Riven's POV
I don't sleep that night either.
The wedding dress hangs in the corner like a ghost, beautiful and terrifying. Every time I look at it, my stomach twists tighter. Kieran commissioned it three months ago. Three months before I even knew his name.
He's been planning this. Watching me. Waiting.
But why?
When dawn breaks, servants arrive with breakfast I can't eat and a bath I can barely stand through. They dress me in silence, their hands efficient but not unkind. The dress fits perfectly, of course. Because Kieran knew my exact size three months ago.
The thought makes my skin crawl.
"You look beautiful, my lady," one servant whispers.
I look like a sacrifice.
Thorne comes to escort me to the great hall. His expression is carefully neutral, but I catch the way his eyes dart to the dress, then away.
"He told you," I say. "About the dress. About how long he's been planning this."
"Lord Kieran tells me many things." Thorne offers his arm. "But his reasons are his own."
"Does that not bother you? That your lord has been scheming for months, and no one knows why?"
"I've followed Kieran for ten years. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that his schemes always have a purpose." His voice softens. "Even if that purpose isn't clear until the end."
We walk through corridors packed with people—Northern nobles, soldiers, servants. Everyone wants to see the servant girl marry their Warlord. Some faces show curiosity. Others show disgust.
And Seraphine, standing near the great hall entrance, shows pure murder.
Her eyes lock on mine, and I feel her magic probe at me again—subtle this time, careful. Testing my defenses. I keep my own magic buried so deep it barely breathes.
She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes.
The great hall is massive—all black stone and iron, with Northern banners hanging from the ceiling. At the far end, Kieran waits in formal armor that makes him look even more dangerous than usual.
His eyes find me, and something flickers in them. Satisfaction? Triumph? I can't tell.
The ceremony is short and brutal. No flowery words, no promises of love. Just duty, binding, and law. When Kieran takes my hand to slide on the ring—a silver band with a black stone—his touch is cold.
"With this ring, I bind you to the North," he says, the formal words echoing through the hall. "You are mine to protect, mine to command, mine to keep."
The words sound like a cage locking.
"And you are mine," I'm supposed to reply. My voice shakes. "To serve, to follow, to obey."
Kieran's jaw tightens. For a second, I think I see anger flash across his face.
Then he leans in and kisses me.
It's nothing like my first kiss in the manor cellar when he claimed me as his wife before witnesses. This is different—possessive, yes, but also... searching. Like he's trying to find something in me that I haven't given him yet.
When he pulls back, his eyes are unreadable.
"You're mine now," he says quietly, so only I can hear. "And I protect what's mine."
Before I can respond, he turns to face the hall.
"She is Lady Shadowmere," he announces. "My wife. Anyone who disrespects her disrespects me. Remember that."
The threat is clear. So is the silence that follows.
The feast afterward is torture. I sit beside Kieran at the high table while nobles whisper and Seraphine glares. Food appears—rich dishes I've never tasted—but everything turns to ash in my mouth.
Kieran leans close. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
"For what?"
"For tonight." His voice drops. "When everyone expects me to claim my marital rights."
Heat floods my face. "You said this marriage was political. You said—"
"I said many things to keep you compliant." He takes a sip of wine, his expression bored. "But my court needs to believe this marriage is real. Which means you'll sleep in my chambers. What happens there is between us."
My hands clench in my lap. "If you think I'm going to just—"
"I think you're going to be smart enough to play the role." His eyes cut to mine, cold and calculating. "Because if they suspect this marriage is fake, someone will challenge it. And then you'll have no protection at all."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
The feast drags on forever. Finally, as the moon rises, Kieran stands and offers his hand.
"Come, wife. It's time to retire."
The crowd erupts in crude jokes and laughter. My face burns as Kieran leads me through the hall, every eye following us.
His chambers are enormous—a bed big enough for four people, a fireplace burning low, weapons mounted on the walls. It's a warrior's room, stark and efficient.
The door closes behind us, and I spin to face him.
"Now what?"
Kieran moves to a table and pours two glasses of wine. "Now we wait an appropriate amount of time, you make some loud noises so the guards outside believe I'm bedding you, and then we sleep. Separately."
I blink. "What?"
"You didn't think I'd actually force you?" His eyebrow rises. "I may be many things, Riven, but I'm not a rapist. This marriage serves a purpose, but that purpose doesn't require me to touch you against your will."
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by suspicion. "Then why the show?"
"Because my enemies need to believe you matter to me. If they think you're just a political pawn I don't care about, they'll use you to get to me. If they think you're my weakness..." He hands me a glass of wine. "They'll be more careful."
