The air in the Hall of Binding is thick with the scent of ancient stone and the faintest whisper of magic, a perfume both timeless and unnerving. Before the assembled witnesses, their faces are a blur of expectation and veiled curiosity, stood Nexarina Riot. The pronouncement echoed, each word is like a solemn note in the grand tapestry of fate: "Bound by eternity, love, loyalty and patience. Nexarina Riot, do you take this man to be your rightfully wedded husband?"
Her gaze, sharp as shattered glass, dropped to the cold, unyielding chain that linked her wrists, a tangible symbol of her utter lack of volition. Seven attempts at escape, each one is a desperate flailing against invisible bars, had come to naught. Five times, her carefully laid plans had crumbled into dust, betrayed by unforeseen circumstances or, perhaps, by a will far stronger than her own. And thrice, the shadowed allure of oblivion had beckoned, a final, silent protest against the inexorable tide.
Brought her here. To this moment. Before him. The man whose presence radiated an authority that seemed woven into the very fabric of the hall. All those frantic efforts, those desperate gambits, now felt like the futile struggles of a trapped bird. A bitter thought, sharp and cold, pierced through the weary resignation that had begun to settle within her: she should have conserved her strength. Saved it for the one act of defiance that remained, the swift, silent severing of her own life. The question hung in the air, unanswered, a pregnant silence that crackled with unspoken histories and the weight of a destiny yet to unfold.
Every eye in that ancient hall remained fixed upon her. Sea of expectant faces. Each one is like a silent mirror reflecting a judgment she felt keenly. As if any amongst them possessed the fortitude to stand in her stead, to bear the weight of her chains. The stones of the walls seemed to absorb the silence, heavy, oppressive, the stillness that amplified the frantic drumming of fear against her ribs. A gloom, thick and obvious, clung to the air, silent lament for the wretched path stretching before her. Even the cold flagstones beneath her bound feet seemed to offer a grim sort of commiseration.
Two paths lay before her, indistinguishable in their grim certainty: to utter the affirmation, or to remain silent and yet still be bound. Her legs, shackled and heavy, would not have yielded to the strength of a millennium, let alone her own depleted reserves. Her hands, similarly confined, were mere ornaments of her captivity. A prisoner she was, and this, undeniably, a prisoner's wedding.
With a painful swallow, Nexarina's gaze swept the assembled company, a desperate search for the architect of her ruin. The face of the man who had orchestrated this cruel charade, who had forced this bitter draught down her throat. They spoke of a binding, a necessary severing of the ancient ties between humankind and the formidable Dragon Riders. But were there not other avenues? Paths that did not lead to Nexarina being irrevocably linked to the very being who haunted her waking hours and stalked the shadowed landscapes of her nightmares. The one she had loathed for what felt like an eternity. The one whose presence sent tremors of icy dread through her soul.
The pronouncement hung in the air, each syllable a bitter draught upon her tongue, far more acrid than the medicinal herbs her father had forced upon her childish palate after any stolen sweetness. Rougher, even, than the gritty sand she'd once dared to chew in youthful rebellion. And sour, gods help her, sourer than a million unripe limes crushed between her teeth.
The two small words, "I do," when they finally escaped her lips, felt heavier than the very stones of the imposing walls that held her captive. What was it that now stung her throat with a venom fiercer than any hornet's sting? Defeat. Utter, crushing defeat.
She had fought with a ferocity that now seemed almost comical in its futility. Had her mother still drawn breath, she imagined the familiar, comforting stroke of her hand upon her back, the murmured praise for her spirited resistance. And then, the sharp, knowing laughter. "You thought you could escape, little fool?" her mother would have chided, her eyes twinkling with a mixture of affection and exasperation. "That's ever been your failing, child. You fancy yourself wise beyond your years. Prepare yourself, Nexarina, for reality's brutal embrace."
And how right her phantom mother was. A foolish pride had indeed taken root within her. Else, why would she have entertained the notion of evading this preordained union with General Grant? Why would she have dared to believe she could sway the hearts of her father and brother? A father whose hand had been swift and heavy with reprimand, whose words had always hinted at a desperate eagerness to be rid of her. A brother who viewed her as little more than a chattel, a possession awaiting its eventual, profitable deployment. What madness had possessed her to think their self-interest would yield to her pleas?
Her mother's spectral laughter echoed in the hollow chambers of her heart. Yes, she was a fool. A defiant, rebellious fool, perhaps, but a fool nonetheless. And now, she would pay the price.
The ring, a weighty band of sterling silver wrought in a severe Gothic style, slid onto her finger, each fraction of an inch a hammer blow sealing her fate, binding her to a future steeped in terror. She stared at the polished metal now adorning her hand. A cold, beautiful shackle.
How fervently she wished it were not the devil incarnate himself who had just slipped it onto her.
She had deliberately kept her gaze fixed on the cold stone floor, unwilling, indeed unable, to look upon him again after that cataclysmic day. The memory of his bellowed command, "Infernia!", and the horrifying spectacle of his monstrous dragon unleashing a torrent of fire that devoured the landscape, remained etched into her soul. His gaze then had been piercing, unapologetic, utterly devoid of warmth. Though the sun had shone brightly, she had seen only the glacial coldness within his blue eyes. Those same icy orbs had haunted her dreams ever since, leaving her nights punctuated by gasping breaths and a body slick with fear.
Never had she entertained the faintest hope of seeing those eyes again in reality. Her silent prayers had been a litany of his suffering, a fervent wish for a demise so agonizing that he would beg for release. And now? Was this the gods' cruel answer to years of whispered pleas for his doom? A marriage? A forced, unholy matrimony that would demand the ultimate violation.
"Kiss the bride, to seal this blessed union." The words echoed, laced with a sickening sweetness.
And then, he was upon her. A hand, cold and rough against her skin, tilted her chin upwards, forcing her gaze to meet his. The world around her seemed to freeze, time itself suspended.
It was as if she were plunged into the depths of a glacial ocean, those blue eyes as piercing as they had been on that terrible day. But something had shifted. The chilling heartlessness she remembered was gone, replaced by a sudden, unsettling softness that held her captive.
Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, her lips trembling with a primal fear as his drew closer.
Good heavens, he was flawless. How could such a heartless creature be blessed with such breathtaking beauty? His features were sculpted to an impossible perfection. He wasn't merely handsome; he was devastatingly beautiful. A stark, cruel contrast to the darkness that resided within him.
She closed her eyes as he brought his lips closer, a grim resignation washing over her. Not that she possessed any agency in this grotesque charade. Her hands remained bound, as useless as she would be in the long, dark hours she would undoubtedly spend plotting his demise.
His mouth crashed down upon hers with a fierce hunger, teeth grazing her lower lip before his own parted, demanding entry. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her as he plundered the delicate flesh of her tongue, biting down with a sharp possessiveness that sent a jolt of something akin to pain, yet undeniably carnal, through her. His tongue then snaked out, tracing the bead of blood his rough kiss had drawn, a primal act of claiming that sent a shiver down her spine despite the terror that still held her in its icy grip.
He drew back, his own breath coming in ragged gasps, and slowly, deliberately, licked the crimson stain from his lips, his blue eyes, now smoldering with a raw intensity, never leaving hers.
Nexarina stared, utterly discomposed by the brutal intimacy of his assault. It was a kiss that spoke not of affection, but of dominion, a stark declaration of his ownership.
A low, guttural whisper, laced with a chilling satisfaction, escaped his lips. "I knew you'd taste good, wife." And then, with a final, insolent press of his mouth against hers, he sealed the unholy bargain.