Three weeks had passed since Lysander's return, and the manor was a hive of frenetic, joyless industry. The scent of beeswax and fresh-cut lilies, her mother's favorite flower, cloyed the air in every hallway. Giselle moved through the preparations like a ghost in her own home, her dark gowns a stark contrast to the bolts of ivory silk and silver lace that now littered the solarium.
Her father, Lord Vamerios, had summoned a couturier from the capital. The man was a wisp of a creature with clever fingers and a disdainful eye, currently kneeling at Giselle's feet with a mouthful of pins. He tutted softly, adjusting the heavy fall of silk at her hem.
"Stand still, my lady. The Lord-General expects perfection, and perfection we shall deliver." The title Lord General hung between them, a reminder of the man she was to marry.
A man she had never met, known only by his reputation: Victor Orlon, the Iron Wolf of the Northern Marches, a mercenary who had bought his way into the nobility with blood and gold.
Giselle's gaze drifted to the window, where rain had begun to streak the glass once more. She could see Lysander in the courtyard below, a dark, still figure amidst the chaos of arriving carts and harried servants.
Giselle clicked her tongue in annoyance, "How would you know you've never met the man?"
The couturier's head snapped up, his thin lips pressed into a disapproving line. "My lady, I have not had the honor of meeting His Grace in person," he said, his voice dripping with false deference. "But his reputation precedes him. The way he commands his men, the way he moves through a battlefield it is said that he is as precise as a master craftsman, as elegant as a man born to nobility."
Giselle's fingers tightened around the silk draped across her lap. "Elegant? A man who has killed more people than I can count?" She couldn't keep the bitterness from her words.
The couturier's eyes darted toward the door, his expression sharpening. "My lady, perhaps such discussions should be reserved for more... private moments." His fingers moved with quick, precise motions, pinning the delicate lace at her bodice. "Your father would not approve of such talk."
Giselle's laugh was soft, but laced with poison. "Father approves of nothing I do." She stood abruptly, causing the couturier to scramble to his feet, pins scattering across the polished floor. "Except this. This final transaction."
"My lady," he ventured, his voice careful now, "many noble marriages are arranged for the good of the family—"
"Stop." She held her hands over her head in exasperation, "This is too much fussing. We've yet to receive any word of the Duke of Greyhaven this all too premature."
The couturier's hands freeze mid-air, his mouth opening slightly before he remembers himself and bows. "As my lady wishes," he murmurs, gathering his scattered pins with unsteady fingers. The rain outside intensifies, drumming against the windows like impatient fingers. Giselle turns away from him, her skirts whispering across the polished floor as she moves toward the window.
In the courtyard below, Lysander stands motionless beneath the awning of the stable, watching as a wagon loaded with wedding gifts creaks through the gates. His face is impassive, but his fingers drum a restless rhythm against the hilt of his sword. Deciding to take matters in her own hands Giselle followed his lead to the stables the horses neighing at her approach,
"Are we supposed to pretend all is well? Am I the only one concerned that my betrothed has not sent word?"
Lysander does not turn, his gaze still fixed on the wagon now disappearing into the rain. "He is a man of war, Giselle. Not a poet. He likely sees no need for pretty letters." His voice is low, meant only for her. "And father would not tell you if there was concern. The contract is signed, the dowry paid. Your feelings are not a factor."
She steps into the shelter of the awning, the scent of wet horse and leather filling her senses. "My feelings are the only factor that matters to me." She watches his profile, the grim set of his mouth. "You've fought in the north. You must know something of him. Tell me."
Lysander's drumming fingers still. For a long moment, he says nothing. The rain sheets down, turning the courtyard into a blur of grey stone and mud. When he finally speaks, his words are measured, each one chosen with the care of a man disarming a trap.
"I know he does not lose," Lysander says. "I know his men are fanatically loyal, which is rare for sellswords. I know he took Greyhaven Keep with fifty men against two hundred, and held it through a winter siege." He turns his head, his grey eyes meeting hers. "They say he is fair. That he rewards competence and has no patience for cruelty or waste."
Giselle raised an eyebrow, "Have you seen him?" The question hangs between them, and Lysander's expression shifts like clouds before a storm. He turns fully toward her now, the movement deliberate, his broad shoulders blocking the downpour. "Yes," he says simply. "I have."
The stable boys move through the stalls behind them, their murmured conversations and the rustle of hay creating a backdrop to their hushed exchange.
