There had been no fanfare or rejoicing. No great ceremony or bells tolling throughout the towns and villages of the realm. No one dancing in the street or chanting her name.

She had dreamed of her wedding to Galyn of Azura since she was ten namedays, had hoped it would be a festival of love and hope and joy. But then news of Galyn's death had reached her and she knew the dreams and hopes she had harboured were dead too.

For a part of her, even after word of his marriage to Fara of Calate, had thought that somehow when this was all over, everything would be as it was supposed to be. She would still be his wife.

A foolish notion, of course. Naive.

For things could never again be as they were. The Four Realms had changed forever. And though she would carry with her the hatred for the monster who took Galyn from this world, hatred too for the woman who had stolen him from her — she too was forever changed.

There would be time for rejoicing after. When Leoth had been destroyed and Calate and Zybar stood as victors across its shattered and broken realm, its spoils ripe for picking —then there would be much and more to celebrate. Then she could be a benevolent and generous queen by Valdr's side, then she could ensure her people never saw the touch of war again. It would be for Valdr and her to rebuild a broken land into one of peace and prosperity. Together.

Now she would give all of herself to the man who would be her husband and king. She would be devoted to him alone. She would forget all other loyalties and give herself over to him completely.

She would bleed for him if he commanded it.

But still, none was mistaken about what this marriage really was.

Or rather, what it was not.

It was a war pact. A unification of armies and power against a great and common enemy.

Her father had shown steely resolve in refusing Calate's first offer; that she marry Prince Panos instead, Valdr's younger brother.

Afterall, Calate could not defeat Leoth without Zybar, and it was a great risk for Zybar to switch their allegiance. Leoth's repercussions for such treachery would be severe. The reward for such a risk, therefore, would have to be greater. Far greater than a prince.

It would have to be a king.

And her father's gambit had worked.

So where the southern mouth of the Ash Sea met Calate's shores, in the quaint chapel of a castle belonging to one Lord Connen of Alathy, she was brought under the Gods' gaze to be wed to Valdr of Calate, son of Stefforn, King of Bris and Rhetia.

The birds had been as silent as her vows, spoken only to the Gods before a shorn Calatian Monk. The sun had not shone and the wind had not blown and she may have seen that as foreboding had it not been for the vision of regal beauty that was to be her husband.

From the moment she entered the chapel and saw him standing before the shrine of Calate she had seen nothing but his glory. Her heart and breath had become one, beating quick and furious in her chest. He stood tall and proud as he gazed at the green gold shrine of his God's effigy.

He did not turn as she neared him, did not look at her as she came to stand by his side before the monk, did not look at her even when he reached out to take hold of her hand to stretch it out in offering.

She'd been desperate to turn her head and look at him, desperate to look again into the fire of his eyes. At the regal elegance of his face, the perfect curve of his soft mouth. At first she'd managed to resist, looking instead at his hand.

Beautiful kingly hands. Hands made to be kissed by servants and lords alike. The black stone of the ring on his long smooth finger shone like a new beetle, his grip loose and cold around her own.

She weakened, her gaze finding his face though her head stayed still.

The veil of red filigree she was not permitted to remove until the bedding cast a devilish glint over his golden skin. His jaw was tense with what looked like impatience as he glared at the monk. She took time then to paint the image of him here and now upon her memory, so as not to forget a single part of the moment when she sought to dwell upon it later: his cloak of blackest velvet and embroidered with rich green detailing. The flashes of gold across the shoulders, throat, and seam. His lips a rich crimson beat. She could smell the oils he'd bathed in too; dark, spiced, fruit. Intoxicating like wine.

As they reached the part where he was to speak aloud, she held her breath. His voice was like cool silk upon hot flesh. Those gathered in the small monastery had fallen away so that it was but she and Valdr standing alone.

Valdr had closed his eyes as they mouthed the silent vow that would bind them together, and as he did she missed the pale fire of his eyes.

~Immortal as the Gods;

Abiding as the sun,

Eternal as the moon;

You are he,

I am she,

My obedience,

My surrender,

My devotion.

