The night of the first wedding.
The fire of Marzen burned hotter that night, hotter than any of the other times Ragnar had stood in front of it. The flames rose in a shower of sparks as the elder priest chanted in their native tongue. This was usually a good sign. It meant that the flames recognized the strength of the vow being made and was trying to match its intensity.
As the elder droned on beside him, Ragnar barely heard anything that was being said. His eyes and entire focus was on the woman in front of him. His best friend, his love. His Luria. And in only a few minutes, she was going to be his wife.