Giselle steps closer, her skirts brushing against his boots. "And?" she presses, her voice quiet but insistent. "What is he like, truly? Not the legend, not the rumors....what is he like as a man?"
Lysander's eyes darken, his jaw tightening. He looks past her, out toward the rain-slick courtyard where water pools in the ruts left by wagon wheels. "He is... severe," he says at last. "Quiet. Not in the way you are quiet, your quiet is waiting. His is certainty. He does not need to fill silence with words because he already knows what he intends to do."
Giselle watches him, searching for something doubt, hesitation, anything to suggest this marriage might not be the catastrophe she fears. But Lysander's face gives nothing away. "That does not answer my question," she says, though her voice has softened.
"It is the only answer I have," he replies. "I was not his friend."
"Good God is he at least handsome? For such a famous figure he is shrouded in mystery."
Lysander's lips twitch not quite a smile, but something close. "Handsome enough," he says, his tone careful. "His features are... sharp. His eyes are grey like winter steel. They see everything."
Giselle exhales through her nose, a quiet scoff. "At least you admit that much." She turns her head slightly, letting the rain cool her skin where it spills past the awning's edge. "Do you think he will be kind to me?" The question slips out before she can stop it, raw and unguarded.
Lysander stiffens slightly. He glances at her, then away, his profile stark in the dim light. For a long moment, the only sounds were the rain's percussion and the horses shifting in their stalls. Lysander's silence was heavy, a palpable weight between them. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low murmur meant only for the space beneath the awning.
"He is not known for kindness," Lysander said, each word deliberate. "But he is known for honor. He upholds his contracts to the letter. You will be his wife, not a prisoner. He will not mistreat you." He paused, his gaze returning to her face. "But kindness… that is a softer currency. I cannot speak to it."
"Still I wish he would just sent word. Something, anything." Giselle's shoulders slumped, a subtle surrender to the relentless uncertainty. She watched the last of the wagon vanish into the grey veil of rain, taking with it the tangible proof of this distant duke's existence silver plate, bolts of velvet, casks of wine, all mute and impersonal. "A single line of ink," she murmured, almost to herself. "Just to know he remembers there is a woman at the other end of this bargain."
Lysander's hand, which had been resting on his sword hilt, lifted slightly as if to reach out, then fell back to his side. "He remembers," he said, his voice gruffer than before. "Men like him do not forget obligations."
"He was married before.....correct?" Lysander's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He hesitates, just for a heartbeat, before nodding. "Yes." His eyes flick away, focusing on the rain-slick stones of the courtyard. "She died two winters past. Childbed fever, they say."
Giselle absorbs this, the words settling like stones in her stomach. She hadn't known. Hadn't even thought to ask. She studies Lysander's face, searching for something sadness? Guilt? But his features remain carefully neutral. "And the child?" she asks softly.
Lysander exhales through his nose, the sound almost a growl. "Lost as well."
Giselle felt a heaviness settle on her shoulders just what was she walking into?
The silence stretches between them, thick with unspoken truths. Giselle's gaze drifts from Lysander's rigid profile to the empty space where the wagon had been. A widow-maker, then. A man acquainted with the deepest kind of loss. She wonders if that is the source of his silence, if grief has carved out the hollows in a heart she is now bound to fill.
"No one told me," she whispers, the words barely audible over the rain.
"It is not a story told in polite company," Lysander replies, his voice low and edged with something like weariness. "It is considered… bad luck before a new union."
She rolled her eyes, "I don't believe such things." She glanced at him, "You look better at least. Maybe it'll be your turn to get a wife."
Lysander's laugh is short and sharp, the sound cutting through the rain's steady rhythm. "I think I've had enough of marriage for one lifetime," he says, though there's no real humor in his words. He turns back to watch the courtyard, his shoulders squaring as a stable boy leads a pair of chestnut geldings past them, hooves splashing in the gathering puddles.
Giselle's eyes narrow slightly at his deflection, but she lets it pass. Instead, she studies the way the rain catches on Lysander's hair, turning the dark strands nearly black at the edges. "You're being mysterious again," she accuses, though her tone lacks its usual bite.
"Does any woman have your heart, Lysander?" She pressed peering over his shoulder?
Lysander doesn't answer right away. The rain fills the silence, steady and unrelenting. Giselle waits, watching the way his fingers curl slightly against the pommel of his sword—a restless, telling motion. She presses a little closer, near enough to smell the faint tang of iron on his leather gloves, the clean bite of rain-soaked wool.
