Nightfall in Arkenfall descended like a velvet curtain, studded with stars and humming with anticipation. The courtyard of the royal castle had been transformed into a breathtaking vision—a wide, open expanse with marble-tiled floors polished to mirror finish, bathed in gold and lilac light. Tall braziers burned on either side of the aisles, casting flickering warmth on towering arches of iron and ivy. From the balconies above, silken banners bearing the sigil of House Dragarth fluttered in the evening breeze.
The ceremony was already underway. Lords and ladies from all corners of the realm had gathered, dressed in their finery—embroidered silks, deep velvets, and armor-polished cloaks. The nobles of the southern coast shimmered in ocean blue and pearl. Musicians played softly in the distance, their harps and viols weaving an elegant, subdued melody.
Neriah stood near the dais, every inch the radiant bride. Her gown was unlike anything she'd ever worn before—a soft lavender shade that caught the firelight and danced with it, laced with silver thread and delicate pearlwork. Her red hair had been swept up and adorned with lilac blooms, framing her face like the first blush of spring.
The court was buzzing with whispers and laughter, each noble eyeing the other with that particular gleam of politics and pride. Lady Kaelith and Lady Rhea stood to one side of the dais, their regal flowing like liquid dusk. Gwen hovered somewhere behind, nearly bouncing with joy. Lord Gareth stood near the king, adjusting his doublet with the distracted air of a man who would rather be holding a wine goblet than a ceremonial script.
Near the ceremonial dais, Lord Vael Corrin - Master of Coin, finally seen in the flesh, leaned into another noble—Lord Trevain of Edravon. His voice slithered like silk, amused and sharp.
"So the Halemond girl truly becomes Queen. Who would have wagered on that?"
Trevain chuckled behind his goblet. "The Storm Lord must've been desperate. Halemond's more known for pine trees than queens."
"Quiet now," Vael murmured. "You want to be the next tree they hang from Arkenfall's towers?"
They shared a grin. But their eyes glittered with doubt.
Damon stood tall, a monolith of poise and power. He was clad in obsidian armor adorned with storm-gold detailing, the Dragarth crest gleaming at his chest. His dark hair was brushed back, his face freshly shaven. He looked like a storm cloaked in splendor.
Neriah felt her heart pound. Gods, he was too handsome—every inch of him carved with lethal grace. But his gaze held power, mystery, and something darker beneath. She dared not let herself be drawn in.
She turned to look at him as the priest began the sacred rites. Her heart pounded so hard it threatened to drown out the words.
Then came the part she hadn't prepared for.
"Lady Neriah of House Velmorn," the officiant said with a warm smile, "you may now recite the ancient vow of joining."
Neriah blinked. Her mouth opened slightly.
"The what?" she whispered, blinking at the priest.
"The vow," he repeated gently.
Neriah turned to Damon, panic flickering in her eyes. She hadn't been told. Gwen hadn't had the chance to teach her. She was about to be married in front of the entire realm and she didn't even know what to say.
Damon took her hand, warm and steady.
"She doesn't need the old words," he said, turning to the priest. His voice was calm, low, and commanding. "But I will say them, so the gods don't feel slighted."
He turned to Neriah, eyes locked on hers.
He recited the ancient vows
Damon turned to Neriah once more. "You need only say, 'I rise with the BannerLands.'"
Her throat was dry. She searched his face. He was calm. Not unkind. And so painfully handsome.
"I rise with the BannerLands," she whispered.
"Then before the court and the gods," he said, raising his hands, "I bind you now, in name and in oath. King Damon of House Dragarth. Lady Neriah of House Velmorn. Husband and wife."
The crowd erupted into applause.
Neriah barely felt the cheers, the flowers tossed, the music rising. Damon leaned closer and pressed a kiss to her hand.
"You did well," he murmured.
"I didn't have a choice," she replied dryly, but her lips curved.
"You'll find," he said, with that half-smile, "very few people ever do."
As celebration took flight, courtiers flocked to drink and dance. But across the edges of the hall, lords and ladies whispered.
"She looks too delicate."
"Halemond blood in Arkenfall? How long until the storm passes her over?"
"Did you see the way she stumbled on the vow?"
"She won't last the year."
But none said it aloud.
For the Storm Lord was watching.
And beside him now stood his Queen.
*************
Torches lit the grand hall of Arkenfall like a thousand stars, flickering against the carved stone pillars and golden drapes that swept the length of the ceiling. Musicians filled the vaulted air with jubilant strings and flutes, and the scent of roasted meats and sugared fruits floated among the laughter and clinking of goblets. The celebration had begun.
In the center of the long ceremonial table sat King Damon Dragarth and his newly wedded queen, Lady Neriah of Halemond. They made a striking picture—he in dark tunic trimmed with silver, a sigil of the storm etched into his collar; she in a second gown, this one of soft amber silk with threaded gold that shimmered every time the light touched her. A simple circlet now adorned her hair, pushed back just enough to frame her face in gleaming red-gold waves.
