There was a crowd gathered outside of the temple in the dry heat, when the carriage came to a stop in front of the pearly gates. Arynn peered at the massive structure made entirely of faded yellow stone, and felt the unease prick at the back of her neck. The large steps leading up to the tall wrought iron doors were all cracked and strewn with the petals of red roses. Red. The colour of the Addinells; the colour of blood; the colour of danger.

Something is wrong, something inside her whispered into the depths of her mind. The winds picked up speed and blew the petals over the steps. The air tasted wrong—like the coppery tang of blood she sometimes choked on. Like taste of something bitter sliding down the back of her throat. No, she thought, something is not right. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Arynn wrung her hands together and stared at the men gathering in front of the carriage—faces she knew from her childhood. The generals who had taught her everything she knew—who had been there through every tantrum and grave mistake she had made. Their faces were grave as they fumbled with the white veil, and grumbled silently under their breaths. "You can master blades within the span of a day, but can't straighten out a bloody veil," Arynn grumbled to them and rolled her eyes.

"Shut up," she said to Alexander before he could answer her. The doors to the temple swung open to reveal a long red carpet and oak pews decorated with red and burgundy peonies. She exhaled through her nose and closed her eyes for a moment, and the rose from her seat. The clacking of her heeled shoes against the stone was drowned out by the thundering of her heart.

"Are you breathing," asked Aleksei as she arranged the train hastily. Her mane of curly was unbound and hung past her shoulders in looser coils than when it was dry. She wore a Solaric dress—red like the dawn, with sheer tulle covering the cut outs on her sides and stomach. For a fleeting moment, Arynn saw Khazara staring up at her and froze. But then Aleksei raised her eyebrows expectantly, and her own face returned back to her body.

Arynn nodded solemnly at the men around her and raised her eyes to the brightly lit sky as the veil was held high enough above her head for it not to touch her hair. The train dragged behind her as they slowly made their way to the doors, stepping on cracks and rose petals alike. They bunched up in front of her feet like a pool of red, hot blood, seeping into the hem of her dress. She blinked slowly, and the image was wiped from her mind.

The guests collectively stood from their seats and turned their faces to the entrance as Arynn and her entourage climbed the steps. All smiles died as they beheld her—dressed in a wedding dress the colour of snow, her green eyes lined with kohl and escorted by men in polished chain mail. Her lips twitched as the guests gawked as they slowly inched past the pews and finally reached the dais, where August awaited her patiently.

The veil fell away from above her head as the men hung back, and then moved back down the aisle. August took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her knuckles—to the glittering black diamond on her fourth finger. "Remember this moment," he murmured lowly. "This is the moment you shed your skin. This is the moment you stop being a hatchling." Up until that moment—in a temple of a goddess she did not believe, and dressed in a wedding gown she did not deserve to wear—that was all Arynn had ever been. A hatchling. A child.

She turned to face the painted statue of the goddess, which stood in the middle of a circular pond, filled with clear water and powdery white sand. Zouhaila of the Union was the goddess of marriage and fertility; often depicted with fair and freckled skin. The locks of her red hair burned bright like a flame as the fell to her waist, and her eyes were startlingly blue like the skies above. A fox, its coat as red as her hair, slumbered at her feet between the folds of her long white dress.

Arynn took a seat on the velvet tufted ottoman and startled as the first bang sounded high above their heads. There was a single file of soldiers on each side of the gates outside, with their hands gripped tightly around a longbow nocked with a flaming arrow. Each side of the gate had a barrel, which was surrounded by small babbling children. They pulled small jute pouches from it and threw them high above their heads, when they were given the cue.

"Loose," said the Head Archer, and watched as a volley of flaming arrows soared into the sky and pierced the pouches. Loud bangs echoed through the temple as the dragon seeds inside the pouches caught fire and exploded into colourful sparks that rained down on the cobbled street. The fireworks were a tell-tale sign that the prince and his party were coming closer.

The beating of the drums and strumming of citterns reached her ears before she saw the musicians. Iyer was mounted on a white stallion, surrounded by his family—Geoffrey, Withian, Oryn, Kade, Fraden and Averett. His lips spread wide in a grin as he waved to the onlookers at the edge of the street. He was a prince of the people, loved by them all. And his hair was aflame on his head, like a halo of white fire, falling into his laughing eyes.

The Tohari generals were there to welcome him as he dislodged himself from the saddle and made his way up the cracked steps. The smiles on the guests' faces rekindled as he strode down the aisle, flanked by Tohari men and the rest of the Addinells. Geoffrey nodded to them and smiled occasionally when he saw a familiar face—a face of another one of her enemies. The broke away from the entourage as they reached the end of the red carpet and took their seat in the first pew. 

Iyer's eyes found her at the dais and lit up when he saw her dress—white like his hair and skin, and so at odds with his fine red tunic—the colour of his House; the colour of his blood. The image of the blood soaking into her dress forced its way into her mind again as turned to nod at the generals. There was something wicked in his smile as he climbed the steps to the dais and took his seat beside her, and said, "Let's begin."

Something like dread bloomed deep inside her stomach like a flower as they joined hands and kneeled before the pond. Arynn watched from the corner of her eyes as Aleksei climbed the dais and laid a single lotus flower in her hand. "For husbands," they said in unison as they placed their flowers in the cold water, "this means love your wives, just as Zouhaila loves the earth, for your wives are holy and without blemish and sin. And therefore a man shall leave his blood, and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become flesh."

They rose from the floor and turned to face each other, blue eyes locked on green. They stretched their arms out and let them be bound together at the wrist—her left to his right—by a ribbon of crimson silk. "Set me as a mark upon your heart," she said, and laid her unbound hand flat against his thundering heart, where the twin to the tattoo on her back had been inked into his chest. He answered, "As a mark upon your spine," and seared the shape of his hand into her skin as he laid his hand flat against the small of her back.

"For love is strong as the pull of the winds and seas," the said together. This wasn't love—this was wrong. This was her taking advantage of him—a child. The gods, if they were real, would be outraged. "For love is strong as the call of death. Therefore, what the gods have joined together, let no man separate. Thus may the gods do to me, and worse, if anything but death were to part you and I." The words left her mouth easily, but they tasted like damnation.