"Does any woman have your heart, Lysander?" she repeats, softer this time, though her eyes are still sharp.
His gaze flicks to her, then away. "No one," he says, the word clipped. "Not like that."
She hums, unconvinced. "You're a terrible liar." She patted his shoulder, "Tell me about her one day. Perhaps when you aren't-" Giselle's hand lingered on his shoulder, a brief, warm pressure through the damp wool of his cloak. Lysander went very still beneath her touch, the tension in his frame turning rigid as oak. He did not pull away, but the air around them seemed to sharpen, charged with all the things he was not saying.
"I should see to the men," he said abruptly, his voice rough. He stepped back, and her hand fell away, the space between them suddenly cold and vacant.
"You should go inside before you catch a chill." Giselle lets her hand drop, her fingers curling against the empty air where his shoulder had been.
She studies him, noting how his eyes have darkened to the color of storm clouds, how his jaw tightens until a muscle jumps beneath the skin. There's something almost painful in the way he holds himself now, as if the conversation has pressed upon wounds he'd thought long healed.
"Fine," she says, her voice deliberately light, though her eyes remain fixed on his. "But you're not getting rid of me that easily, Lysander." She steps past him, her skirts brushing against his leg as she moves, deliberate in her touch. "We're not done with this conversation."
*******
The day of the wedding Giselle stood staring at herself in the mirror, the gown was white, not quite bridal in color but close enough to signify the occasion. She watched her fingers trace the embroidery along her sleeve, the delicate threadwork a riot of tiny flowers and vines that seemed to shift with every movement. The wedding dress feels heavy on her shoulders, the fabric stiff with the weight of tradition and expectation.
She doesn't look like herself, and the realization sits uncomfortably in her stomach.
Her maid, a girl named Elara with soft hands and a perpetually sunken expression, moves behind her with the pin, adjusting the fit along her spine.
"There," Elara murmurs, her voice scarcely audible. "Almost perfect."
Giselle's dark locks were wound in a tight bun, her pale skin flushed lightly, her dark eyes were lined with kohl; she looked absolutely ethereal, and utterly foreign. A stranger peered back at her from the polished silver mirror, a woman of porcelain stillness and heavy silks. She looked like a painting of a bride, not a bride herself. The weight of the gown was nothing compared to the weight of the unknown, the ghost of a woman who had worn this title before her and perished in the claiming of it.
Still there was a growing nagging feeling in her chest that something was wrong, "He still has sent no word, what if this is a mistake? Elara what if-"
Elara's hands pause mid-motion, the pin suspended over Giselle's shoulder. She exhales slowly, her breath warm against the nape of Giselle's neck. "Your Grace," she murmurs, "it is too late for such thoughts."
Giselle meets her reflection's gaze, her fingers tightening in the folds of her skirt. "I know," she whispers. "But still, it feels like a storm on the horizon. I have agreed to become his wife, and yet I do not even know the man's voice."
Her lips press into a thin line. "Does he even want this? Or am I simply another obligation, another ghost to haunt his halls?" Elara blinked rapidly unable to form a thought.
Giselle shook her head, "Forgive me I...I am -" Elara's hands finally move, securing the last pin with a practiced twist of her fingers. "You are not wrong to question," she says, her voice so quiet it nearly disappears beneath the morning breeze filtering through the chamber windows. "But today is not the day for those questions."
Giselle's reflection stares back at her, a mask of composure settling over her features.
Her smile is tight lipped though embarrassment fills in her gut. What was she thinking asking a maid for advice. It's ridiculous. She turns away from the mirror, the heavy skirts swirling around her ankles like a pool of milk.
"Thank you, Elara. That will be all." The dismissal is clear, and the maid bows her head, slipping from the room with the silent grace of a shadow.
Alone, Giselle paces the length of the chamber, the only sound the soft rustle of silk and the frantic beat of her own heart. She stops before the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. The courtyard below is a flurry of activity servants rushing with garlands, guards taking their positions along the processional route. It is all a meticulously arranged performance, and she is the lead player who has never seen the script. She gnaws at her nails an old habit, the nerves were grating down on her. Giselle's fingers tremble slightly as she draws them away from her mouth, the jagged edge of her nail catching on her lower lip. She exhales slowly, trying to steady herself, but the feeling of unease persists, curling in her gut like a serpent coiling ever tighter. Her gaze sweeps over the meticulously arranged chamber, the opulent furnishings and hanging tapestries all testaments to a life she had come to tolerate.
