The Great Hall smells of old incense and the sharp, metallic tang of cold stone. Iliana Voss stands before the tiered throne, her breath hitched in the hollow of her throat. Beside her, the weight of a century’s tradition hangs heavy in the flickering torchlight. King Vorath leans forward, his eyes like polished jet as he prepares to bind the bookbinder’s daughter to his lineage. The silver letter opener on the royal table catches the orange flame, a jagged needle of light in the gloom.
Prince Caelum Vyrenne does not wait for the benediction. He stands, his tall frame cutting a jagged silhouette against the velvet hangings. His fair hair is a shock of winter against the black marble. He looks at Iliana once—a gaze that feels like ice-water down her spine—and turns toward the exit. The air in the room curdles as he speaks with a voice that brooks no argument.
'I claim no bride of this blood.'
Silence ripples through the court, thick and suffocating. The Prince strides from the dais, his boots echoing like hammer blows against the obsidian. The heavy obsidian doors begin to swing shut, but a pale hand catches the iron handle.