Beside the King sat Lord Gareth, sharp-eyed as ever and muttering dry remarks under his breath; beside Neriah, Lady Kaelith and Lady Rhea. Behind them, rows of seats were filled with the Lords and Ladies of the Bannerlands, each positioned by rank. There were places for the King's Warriors, a cluster of battle-hardened captains with crested helms at their feet. The king's guards sat farther back, ever vigilant even among the celebration.
The grand hall was brimming with lords, ladies, legates, and noble houses from every corner of the Bannerlands. Regal silks rustled with every breath, and murmurs filled the candlelit chamber. Yet notably absent from the ceremony were the king's men — Lord Leon, Lord Roran, and Lord Ethan. Their seats remained respectfully vacant, a subtle signal to those who knew they had only just returned from a royal mission. It was whispered that they rode through the gates of Arkenfall mere moments before the vows were exchanged.
Neriah tried to smile.
Her hands were clasped gently on her lap, her posture perfect, but Damon had already noticed the slight furrow in her brow. He knew what was bothering her. "Still no letter from your father?" he asked, voice low.
She shook her head and gave a small sigh. "The storm must be fierce in Halemond. He sent word this morning that he wouldn't risk the road. I understand, but... I had hoped."
"You'll invite him again soon," Damon said, his tone lighter than expected. "Let the skies have their tantrum. He'll make it to Arkenfall when they're done."
Neriah smiled faintly. Then, glancing at a group of nobles laughing across the aisle, she leaned closer. "Who are those men in the green doublets? The ones with the golden feathers on their shoulders."
Damon followed her gaze. "House Greldan. Lords of Caldrith Vale. They'd be easier to like if they weren't so fond of their own reflections."
She giggled. "They do look a little like overfed peacocks."
He raised an eyebrow. "A dangerous observation, my queen. Very court-like."
That earned a laugh from her—a full, sweet sound. Damon was watching her closely now, the way her lips curled when she teased, the way her eyes sparked when she asked questions. She was clever. And curious. And very much alive. Not the timid girl he'd imagined. Not a statue draped in royal silks. She was Neriah. Bright and quick.
She pointed again. "What about the lady with the crescent moon pin? She hasn't stopped glaring since I sat down."
Damon didn't bother looking. "Lady Vax of Edravon. She disapproves of everything, including the color blue and smiling children."
"A delight at parties, then."
"Truly."
As Neriah looked around more, she caught snatches of murmurs. Soft-spoken nobles whispering behind jeweled fans or pretending to sip wine while casting glances her way.
"Is it true? A Halemond girl?"
"Velmorn's second daughter, no less."
"She won't last."
"She is not queenly enough."
The words didn't reach her ears directly, but Neriah felt their presence all the same. Her fingers tightened slightly.
Damon saw it. He leaned over, voice low and warm. "They're afraid."
She blinked. "Of me?"
"Of change," he said simply. "And of anyone I admire."
The heat rushed to her cheeks before she could stop it. Neriah reached for her goblet, lips twitching. "You admire me already, Your Majesty?"
"It would be hard not to," Damon said, and meant it.
Neriah's cheeks flushed immediately, the pink blossoming across her pale skin far too quickly for her to hide. She tried to look away, busying herself with her goblet, but her fingers fumbled against the stem. Damon noticed, of course. He leaned in slightly, his eyes glinting with amusement.
"Is that a blush, my Queen?" he teased in a low voice.
"No," she said too fast. "It's the wine."
"I haven't seen you take a sip."
"It's the lighting, then."
He chuckled, deep and smooth, and Neriah gave up on pretending, hiding her face behind her hand with an exasperated smile.
Across the long banquet table, Lady Rhea could not take her eyes off them. She watched the king and his new bride speak as if they'd known each other forever, their laughter light, their postures relaxed. Damon's face — usually hard, unreadable — was now soft with expression, his eyes never straying from Neriah.
Kaelith caught Rhea's lingering gaze. She leaned over slightly and whispered behind her cup, "You're staring again."
Rhea blinked and pulled her gaze back, lips twitching. "Am I?"
Kaelith gave her a pointed look. "If you stare any harder, Lady Neriah might combust."
"I don't have any problem with her," Rhea said flatly, brushing a nonexistent thread from her sleeve.
"Hmm," Kaelith said, unconvinced.
Further down the tables, the court's less jovial circles were abuzz with whispers. Nobles from the northern coasts leaned toward each other.
"A Halemond girl. Can you believe it?" one lady murmured behind her fan.
"Not fit for the Bannerlands throne," said another. "Their winters last half the year, and they think that passes for charm."
A balding lord chuckled. "Still, she's a beauty. And if she keeps the king warm, who are we to argue?"
None of them spoke above a murmur. None would dare. But the undercurrent was clear — curiosity, judgment, envy, and speculation flowed as freely as the wine.
Back at the high table, Neriah leaned close again, eyes glinting with curiosity. "Who's the man in the silver coat two seats down? The one that looks like he smells expensive wine for a living."
Damon followed her gaze and smirked. "That would be Lord Vael."
"Ah," Neriah said. "The infamous throat-warranted Lord."
Damon stifled a chuckle. "So you've heard the stories."
"More than one." She arched a brow.
Damon grinned, his wife had a lot of humor.