The soft knock at the door makes her heart skip. She turns, her skirts twisting around her legs like vines as she faces the entrance. A moment passes, the silence thick with expectation, before she speaks.
"Come in." Her father stands in the doorway, a pillar of velvet and gold embroidery.
Lord Alaric's face is a familiar mask of stern benevolence, but Giselle has known him long enough to see the faint tension around his eyes, the slight rigidity in his shoulders. He closes the door softly behind him, the heavy oak clicking shut with a finality that echoes in the quiet room.
"You look every inch the duchess," he says, his voice a low rumble. He does not approach, but remains near the threshold, his gaze sweeping over her from head to toe.
There is pride there, yes, but also a careful, assessing quality, as if he is inspecting a prized horse before a sale.
Giselle looks down at her feet, "Thank you." She did not want to meet his eyes, her father was never cruel to her he was worse.
Distant, cold and calculating. He had always treated her more as a political asset than a daughter, a fact that had carved a quiet hollow in her chest over the years. "The carriages are ready," he continues, his tone brisk, businesslike. "The ceremony begins in an hour. I trust you are prepared?"
She lifts her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. "As prepared as one can be to marry a stranger," she says, the words sharper than she intended. A flicker of something—irritation, perhaps—passes over his features before he smooths it away.
"This is not a stranger, Giselle. This is Victor Orlon, the Duke of Greyhaven."
"As if I could forget!" She snaps, "Orlon. The name I've heard a thousand times in hushed conversations, whispered warnings, and veiled threats. He is your ally, my father, not my friend. And now he is to be my husband. I know exactly who he is." Her hands clench at her sides, the fine fabric of her sleeves wrinkling under the pressure of her fingers.
Lord Alaric's lips press into a thin line, his hands folding neatly before him. "He is a man of power and consequence. That should be enough for you." His words are measured, controlled, but Giselle hears the edge beneath them the one that has always cut at her nerves like a blade wrapped in silk.
"Has he written to you? Relayed anything? don't you find any of this odd- "
Lord Alaric's gaze sharpens, a crack in his polished composure. "Odd?" he repeats, the word hanging in the air between them like a challenge. He takes a single step forward, the hem of his velvet robe brushing the floor.
"What is odd, daughter, is the luxury of questioning a match that secures our house's future. What is odd is the notion that a man like Orlon owes you explanations before the vows are spoken." He pauses, his eyes narrowing. "He has communicated what is necessary. The rest is not your concern."
Giselle feels the old, cold weight of his dismissal settle over her. She feels tears prick the edges of her eyes, glaring at the man in front of her, "Why do all this?" her throat is raw, "Who are you doing this for, father?"
Alaric's jaw tightens, his face a mask of calm control, but there is a faint shift in his posture an almost imperceptible straightening of his shoulders, a slight narrowing of his eyes. "This is for our house," he says, his voice steady, measured. "For the legacy you carry and the future you will ensure."
Giselle shakes her head, her hands gripping the folds of her skirt. "And what of me?" she whispers, though she already knows the answer.
Her father exhales, a slow, deliberate sound. "You are part of something greater than yourself, Giselle. That has always been the way of things."
"I'm scared." Lord Alaric's face remains impassive, though his eyes flicker with something unreadable annoyance, perhaps, or something closer to pity. He steps forward, closing the distance between them, and for a moment, Giselle allows herself to believe he might comfort her, that he might acknowledge the fear in her voice as something more than weakness. But he only places his hands on her shoulders, his grip firm but impersonal, as if he were adjusting a piece of furniture rather than his own daughter.
"Fear is natural," he says, his voice low, measured. "But it does not serve you. You are the future Duchess of Greyhaven, Giselle." His fingers tighten slightly on her shoulders, a subtle pressure that feels more like a warning than reassurance. "What serves you is strength. Resolve. The understanding that this marriage is not a request—it is a necessity."
Giselle draws in a slow breath, feeling the corset beneath her wedding gown tighten against her ribs. She looks past her father to the reflection in the mirror—a woman in white silk and lace, her face composed, her eyes hollow.
"And if he doesn't come?" The question leaves her lips unbidden, a thread of doubt pulling at the carefully woven fabric of the day's proceedings.