This is my vow~

When he opened his eyes he blinked once and she saw what looked like tears melt away from his eyes. At that moment she felt the crack in her heart seal closed, Valdr locked tightly inside it.

The word love was not spoken in the vow but her body sang with it, with obedience and surrender, with devotion. She loved Valdr, she was certain of it. Had loved him the moment she looked upon him in her tent. Marriage would only strengthen the love she felt, only feed it and coax it to bloom.

Yes. She loved him.

Each glance she had stolen at him during the feast had deepened her conviction, had strengthened her desire, desire that curled around her thighs and heat the pit of her stomach, a needing.

One in attendance troubled her more than any other; Valdr's sorceress. Dressed in a gown of midnight blue velvet, her creamy white bust exposed and a ribbon of dark lace across her mouth. Dura had yet to hear her speak.  It was said she had sharpened fangs like a Leothine, a serpent's tongue and that her lips and tongue were stained black from curses she'd spoken upon her enemies. Her bright blue eyes, rimmed in dark blue stain, were hard to meet.

Some said she'd appeared before the king under a full moon, spoken a single word, and controlled his mind ever since. Others said she'd been conjured from grief and prayer after the king spilt his own noble blood before an effigy of his God. Some even said it was the princess Fara herself, tainted by her brutal death and returned to the mortal realm forever changed.

The feast had passed in a blur. She had not been able to eat but one or two morsels, her stomach coiled tight with nerves and longing about what was to follow.

Daegar watched from the corner of the hall in moody silence as she'd sat stiffly beside her husband. Her father drunk too much wine and laughed too loudly, gloating, greedy eyes sliding over her often. A threat still hung in them. For she could yet fail him.

Valdr had spoken at length with her father, but somehow she sensed his keen dislike. He'd said little to her, asking only of her like of the music and the wine, ordering his cup filled often with a pointed finger and a look to a serving maid. She pretended not to notice the way he watched the witch as she stood to leave the hall, the sorceress staring at him boldly as she passed, her head held high and her eyes piercing. She'd shown little interest in the ladies who had attempted to catch his eye throughout the feast.

Of course, it would be expected he would take a mistress; as most kings did. Though she herself was resolved to rise above such petty things and be the queen he required, the queen who would bear his sons and heirs.

oOo

It was cold as her father led her down the corridor toward her husband's chamber, but she barely felt the chill. She was glad that somewhere, Daegar had drunk enough wine to fell a horse, and that when he awoke tomorrow her maidenhead would be no more. Given to a king.  No longer a weight she was certain Galyn's betrayal would ensure she would carry until death.

She did not like to think about how close she had come in giving it to her protector, of how desperately broken she had been in the days after news of Galyn's marriage had reached her. Neither did she like to think about how warm it had been in his arms, or of how gently he had stroked the lengths of her hair. How tenderly he had chased away her tears.

She pushed the memory of Daegar's embrace down into the darkness. No good could come of dwelling on weak moments. For they would never be more than just weak moments. Weak moments where she had risked everything to feel something other than grief. Only Daegar's forbearance had saved her. Only his rejection had saved her. For without it she would be about to lay with a king with no maidenhead to give him. A chill swept down her spine at the thought of it.

Two of the king's men stood outside the chamber door, dressed in the black velvet uniform of the King's aegis. They stepped forward as one, opening the door to allow her and her father's council inside. Many lords awaited within, many eyes summoned hence to witness the king take her as his wife in act as he had in vow.

Valdr stood by the foot of a great wooden bed, from which curtains of sheer gauze fell fooling her eye, for it looked under the soft candlelight as though milk poured from the great frame onto soft puddles on the floor.

He wore a mantle of red and gold silk which reached his feet, which were bare and paler than the skin of his legs. Beneath the mantle a thin bed gown of purest white silk which reached just above his knees. A surge of heat rose within her at the idea of his manhood concealed only by the thin fabric of his gown. Her mouth dried as she brought her eyes to his.

His gaze had softened from the wine she thought, and as he ran his tongue lazily across his lower lip her mouth was no longer dry, flooded instead with want of kissing him.

Her father led her to where Valdr stood.

