Chapter 1: The Bloodied Crown and Iron Vows
The jagged shards of my father's stained glass dais crunch beneath my slippers, a sound like breaking bone. I can still smell him here, the cedar incense he burned each morning, now tangled with the metallic reek of dried blood that no amount of scrubbing will ever lift from the marble. Sunlight falls through the ruined windows in cruel pieces, painting my gown in colors that no longer feel sacred.
Gromm, the terrible orc war lord that has carved a devastating path through my peaceful kingdom, stands before me, a mountain clothed in leathers and violence. His war hammer rests against the floor, its head broader than my chest, and I watch the way his fingers curl around the haft, possessive even in stillness. His amber eyes track my every breath, measuring me, tasting my fear. The tusks that rise from his jaw catch the light, and I see soot ground into the creases of his green skin.
"Kneel," he says, and his voice is gravel and thunder, a sound that vibrates through the soles of my feet.
My throat closes. I think of my father, the way his eyes had gone wide in the moment before his skull was cracked. I think of the smoke rising from the outer districts, of the children I saw huddled in the temple, of the mothers pressing their palms over their daughters' mouths to keep them silent.
Then I see him. Mythias. In the shadows beside the shattered throne, shackles bolted to each wrist, the chains wrapped in the fists of two orcs on either side of him. Blood crusts the corner of his mouth and iron of his bindings saps his strength, yet his cerulean eyes are fixed on me, and they hold no accusation. Only warning.
My compliance is the only thing keeping this kingdom safe. I understand this with a clarity that settles cold and hard in my chest.
I gather the skirts of my spider silk gown, the fabric slipping through my trembling fingers, and I lower myself to my knees on the broken glass. The points bite through the thin material, drawing blood I refuse to acknowledge. I tilt my head back, meeting Gromm's gaze.
"You shall swear fealty," he commands, pausing for a moment before speaking again. “And bind yourself to me before both of our peoples, making me ruler of Y’thara, and you my queen.”
My chest tightens, the air leaving my lungs, as my ears ring with the sudden pressure collapsing on me. I look at Mythias, and though I see him tugging at the chains and shouting at me, I cannot hear his pleas for me to say no.
"Yes," I hear myself say, the word escaping my lips like a breath I had been holding since the moment I saw my father fall. "I will wed you."
Mythias's cry tears through the throne room, raw and broken, a sound I have never heard from a warrior's throat. The chains rattle as he lunges forward, but the orcs holding him wrench him back, and I watch his knees buckle, the fight draining from him like blood from a wound.
Gromm does not flinch. His amber eyes hold mine, searching for deception, for hesitation. I give him neither. I have learned already that this creature reads weakness the way a hound reads scent.
"Take the captain to the dungeon," he says, his voice carrying across the hall without effort. "Deep cells. Double the guard. He is trouble, and I will not have him disrupting my wedding."
The orcs haul Mythias toward the side passage, and I force myself to watch, force myself to memorize the set of his shoulders, the way his honey brown hair falls across his scarred cheek. He does not look back at me, and I do not know if that is mercy or condemnation.
Gromm turns to one of his lieutenants, a broad orc with a scar splitting his lip. "Fetch an iron ring from the smith. Tell him to forge it as an alloy, one part cold iron to three parts steel. I want it ready by sundown."
My blood chills. Cold iron. Every elven child learns the burn of it before they learn to walk, the way it saps our magic, the way it leaves our skin blistered and raw. I have seen prisoners wear iron shackles until their wrists wept. I have seen what it does to those who resist.
But an alloy. He is specifying an alloy. The distinction lodges in my chest like a splinter I cannot reach. It will dampen my magic, dull the connection to the earth and sky that sings in my blood, but it will not sear me. It will not scar.
He is choosing to spare me that pain.
The realization unsettles me more than cruelty would have. Cruelty I understand. Cruelty I can brace against. But this measured consideration, this deliberate tempering of his own weapons, speaks to a mind that calculates, that plans, that sees me as something more than a trophy to be mounted on his wall.
I remain kneeling as he gestures for me to rise, the glass biting deeper into my knees, and I place my palm in his enormous hand. His skin is rough and warm, calluses like river stones pressing against my fingers. He pulls me to my feet with a gentleness that feels like a threat.