Lord Alaric's face hardens, the lines around his mouth deepening. "Then the alliance fails," he says, his voice cold as winter stone. "And House Vamerios stands alone against the northern clans. Is that what you wish to see?" His hands drop from her shoulders, leaving behind a lingering chill. "Victor Orlon is not a man who breaks his word. He will be there."
He turns toward the door, his robe sweeping the floor with a soft whisper. "Compose yourself. The guests are arriving. I will send your maid to attend to your final preparations." Without another glance, he exits the chamber, closing the door with a quiet but definitive click.
Giselle stands motionless for a long moment, the silence of the room pressing in on her.
*******
Giselle gripped her father's arm as the procession began he would guide her to the alter, glancing up at him He did not look at her. His gaze was fixed ahead, on the arched doorway at the end of the long gallery that led to the Grand Hall, where the sound of murmured conversation and the scent of incense already drifted. His profile was as carved and unyielding as the stone architraves. Her fingers, white-knuckled on the brocade of his sleeve, felt like a bird clinging to a branch in a gale.
The gallery stretched before them, lined with the silent, judging portraits of Vamerios ancestors. Their painted eyes seemed to follow her progress, a parade of ghosts witnessing the final, necessary sacrifice of their line. Giselle's breath came shallowly as she moved beside her father, each step measured and deliberate. The wedding gown, so exquisite in its design, now felt like a second skin too tight to breathe in. The lace at her throat chafed against her pulse point, and she could feel the sweat forming along her hairline, dampening the delicate arrangement of pearls and white roses that her maid had so carefully woven into her hair.
The crowd of guests parted as they approached the Grand Hall, their faces a blur of congratulatory smiles and appraising glances. Giselle focused on keeping her expression neutral, on not letting the tremor in her hands betray her. Giselle's eyes searched for her brother, Lysander was not among the sea of faces. He had been present at the breakfast, a silent, brooding figure at the high table, but he was absent now from the honor guard of family and retainers lining the aisle. The absence was a sharper ache than the fear. Her brother, who had ridden through rain and shadow to be here, was now nowhere to be seen.
The music swelled as they crossed the threshold into the Grand Hall. The air was thick with incense and the cloying sweetness of thousands of white lilies massed along the columns. At the far end, beneath the great stained-glass window depicting the Martyrdom of Saint Astra, stood a dais. Her eyes searched the dais, expecting a man she only saw the priest. Resplendent in his silver-stitched vestments, his hands folded, his expression serene and expectant.
The music faltered for a single, heart-stopping beat, then resumed its stately pace. A ripple of confusion passed through the assembled nobility like a chill wind through wheat. Whispers began, hushed but urgent. Giselle felt her father's arm stiffen beneath her hand.
"Where is he?" She whispered, searching wildly beneath her veil, "Be still." Her father spoke through clenched teeth. Still? she thought. How in God's name would she be still where in the fuck was Victor Orlon.
All this work, all this fucking work she heard the phrase repeat in her head like screeching cats. She overheard a whisper from beside her. The words slithered past the veil of lilies and incense: "Perhaps he has reconsidered." It was a lady-in-waiting, standing too close, her voice a venomous ribbon of silk.
Giselle's head snapped toward the sound, but the woman's face was a mask of feigned concern. Her father's grip on her arm tightened to the point of pain, a silent command to face forward, to endure.
Then, a disturbance at the rear of the hall—a door swinging open with a thud that cut through the music. The crowd gasped, parting like a tide. Not Victor Orlon, but Lysander.
Giselle's gaze locked onto Lysander as he strode purposefully down the aisle, his boots clicking against the marble floor. His face was a mask of controlled fury, his jaw clenched tight. The crowd parted before him like a wave, their whispers dying to hushed murmurs of shocked awe. He wore his ceremonial armor, polished to a mirror finish, the sigil of House Vamerios shining brightly on his breastplate. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a silent promise of protection.
He stopped before the dais, turning to face Giselle with a look that spoke volumes. His eyes, usually so guarded, blazed with defiance and something else perhaps regret, perhaps sorrow. "W-What is it?" The question hangs in the air like a blade poised to fall. Lysander's eyes sweep past her, locking onto something behind her with an intensity that makes the skin prickle along her spine. When he speaks, his voice is dangerously quiet.
"He's not coming, Giselle."
The words land like a hammer blow to her ribs. Around them, the hall has gone deathly still. Even the priest stands frozen, the chalice in his hands quivering slightly. Lysander's gauntleted hand moves to her shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind.