"So I'm bait."
"You're a shield." He corrects. "There's a difference."
I take the wine but don't drink it. "Why did you commission this dress three months ago? Why were you watching me?"
For the first time since I met him, Kieran hesitates.
"Because three months ago, I received a message from someone I thought was dead," he finally says. "Someone who told me where to find the last Valdris heir. Someone who said I'd need to move fast, because the King was planning to eliminate you."
My heart pounds. "Who sent it?"
"I don't know. It was unsigned. But the information was accurate, which means someone powerful wants you alive." His eyes bore into mine. "The question is why."
Before I can answer, the window explodes inward.
Glass showers everywhere. I throw up my arms to protect my face, but Kieran is already moving—shoving me behind him, drawing a sword from seemingly nowhere.
Three figures pour through the broken window—assassins in black, their faces covered, blades gleaming.
"Stay down!" Kieran roars.
But I can't. Because the lead assassin is looking straight at me, and even through the mask, I recognize those eyes.
Seraphine's eyes.
"Kill the girl," she commands. "Leave Kieran alive to grieve."
The assassins charge.
Kieran meets the first one, his sword singing through the air. Steel clashes against steel. He's fast—impossibly fast—but there are three of them and only one of him.
The second assassin breaks away, heading straight for me.
My magic surges, screaming to be released. I've kept it locked down for so long, but now—with death running at me—every instinct screams to let it go.
"Riven, don't!" Kieran shouts, somehow knowing. "Your magic—they want you to use it! It's a trap!"
But the assassin is too close. His blade rises.
I have no choice.
The magic explodes out of me like a dam breaking.
Shadows erupt from every corner of the room, solid and violent. They slam into the assassin, throwing him backward into the wall with a sickening crunch. The second assassin tries to run, but the shadows catch him too, wrapping around his throat like strangling hands.
Power floods through me—hot and overwhelming and terrifyingly good. This is what I am. This is what I've been hiding.
And I'm done hiding.
The room shakes. Stone cracks. The fire in the fireplace explodes into a roaring inferno.
"Riven!" Kieran's voice cuts through the chaos. "Control it! Before—"
Too late.
The door bursts open. Nobles, guards, servants—everyone drawn by the commotion. They pour into the room and freeze, staring at me wreathed in shadow and fire, two assassins unconscious at my feet, and Seraphine at the broken window.
"Unregistered magic!" someone screams.
"She's using forbidden power!"
"The Warlord married a witch!"
Seraphine's smile is victorious. "You see? She's exactly what I warned you about. An abomination. By Northern law, Kieran, you must execute her yourself, or—"
"Or what?" Kieran's voice is deadly quiet. He steps forward, placing himself between me and the crowd. "Or you'll challenge my authority? Question my judgment?"
"The law is clear—"
"The law," Kieran interrupts, "says unregistered mages are executed. But it also says the Warlord's word is absolute." He turns to face the crowd, and his presence fills the room like a physical force. "Riven is my wife. She is registered as of this moment. Anyone who questions that questions me."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Seraphine's eyes narrow.
"You can't just—"
"I can. I did. It's done." Kieran's hand finds mine, squeezes once. A warning and a promise. "Everyone out. Now."
The crowd disperses slowly, reluctantly. Seraphine is the last to leave, her hatred palpable.
When the door closes, Kieran rounds on me.
"That," he says quietly, "was spectacularly stupid."
"They were going to kill me!"
"They were going to make you reveal your power. Which you did. Exactly as planned." He runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time, he looks tired. "Seraphine now knows what you are. Which means the King will know by morning. Which means we're out of time."
"Out of time for what?"
He meets my eyes, and there's something raw in his expression. Something real.
"For me to teach you to control that power before it destroys you. Or before someone uses it to destroy us both."
A horn blares outside—urgent, alarming.
Kieran strides to the window and looks out. His entire body goes rigid.
"What is it?" I ask.
"The King's army." His voice is flat. "They're at our gates. All of them."
My blood turns to ice. "How—"
"Seraphine." He turns to me, and his expression is grim. "She's been feeding him information. She timed this perfectly—waited until after the wedding, after you revealed your power. Now Aldric can claim I'm harboring an unregistered mage and demand I hand you over."
"What do we do?"
Kieran looks at me for a long moment. Then he crosses the room, opens the locked chest I noticed before, and pulls out a crown.
Not just any crown. A crown of black metal and blood-red stones that seems to drink the light.
The Valdris crown. The crown of the ancient royal line.
"We stop running," Kieran says, holding it out to me. "And we take back your throne."