The ceremony had stretched long into the evening — a blur of silk and silver, of wine and whispered greetings, of nobles preening in their finery and musicians playing until their fingers ached. Arkenfall had never looked more radiant. Torchlight danced along the marbled halls, laughter echoed through the arches, and wine flowed like spring rivers down every table.
But eventually, even the grandest celebrations must end.
The court began to disperse in small waves. Nobles bowed and retired, council members murmured farewells, and musicians quietly packed their lutes. The heavy doors of the great hall closed one by one, until all that remained was a lingering scent of crushed roses and fire-smoke.
And the memory of two people saying "I do" beneath the stars.
Neriah stood in the center of the Queen's chamber, motionless, as a dozen maids swirled around her like a flurry of bees. None of them spoke to her—not even Gwen. The maids worked in silence, practiced and precise, their faces solemn as they prepared her for what was to come.
It was a ritual. A sacred rite passed down through every queen of the Banners.
And Neriah… was terrified.
She had been undressed with the reverence of someone being presented to the gods. Her gown—purple silk embroidered with tiny silver leaves—had been lifted from her shoulders and folded with ceremonial care. Next came the bath, already drawn and perfumed, steaming like warm breath in the center of the bathing chamber.
Milk.
She blinked at it, stunned.
The water shimmered white, infused with rose petals, jasmine, crushed lavender, and oils that made her skin ache with softness before she even touched it.
She stepped in slowly, her heart in her throat. The warmth climbed her legs, her waist, her chest, until she sat, submerged to her collarbones, surrounded by a scent so heady it made her dizzy.
The maids washed her in silence. She didn't speak.
Her thoughts wouldn't let her.
She was going to spend the night with the King.
The Storm Lord.
Her husband.
Gods, her husband!
She swallowed hard and pressed her palms flat against the rim of the bath, breathing slow and shallow as warm hands washed her skin and gently scrubbed her hair.
She had never done anything like this before.
She had never even kissed a man.
She'd been raised for court, yes—but not for this. Not for the moment when her body would be offered to someone who had already claimed her hand with a crown and a ring.
What if she did something wrong?
What if he expected something she didn't know how to give?
What if—
"Your Grace," one of the older maids murmured softly, breaking the silence. "It is time."
Neriah rose from the water with trembling limbs. The maids worked quickly—rinsing, drying, patting her skin with cloths soaked in more perfume. They brushed her hair until it gleamed like red silk and let it fall down her back in long waves. Her nightgown was brought in on outstretched arms.
White.
Silk.
Soft as air, thin as mist. It slid over her skin like a whisper, clinging delicately to every curve. The sleeves were sheer. The neckline, modest but elegant. Her body had never looked so beautiful—and never felt so exposed.
A fine robe of sheer lace was draped over her shoulders. The final touch.
They placed a thin gold circlet over her brow—not a crown, not tonight. Just a small, delicate band that shimmered in the candlelight.
She didn't feel like a queen.
She felt like a lamb being led to a lion's den.
As the maids stepped away, Neriah caught sight of herself in the tall mirror near the hearth.
She looked breathtaking.
Perfect. Too perfect.
A girl dressed in fear and finery.
The room was quiet now. Everyone had left.
Except Gwen—who stood by the door, her eyes wide with pride and nerves and something softer. But even she didn't say a word.
She just nodded once.
The door opened.
The King was waiting.
And Neriah's feet began to move.
******************
The door creaked open on iron hinges.
Neriah stepped in slowly, her slippered feet barely making a sound on the polished stone floor.
This was the King's chamber.
The room swallowed her.
It was enormous — larger than any space she had ever walked into alone. It stretched wide and long like a throne hall turned intimate, its vaulted ceilings arched in blackwood beams. A hearth blazed in one far corner, the firelight casting shadows that danced like phantoms against the walls.
It was a man's room. Every inch of it.
The palette was dark and commanding — ash grey, obsidian, slate and navy. Heavy curtains framed the tall windows. A great bed sat at the far end, carved from deep black oak, its frame crowned with a silver sigil of the Dragarth line — the three-headed hawk, wings open in flight.
But that wasn't what caught her attention.
It was the weapons.
Dozens of them.
An entire wall — to the left of the hearth — was dedicated to them. A massive crossbow rested high on an iron rack. Beneath it, swords of varying length gleamed coldly in their sheaths. Poleaxes. A halberd. Two curved blades with wicked tips. And the one that made her breath stutter—
An axe.
It was massive — broad-bladed, cruelly sharpened, the steel stained with something that might have once been red. The handle was carved from blackened wood, etched with runes she could not read.
Neriah froze.
All the rumors came rushing back in a flood.
The Storm Lord. The Storm of the Bannerlands. They said he had slaughtered his brothers for the crown. They said he bathed in blood and wore silence like a second skin. They said he drank war and breathed steel.
He had looked dashing, yes — devastatingly so.
But maybe that had been part of the illusion.
What if the crown sat on a killer?
Neriah's throat felt dry. She backed away from the wall and crossed the chamber, trying not to let her gaze linger on the weapons again. Her fingers trembled slightly as she approached the edge of the bed and sat down.
The covers were crisp. The mattress firm. The room smelled of woodsmoke and something else—leather and rain. It smelled really nice.
She clasped her hands tightly together, then unclasped them. Her breathing was slow, but tight in her chest.
What was she doing?
