Azgar's footsteps had barely faded before the door shut with a final clang.
Vesaria stood furious for a heartbeat.
"Monster!" Her voice cracked, hoarse from days of confinement, but filled with fire.
She hurled the nearest cup at the door. It clanged and bounced off, useless, unbroken—like the damn door.
"Coward!" she screamed, her voice breaking again. "Brute!"
Rushing forward, Vesaria wrenched at the iron handle.
Locked. Of course.
She slammed her fists against the wood, once, twice—until her palms stung and the ache traveled to her elbows.
"LET ME OUT!"
Her pounding echoed through the chamber, breath ragged, pulse thundering in her ears.
Married. He'd said. Tomorrow.
"No—"
She staggered back, skirts catching on a bench, breath ragged.
Her fists found the edge of a wooden chest, and she shoved it toward the narrow window—her last, pitiful hope.
The scrape of wood against stone echoed through the cold chamber. She climbed, wobbled, pressed herself to the frame.
Too small.
Bars too thick. The gap too narrow. Still, Vesaria clawed at them until her fingers bled.
Trapped.
Despair coiled around her ribs. Her arms dropped. She stared out at the bleak northern sky.
Married. To the Khan. Bedded by him.
Ruined. Branded. Unwelcome in any decent house again. Her uncle would never take her back—not as a defiled thing whispered about behind fans and goblets.
Her knees buckled. She slid down the wall, curling in on herself. Bitter hopelessness clawed at her chest.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. For one terrifying moment, she considered ending it.
But she quickly shoved it away. Her father's name would not be shadowed by her cowardice.
A scream ripped from her throat—raw, wordless, defiant.
No.
She would live. If only to defy Azgar. If she couldn't escape before the vows, she'd make his life a prison of its own.
*****
She awoke with a start.
Movement. Voices.
When had she fallen asleep?
The door stood open. Women entered—tall, fur-clad, still speaking in lilting words vesaria barely understood. They carried strange garments woven with fur, metal, bone.
She scrambled back.
"What—what is this?"
They didn't answer. Only gestured, beckoning her forward with respectful but firm movements. One woman murmured something softly as she looked at vesaria's bleeding hand—but as always they meant nothing to her.
Vesaria fought. But they were skilled. Her own garments were stripped, and she was dressed in foreign cotton and hides, heavy jewelry hung around her neck, unfamiliar braids pulled tight into her scalp.
Vesaria shook, the sensation like a death rite, as if every braid and symbol stripped her of her former life.
They painted symbols along her collarbone, arms, cheeks. War paint? Blessings? Branding?
It's happening.
The thought lodged in her chest.
When they beckoned her to leave, she shook her head. No.
A soldier entered.
She recognized him—the one who'd stopped a warrior from touching her during the raid. The one with eyes like dull steel.
He gestured for her to follow.
She turned her back on him.
He said something to the women. They responded, anxious.
Vesaria wondered what they were planning now.
They kept sending glances her way as the soldier's voice rose.
The women finally hesitated.
The next moment, her feet were off the ground. He'd lifted her with ease, carrying her out of the room and down the cold stone halls.
She kicked. Screamed. Bit.
Nothing slowed him.
Outside, the wind cut across her skin like knives.
The ceremony wasn't in the hall.
It was atop a hill.
A circle of fire-lit stakes burned low against the pre-dawn dark, their flames guttering like exhausted sentries. Smoke drifted between the pines, thick with the scent of resin and ash.
The wind howled through the clearing, tugging at cloaks. Warriors stood in rigid rows.
Elders waited in silence. There were no flowers. No music. Just sky, stone, and fire.
Primitive. Pagan. Raw.
They dragged her into the ring. She didn't lower her head.
Azgar was already waiting, cloaked in ceremonial furs, broad shoulders proud and face unreadable. She tried to step back, but he seized her wrist and tugged her forward.
He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against her bruised knuckles.
"You look beautiful in northern bridal attire," he murmured, lips brushing her skin. "I can't wait to take it off."
She recoiled, heat blooming on her cheeks—anger, mortification, shame. Bastard. Vesaria turned her face away.
His grip tightened as his voice dropped. Cold.
"Remember, little rabbit. My people come first. Show disrespect again, and there won't be another warning."
The crowd watched—some curious, some amused, some scowling with disgust. She was the outsider. The defiant foreign bride.
An old wrinkled man stepped forward and began chanting. Vesaria watched as the northerners listened with rapt attention.
Azgar leaned closer, his voice brushing her ear. "He says we are about to be bound—soul to soul. Flesh to flesh. Isn't it romantic?"
