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Raina, who had been twitching as though ready to talk back, clenched her fists and bit her lip. She seemed afraid that if she pressed any further, her tyrannical brother would call off the match entirely.
She glared at him with bloodshot eyes, then whirled around and stormed from the room.
Varkas picked up the parchment again and set his signature to it as if nothing had happened.
“I want Raina’s betrothal kept as quiet as possible. Invite only the influential nobility who must serve as witnesses.”
“Your Grace, is Lady Raina not the only lady of the Grand Ducal house? If the ceremony is too modest, it may bring dishonor upon the Shearkan name…”
“The war is not over. It is no time for grand displays.”
Cutting short the head butler’s counsel without hesitation, Varkas handed over the signed document. “The wedding itself will be grand enough. If any of the vassals grumble, tell them that.”
The butler swallowed his words and said no more.
Having finished going over the remaining dispatches, Varkas threw on his coat and stepped outside.
Talia was nowhere to be seen; she had likely finished her walk and moved on.
Standing in the middle of the garden, Varkas looked down at the blooms she had been watching, then turned toward the stables. It had been some time since he had ridden out to inspect the fief.
He coaxed Toruk from a rare spell of rest and led him out through the gates.
Crossing the moat toward the square, the bustle of a thriving city came into view. The town, plagued so long by the aftermath of Zram raids and the hunts for heretics, now wore an air of easy peace, as if none of it had ever happened.
Taking in the streets packed with merchants, Varkas urged his mount toward the North Gate. Once he cleared the archway, the vast sweep of green rushed out before him like a sea.
Varkas tore through the open pastures in a single burst, reigning in at the crest of a hill.
The boundless sky, wind-scoured fields, and the pale glimmer of the birch forest filled his vision.
He scanned the ridgeline, then turned his horse toward the pastures.
Just then, a sharp blast of wind whipped across the grass.
Hearing what sounded like a beast’s cry caught within the shriek of the trees, Varkas snapped his head back.
The white trunks thrashed and moaned together. A prickle of unease stirred along his skin, as though something watched him from the shadows, and his hand moved instinctively to his hilt.
Yet the chill at the nape of his neck vanished in an instant.
Varkas lingered on the hill, studying the swaying woods a moment longer, before kicking his horse forward.
A few weeks later, Raina’s betrothal was held in the chapel of Raedgo Castle.
High-ranking nobles, Count Scart’s family among them, filled the pews to witness the union. In the seats of honor sat the advocates representing both bloodlines, the priests who would consecrate the rite, and the vassals of the Grand Ducal house.
The rite proceeded under a heavy, suffocating solemnity.
Raina wore a sullen scowl while the groom stood rigid with nerves. As they faced each other before the altar, the representatives of each house stepped forward to trade the contracts and press down their crests. Once the parchment was delivered to the advocates, the exchange of gifts began.
Velvet-wrapped caskets traded hands in steady succession while scribes noted each gift upon their sheets. Among them lay a ring forged by a dwarven smith.
The groom took it first, sliding it onto his bride’s finger, and Raina slipped an identical band onto the hand of the man she had chosen.
Watching from behind the altar, the High Priest stepped forward and declared in a resonant voice that the betrothal between the two houses was sealed.
When the formalities finally concluded, the assembly filed out of the chapel and made for the banquet hall.
Within the lavishly dressed hall, long tables groaned beneath an abundance of rare dishes. Servants stood by the doors directing guests to their places; Varkas raised his goblet high, giving word for the feast to begin, and the quiet murmurs of the hall broke into an open roar.
Varkas touched the wine to his lips, letting his gaze drift slowly over the hall.
He caught sight of Raina, sulking as she stomped her way up the stairs. The groom, on the other hand, looked utterly taken with himself, grinning broadly as he soaked in the congratulations from every corner.
A brief, cold sneer touched Varkas’s lips as he watched the man fawn.
He clearly cared nothing for the bride’s humor. Why would he? Having secured vast lands and wealth with a single vow, a sharp-tempered woman was hardly worth his notice.
Letting out a quiet breath, Varkas took a seat at the far end of the long table. Count Scart drew near at once, as if waiting for the opening.
What began as polite trivialities soon drifted toward the realm’s shifting politics.
Varkas offered only noncommittal replies, lifting his cup now and then, until a leaden weight settled into his limbs and he rose.
“Forgive me, but I must take my leave. I am unwell.”
“Ah, I heard word of your wounds. It seems they have not fully mended yet.”
Count Scart, who had been speaking with great vigor, quickly smoothed his face into concern.
Varkas kept his smile strictly formal.
“It is nothing grave. My endurance simply is not what it once was.”
“Then you must rest without delay,” the count said, leaning into easy flattery. “It is enough that you took the trouble to preside over this ceremony yourself, even with your strength incomplete.”
“No thanks are necessary. It is only right that I see to my sister’s marriage myself.”
Offering the platitude without a twitch of emotion, Varkas turned and left the hall.
Ascending the staircase, he watched the slanted evening sun through the high windows paint the stone red. He paused to look, then turned his gaze toward the annex tucked against the rear garden.
Talia had stayed away from the ceremony under the pretext of poor health. For a Grand Duchess, such an absence invited talk, yet he had not compelled her.
The whispers about her had not died down. He had no wish to throw a woman who had only just found her footing to the judgment of the court—and more than that, he knew Raina was likely to make a scene.
Drawing a long breath, Varkas stepped into his chambers and sank down onto the edge of the bed. Several nights without decent sleep had left his limbs raw and his skull throbbing.
He rubbed at his eyes, which felt clouded and dry as frost, and reached for a glass on the sideboard.
If sleep did not take him soon, it would turn dangerous.
Downing the hard liquor in a swallow, Varkas slid open a drawer and pulled out the scented candle he had taken from the healer. He set it into the brazier and sparked the wick. Slowly, his eyelids dragged heavy, and the sharp needles behind his eyes began to dull beneath a spreading fog.
He let his head drop back against the pillow and closed his eyes.
How much time had slipped away? His mind, cut clean for a moment, pieced itself back together, and the dim shape of the bedchamber slowly returned to focus.
Varkas’s brow tightened. Catching the small shadow standing before the hearth, he sat bolt upright.
It was Talia. Her thick hair hung in a single braid down over her shoulder, watching him with quiet, still eyes.
Stunned by the specter-like vision, he froze for a beat before swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress.
“What brings you here?”
Even to his own ears, the words sounded unnecessarily harsh.
They must have struck her as outright venomous, for a faint wariness tightened across her placid features.
“I am sorry to intrude. There was… a favor I wished to ask.”
END