She was married to him. It was done. But she barely knew the man behind the crown. Behind the quiet eyes and the teasing smile. Behind the way he had taken her hand so gently at the ceremony, then kissed her knuckles with that maddening warmth.
Was that warmth real?
Or a mask beneath a colder truth?
Her gaze flicked toward the door.
He wasn't here yet.
Good.
She needed a moment to steady herself.
To remember that she wasn't a lamb led to slaughter, but a queen who had walked into this marriage with her eyes wide open.
Mostly.
Still, her hands refused to stop shaking.
And she was certain that axe was still watching her.
—
The candlelight flickered softly against the stone walls, its golden flame throwing slow, dancing shadows across the Storm Lord's chamber. The room felt quieter than ever—vast and too still, like the hush before thunder.
Neriah sat at the edge of the bed, bare feet curled beneath the hem of her nightgown. Her red hair spilled like molten fire down her back, catching glimmers of light with every shallow breath she took. The bed was too wide. The silence, too loud.
Her heart was trying to escape her chest.
She had rehearsed a thousand things to say.
And now, all she could do was grip the edge of the fur blanket and wonder why her fingers trembled so.
The heavy door creaked open.
Neriah's spine went stiff.
She turned, startled, as the flickering candles danced shadows across the stone walls.
Damon stepped inside, the soft clink of his boots echoing in the massive chamber.
His cloak was dark as night, lined in wolf fur, and as he reached up to pull it off, his eyes—those sharp, glacier-cut eyes—immediately found her.
Always watching. Always aware.
"Neriah," he said, his voice a velvet drawl that stirred the air.
She stood abruptly, heart thundering. "My—my lord."
His brow furrowed faintly. "Do not rise when I enter," he said. "You're not a servant."
"I—I wasn't—" Her tongue tangled in her throat. She lowered her gaze. "Apologies."
He walked toward her slowly, removing the leather vambraces from his forearms with deliberate ease. The muscles beneath his tunic flexed with every movement. She tried not to stare.
He stopped a few paces from her.
"I gave you no reason to fear me," he said, eyes narrowing slightly. "Yet I see it in your eyes. Why?"
She shifted on her feet, her voice barely audible. "Because… you're not like anyone I've ever known."
A silence stretched—thick, uncertain. Candlelight fluttered between them.
"You speak of the rumors," he said.
She didn't answer. Her throat bobbed with a swallow.
He nodded, as if he understood anyway. "I have taken lives," he said quietly. "More than I care to count. But not without cause. And never… never those who are mine to protect."
Her breath caught.
"I may be king, Neriah," he continued, stepping no closer, "but I do not take what is not given freely." His gaze lowered, briefly brushing her lips. "And I would never touch you without your word."
That stopped her. Completely.
This was not the monster painted in whispers and rumors. This was a man—real, restrained, utterly dangerous...yes, but somehow… gentle.
She had expected fire. Fury.
Not this.
Not… kindness.
She didn't even realize she was holding her breath.
Damon noticed. He tilted his head, voice dropping low.
"You're looking at me as if I might devour you."
"I'm not—" she started, then bit her lip.
"You are." A flicker of a smile tugged at his mouth. "Though I can't say I blame you. I'm terrifying." he joked.
She couldn't help it—her lips curved upward. Just slightly.
He saw it. And his smile deepened.
"There," he murmured. "You smiled. I should be awarded a medal for that alone."
"I'm just… nervous," she admitted, cheeks pink.
"I know," he said. Then, after a pause: "Would it help if I called you Riah?"
She blinked. "Riah?"
"I like how it sounds." His voice had gentled. "If you don't mind."
Neriah's heart stuttered. "I—no, I don't mind. It's… unexpected."
"I plan to be full of surprises." He looked her over then—really looked—and she felt his gaze trace the curve of her shoulders, the sweep of her waist beneath the white silk nightgown.
He inhaled slowly. "Riah, I'll be honest with you."
She tensed.
"You look…" He raked a hand through his dark hair. "...absolutely, maddeningly beautiful. That nightgown should be outlawed. Your hair should be outlawed."
"Outlawed?" she echoed, startled.
"I've fought wars with less danger than you standing there in white silk," he muttered.
She laughed, shocked by the absurdity of the compliment—and how much she liked hearing it.
"But," Damon added, voice quieter now, "if I so much as reach for you, I fear you'll faint."
She flushed crimson. "I—I wouldn't."
He arched a brow.
"…Maybe I would," she admitted.
He chuckled. "Then I won't risk it."
"But… aren't we supposed to…" she trailed off, eyes dropping.
His smile faded into something softer. "Tradition doesn't bind me, Riah. You're not a conquest. You're not a debt. You're mine now, yes—but I want you to be here. Not… cornered."
Neriah felt her shoulders ease. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," he said gently. "I'll just sleep in my study tonight. This chamber is too big for one bed."
"There's a study?" she asked, startled.
He nodded. "Through there." He gestured to a side door. "I like to work late. It's quiet."
She hesitated. "You really won't stay?"
He looked at her for a long moment. "Not unless you ask me to."
She didn't.
But part of her wondered what would happen if she did.
"Goodnight, Riah," he said, crossing to the study door. "Rest. You've had a long day."
"Goodnight… Damon," she said softly.
He paused—just briefly—then smiled to himself before disappearing into the shadows beyond.
The candle flickered by her bedside.
And Neriah lay down… her thoughts a blur of silk, warmth, and a King who had every right to take—but chose, instead, to wait.