"He sent a messenger."
"A messenger?" This time it was her father's voice, he sounded strained and incredulous, the carefully maintained façade of control beginning to crack. "What manner of cowardice is this?"
Lysander did not look at their father. His gaze remained fixed on Giselle, as if she were the only person in the vast, silent hall. "A boy," he said, his voice low and carrying in the profound quiet. "A stable lad, terrified and covered in road dust. He delivered a sealed scroll to the gatehouse not five minutes ago."
The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of crushed lilies and cold sweat. Giselle could feel the weight of a thousand stares, a mixture of pity, scorn, and morbid curiosity. Her veil felt like a shroud.
Their father snatched the seal scroll, he opened it rapidly his eyes reading the text for moment he relaxed. He handed it to the priest. Giselle watched in horror, "What does it say?"
The priest smiled at her, "It is good news."
Lysander's hand tightens briefly on her shoulder before he turns to face the priest. The metal of his gauntlet scrapes faintly against the silk of her sleeve, a small, sharp sound in the silence. "Good news?" he repeats, his voice hard as iron.
Giselle feels her pulse quicken, the air around her thinning. She watches her father—Lord Alaric—stand straighter, his expression shifting from confusion to something resembling relief. The priest nods, folding the parchment carefully before handing it to her father, who accepts it with shaking hands.
"The Duke of Greyhaven," the priest says, addressing the hall but keeping his gaze on her, "extends his deepest apologies."
"The marriage is valid, as you can see he signed the contract." A low murmur rippled through the assembly. Valid? How could it be valid without the groom present?
The priest continued, his voice carrying a practiced, soothing cadence meant to calm noble hysteria. "The duke was set upon by brigands on the north road. His escort was forced into a defensive skirmish. Though unharmed, he was delayed. In his stead, and to ensure the sanctity of the contract and the hour, he has sent his proxy."
"Proxy?" The word escaped Giselle's lips, a breathless, disbelieving whisper.
From the shadows near the great arched doors, a man stepped forward. The man moves with the measured confidence of someone accustomed to power, his boots striking the marble floor with a deliberate rhythm that draws all eyes. His face is lined with years, his jaw set in an expression that betrays neither sympathy nor concern. He wears the colors of House Greyhaven deep blues and silver threads but not the ceremonial garb expected for such an occasion.
"Lord Darion Greyhaven," the priest announces, though his tone suggests he has never heard of the man. "The Duke's cousin and appointed representative."
Giselle's father steps forward, his composure returning like a second skin.
"My lord," he says, his voice carefully neutral, though his eyes remain narrowed. "An unexpected honor."
The man, Lord Darion Greyhaven, inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment, his eyes never leaving Giselle. "Lady Vamerios," he says, his words smooth but carrying an unmistakable edge. "I trust I find you well, despite the... unusual circumstances."
Giselle struggles to breathe, the tightness of her corset suddenly unbearable. She feels Lysander's grip on her shoulder shift, his fingers flexing as if to steady her or restrain her. Around them, the assembled guests shift in their seats, their whispers blending into a low, anxious murmur. The priest clears his throat, glancing between Lord Darion and Giselle's father, as if unsure how to proceed.
Finally he clears his throat, "In case of such an event we shall proceed, please Lord Darion if you will." The man steps forward, his movements precise and economical, like a blade being drawn. He takes his place beside Giselle, and the scent of cold steel and distant rain clings to him. He does not look at her, but his presence is a wall, solid and unyielding.
The priest lifts the chalice again, his voice trembling slightly as he resumes the vows. "Do you, Victor Orlon, Duke of Greyhaven, take this woman..."
Lord Darion's voice cuts through the ritual, flat and devoid of emotion. "I do, in his name and stead."
A cold dread settles in Giselle's stomach. The priest then turns the question to her, "Do you, Giselle Vamerios, take this man as your lawful husband, to stand by him in prosperity and hardship, until death do you part?"
The words hang in the air like a blade suspended over her neck. Lord Darion remains unmoving beside her, his presence a cold weight against her skin despite the absence of contact. His eyes, dark and unreadable, fix on some point beyond her shoulder.
Giselle's throat tightens. The silence stretches, the expectant hush of the hall pressing against her like the stones of the cathedral itself. Her father's hand finds her elbow, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to remind her of her place. "I-I do."
The words leave her lips before she can call them back, a quiet confession in the cavernous silence.