'Who gives this maiden, true and virtuous, to this prince borne from the blood of Gods?' asked a Lord chosen for the honour by the King himself.

'Torrik, King of Zybar,' said her father, his voice without any of the smoothness of the Lord's.

'Maiden, do you accept this prince borne of gods and kings into your body this night?'

She was afraid her voice would fail her. She swallowed. 'I do.'

'And do you pledge your body and honour to him this night and all nights henceforth?'

She stared up into the red-tainted eyes of her husband as she spoke again. 'I do.'

'Your grace, do you acknowledge the gift you are here given?'

'I do,' Valdr replied, strong and clear, his eyes fixed on hers.

'You may remove your maiden's veil, your grace,' the soft-spoken Lord told Valdr.

As Valdr reached out toward her, Dura's breath caught in her throat, her heart's thunder rising wild and loose in her chest, a violent storm of passion. Could he hear it from where he stood? She thought she might collapse from the force that drove through her as Valdr lifted the veil and peeled it back from her face. Now she could look at him as an equal, now she need not cower and bow before him. Here in this moment, she was his maiden and he, her lord.

As her gaze met his, the layer separating them now removed, she felt her heart stop. Some quiet moment in which nothing existed but he who stood before her, deific. Her husband. Her king. Her God.

'Fair maiden,' Valdr said, reaching to take a hold of her hand. 'I am thankful for the gift you bestow upon me this night.' It was spoken in a strange tone; both soft and hard all at once, both warm and ice cold all at once.

'It is yours, my king,' she replied, tremulous.

A slow smile spread across his beautiful mouth, he nodded. At his move two men stepped forward and slid the cloak from his shoulders, her ladies moving to do the same with hers. At once her bones begun to tremble, fear and desire both warring with her body and mind.

He took a step backwards and turned to move around to the far side of the great wooden bed, though as she was watching him so intently she saw the smile slip from his mouth as he glared at his council, some dark intent on his face that he took no care to hide.

On uncertain feet, she turned and walked with small careful steps to the nearest side, where a small two-step pedestal had been set adjacent to the bed for her. The coverlet had already been drawn but she waited for Valdr to take his place first. He looked at her and hesitated a moment, long enough to cause a small splinter to crack across her heart.

Finally, he climbed up onto the bed.

Using the small stepping ledge, she knelt up upon the soft feathered mattress and settled in beside him. As the coverlet was pulled to her waist she glanced at her father who looked both proud and cunning.

They did not touch yet she could feel the presence of him by her side, hot and alive with vibrant vigour.

The sheer curtain which framed the great bed was snapped closed, leaving the faces behind them distant and dream-like. She longed to turn her head and look at him, to reach out and touch him, but she knew there could be nothing to suggest impropriety or eagerness. She waited one heartbeat then another, ten perhaps before she felt him move onto his side.

His fingers grazed the underside of her chin and he tilted her face toward him.

'I assure you this will hurt,' he warned her, a whisper.

'I am not afraid,' she replied, her breath caught in a dance with his. She saw that quarter-smile again, the one that was but a spectre of happiness. Then something like pity bled into his eyes.

'Brave Dura,' he said.

He pushed her back gently upon the pillow and moved his body over hers, thick muscled thighs nudging her own apart. Beneath the coverlet, he slipped his hand beneath her nightgown and spread her most secret untouched flesh apart with his fingers. It was as though he tested it, though for what she did not know.

Perhaps this was it? All that was required of her this night? Some close private inspection of her body to test its normality? Its ability to bear children and perform marital duties? She had heard of such tests, yet these were normally done by men of medicine and not the king himself. Her cheeks flushed hot with colour. What if he found her unsatisfactory? What if he refused to take her? Turned her from his bed and cast her out? What would become of her then? A rush of panic flooded through her, loud.

Suddenly, his fingers disappeared and were replaced by something else, something hot and strange and large. When she realised what it was it was too late. Too late to prepare, too late to contemplate it, to accept it even. He pushed himself fully inside her with a soft grunt that denoted neither pleasure nor displeasure. She bit her tongue so hard she drew the blood to the surface. But she did not cry out.

She would never cry out, no matter how painfully it hurt.