She flinched.
The priest continued. Azgar translated pieces softly, sometimes with quiet mockery.
"Now we offer strength to one another," he whispered.
"Yours will do nothing for me," Vesaria snapped.
"We shall see," he patted her arm absentmindedly, listening to the priest drone on.
Then came the blade.
The priest muttered something low in the guttural northern tongue, holding aloft a blade carved from dark stone.
The intention was clear when the priest turned to Azgar and drew the blade across his palm.
Blood welled up, dark and slow under the torchlight.
Then he looked to her.
"No," Vesaria breathed, stepping back—but rough hands caught her arms, forcing her forward. She struggled, twisting, but the women didn't let go. The priest gestured impatiently.
Azgar reached for her hand himself.
"You will do this," he said quietly, his voice like iron wrapped in fur. "Or I'll have them carve the mark into your face instead. Which do you prefer?"
Terror slammed through her.
She held out her hand. Barely. Shaking.
The stone blade kissed her palm—hot, sudden pain lancing up her arm. She hissed, teeth gritted, eyes watering. The blood ran fast, bright and angry.
Azgar took her hand in his, their blood mingling between their palms. The priest said something again. Azgar translated without looking at her.
"To bind flesh to flesh. To mix strength. To mix fate."
His grip tightened when she tried to pull back.
The woven cord was brought forward—runed and dyed red with ancient symbols. She kept her hands low. Refused.
A beat of silence. The crowd shifted.
Azgar's jaw flexed. His voice was low, for her alone. "If you don't raise your hand, I'll carry you through the rest of this like a spoiled child—and fuck you before the fire to prove you're mine."
Her eyes flew to his. Her breath stilled.
Surely he wouldn't? The look in his eyes said he most definitely would.
She lifted her hand.
Pride. Not submission.
The binding cloth was wrapped tight around their joined hands, blood still fresh between them. The priest marked it with black ash. The crowd stirred, murmuring.
Vesaria shook her head. "I will not speak your vows."
Azgar's grip remained firm. "Then I'll speak them for both of us."
He raised their bound hands high, voice ringing across the wind-bitten hill. The flames from the torches bowed toward them, as if the gods themselves leaned in to witness. At his final word, silence fell.
The sun broke. Light bled across the hill.
The mead was brought forward.
Vesaria stared the cup placed in her hands, then let it drop.
Gasps broke out.
"She refuses."
"She breaks the rite."
Azgar didn't react. He took his own cup—ceremonial, carved with old runes—and drank deeply. Then he turned to her, eyes locked onto hers, and tipped her chin up with two fingers.
"You won't drink?"
She glared at him.
He cupped her jaw with one hand and presses the rim to her lips.
"Open," he murmured coldly.
She clenched her jaw.
He leaned in, his hand still bloody and strong on her face, forcing the sweet, spiced wine between her lips.
Spiced wine spilled down her chin. She coughed, swallowed. Burned.
When she struggled, he didn't let go.
Instead, he leant down—and his mouth crashed over hers with heat and spice and the bitter-sweet burn of mead still on his tongue.
She gasped. He took advantage. His tongue slid past her lips, tasting her, claiming her.
The crowd roared—shouts, laughter, jeers—but she only heard him—the quiet growl in his throat, the scrape of his teeth against her lip, the demand in the way he kissed.
She stumbled.
Her knees actually gave out and her pride shrieked in horror.
Her fingers fisted in his heavy furs, grasping for balance, desperate not to collapse before the eyes of the clan.
But the contact only fueled him.
He pressed closer, deepened the kiss.
Vesaria could taste the mead, the blood still lingering on his tongue, the wild smoke of the bonfire clinging to his skin. Her stomach flipped violently. She'd never been kissed like this. Never touched like this. Never…
She hated him.
So why couldn't she breathe?
Why did the world spin beneath her boots?
Azgar finally pulled back, lips glistening with shared mead, and she realized she was still gripping his fur like a lifeline.
She yanked it away.
He smirked. Voice like gravel and sin. "See how your body yields, even when your mind resists?"
She shook with rage.
"You belong to me now."
She turned her head slowly, eyes like ice. "And you'll wish you never laid claim to me."
She spat a quiet curse in her own tongue.
Azgar only smirked. "I didn't think you knew such crude words, my lady."
Vesaria ignored him, eyeing the large fur cloak that was being brought forward.
The fur cloak was heavy when it was draped around her shoulders. Wolfskin. Symbol of his clan. His claim.
She wanted to tear it off.
The elder finally spoke again.
The wedding was concluded.