Where is he?
The dais looms before me now, three wooden steps separating me from the platform where my future supposedly waits. I climb them slowly, silk rustling around my ankles, veil trailing behind like a funeral shroud.
Bram stands beside the settlement elder, his pale hands clasped behind his back. When I reach the top, he extends one hand toward me—a gesture that appears courteous to the watching crowd but means ownership.
"My bride," he says, loud enough for all to hear.
His fingers close around mine with possessive pressure. Up close, his ashen skin looks almost translucent, blue veins visible beneath the surface like cracks in marble. When he smiles, his teeth seem too sharp, too white.
The elder clears his throat and begins speaking about unions and prosperity, but his words fade into background noise. All I can focus on is Bram's thumb stroking across my knuckles—a gesture meant to appear tender that feels like violation.
His violet eyes study my face with hungry satisfaction, as though he's already picturing me kneeling in his chambers, stripped of will and voice. The corner of his mouth curves upward in anticipation of what he believes he's about to possess.
My stomach churns with revulsion, but I keep my expression carefully blank.
Any moment now,I tell myself.Any moment?—
But the shadows remain empty, and Bram's grip on my hand tightens like a shackle.
Azrathiel.
32
AZRATHIEL
Iperch on the stone ledge of the settlement's highest building, shadows wrapping around me like familiar armor. The square spreads below in perfect miniature—a theater of human folly performing its final act.
The crowd fills every available space. Settlement folk cluster in their patched wool and faded cotton, faces bright with the novelty of spectacle. Dark elf traders observe from the periphery like vultures evaluating carrion, their silk and leather a stark contrast to human poverty. Children dart between legs until their mothers snatch them back, whispering warnings about behavior.
At the center of it all, the wooden dais rises like a sacrificial altar.
The officiant—Elder Corwin, whose hands shake from age and nerves—unfurls a scroll that crackles in the morning breeze. His voice carries across the square with ceremonial gravity.
"We gather this day under the covenant of ancient law, to witness the binding of two souls in matrimonial union."
Ancient law.The irony tastes bitter. These mortals understand nothing of true covenant magic, yet they invoke its name like a protective charm.
Bram stands with predatory confidence, violet eyes fixed on his prize. His ash-pale skin seems to drink the morning light, lending him an otherworldly quality that makes the human witnesses shift uncomfortably. When he speaks, his voice projects authority across the assembled crowd.
"I, Bram Hethryn of House Valdris, do claim this woman as bride and bond-mate. I pledge protection of my name, security of my holdings, and guidance of my wisdom."
Guidance.As though she requires instruction in how to exist.
The crowd murmurs approval—or perhaps relief that their settlement has secured such advantageous terms. Several dark elf witnesses nod in satisfaction, already calculating trade benefits.
But my attention fixes entirely on her.
She stands transformed beyond recognition from the desperate girl who sliced her palm in darkness weeks ago. The cream silk hugs curves that labor once concealed, silver threads catching light like captured starfire. Her dark hair falls in elaborate waves beneath gossamer veils, framing features enhanced with cosmetics that make her appear ethereal rather than human.
Yet beneath the artifice, I recognize the steel in her spine, the quiet defiance that no amount of powder can disguise. She wears wealth and beauty like borrowed armor, but her true strength radiates from within—unbreakable, undimmable.
She has become everything I never knew I wanted.
The officiant turns toward her with ceremonial flourish, scroll trembling in arthritic hands. "And you, Ilyra Dain, daughter of Edric, do you accept this binding?"
Silence stretches like a held breath.
Her gaze darts across the crowd, searching shadows between buildings, scanning rooftops. Those silver-touched eyes seek me with desperate intensity, but I remain perfectly still. Invisible. Waiting.