Had her mother still been alive, she imagined the familiar, comforting touch of her hand on her back, the whispered praise for her brave resistance. And then, the sharp, knowing laughter. "You thought you could escape, little fool?" her mother would have said, her eyes sparkling with a mix of affection and annoyance. "That's always been your problem, child. You think you're wiser than you are. Get ready, Nexarina, for reality's harsh grip."
And how right her imaginary mother was. A foolish pride had indeed grown inside her. Otherwise, why would she have thought she could avoid this predetermined union with General Grant? Why would she have believed she could change her father and brother's minds? A father whose hand had been quick and harsh with punishment, whose words had always suggested a desperate desire to get rid of her. A brother who saw her as nothing more than a possession, something to be used for profit. What foolishness had made her think their self-interest would give in to her requests?
Her mother's ghostly laughter resonated in the empty spaces of her heart. Yes, she was a fool. A defiant, rebellious fool, maybe, but a fool nonetheless. And now, she would pay the price. The ring, a heavy band of silver in a strict Gothic design, slid onto her finger, each tiny movement a decisive step sealing her fate, binding her to a future filled with fear. She gazed at the shiny metal now on her hand. A cold, beautiful restraint.
How fervently she wished it were not the devil incarnate himself who had just slipped it onto her.
She had deliberately kept her gaze fixed on the cold stone floor, unwilling, and unable, to look at him again after that disastrous day. The memory of his shouted command, "Infernia!", and the terrifying sight of his massive dragon unleashing a wave of fire that consumed the landscape, remained imprinted on her soul. His gaze then had been piercing, unyielding, completely lacking warmth. Though the sun had shone brightly, she had seen only the frosty coldness in his blue eyes. Those same cold eyes had haunted her dreams ever since, leaving her nights marked by sharp breaths and a body drenched in fear.
Never had she held onto the slightest hope of seeing those eyes again in real life. Her silent prayers had been a series of wishes for his suffering, a passionate desire for a death so painful that he would plead for mercy. And now? Was this the gods' harsh response to years of whispered requests for his downfall? A marriage? A forced, unnatural union that would require the ultimate sacrifice.
"Kiss the bride, to seal this blessed union." The words spoken, laced with a sickening sweetness.
And then, he was beside her. A hand, chilly and coarse against her skin, lifted her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. The world around her seemed to stop, time itself paused.
It was as if she were submerged in icy waters, those blue eyes as intense as they had been on that awful day. But something had changed. The frosty indifference she remembered was gone, replaced by a surprising, unnerving gentleness that held her frozen. Her heart pounded a wild beat against her ribs, her lips shaking with a deep-seated fear as his drew closer.
Good heavens, he was flawless. How could such a heartless creature be blessed with such breathtaking beauty? His features were sculpted to an impossible perfection. He wasn't merely handsome; he was devastatingly beautiful. A stark, cruel contrast to the darkness that resided within him.
She shut her eyes as he leaned in, a bleak hopelessness flooding her. Not that she had any control in this twisted performance. Her hands were still tied, as powerless as she would be in the long, dark hours she would likely spend planning his downfall.
His mouth crashed down upon hers with a fierce hunger, teeth grazing her lower lip before his own parted, demanding entry. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her as he plundered the delicate flesh of her tongue, biting down with a sharp possessiveness that sent a jolt of something akin to pain, yet undeniably carnal, through her. His tongue then snaked out, tracing the bead of blood his rough kiss had drawn. This primal act of claiming had sent a shiver down her spine despite the terror that still held her in its icy grip.
He drew back, his own breath coming in ragged gasps, and slowly, deliberately, licked the crimson stain from his lips, his blue eyes, now smoldering with a raw intensity, never leaving hers.
Nexarina stared, utterly discomposed by the brutal intimacy of his assault. It was a kiss that spoke not of affection, but of dominion and the stark declaration of his ownership.
A low, guttural whisper, laced with a chilling satisfaction, escaped his lips. "I knew you'd taste good, wife." And then, with a final, insolent press of his mouth against hers, he sealed the unholy bargain.