Chapter 4: The Queen's Gown
The silver mirror reflected a stranger back at me. The gown of moon-silk was almost translucent in the candlelight, layers of pale fabric cascading from my shoulders to pool at my feet. Two elven handmaidens worked silently at my sides, their fingers trembling as they laced the bodice tight against my ribs. The fabric clung to my still-damp skin, cold and unforgiving.
I could still feel the ghost of Gromm's touch between my thighs. The memory burned hotter than any shame I had a right to feel.
One of the handmaidens met my eyes in the mirror. Her name was Sera, I remembered. She had braided flowers into my hair for the harvest festival two years past. Now her gaze held nothing but pity and fear.
"Your Highness," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "The orcs say we must hurry."
I nodded, unable to speak. My throat felt raw from the tears I had shed in the dungeon. Mythias's accusations still rang in my ears. *You're accepting him. You're letting him win.*
But what choice did I have?
The handmaidens finished their work, stepping back to admire their creation. I looked like a ghost bride. A sacrifice dressed in moonlight. The silver filigree belt cinched around my waist, and I caught the glint of the iron band lying on a velvet cushion nearby. My wedding ring. The symbol of my captivity.
Orc guards appeared in the doorway, their tusked faces grim. Their leader grunted something in their guttural tongue, jerking his head toward the corridor beyond.
I walked.
The grand balcony overlooked the courtyard where my people had gathered. Hundreds of elves stood in silent rows, ringed by orc warriors with spears and torches. The torches cast dancing shadows across their faces, illuminating the fear in their eyes. They had come to witness the union that would bind our peoples together. They had come to watch their princess surrender.
And there he stood at the altar.
Gromm Iron-Tooth wore ceremonial armor of dark leather and iron, his broad shoulders squared beneath the torchlight. His amber eyes found mine across the distance, and I felt the weight of his gaze like a physical pressure against my chest. Hunger. Possession. Something deeper that I refused to name.
My knees went weak beneath the moon-silk as I approached the altar that had been set up on the balcony. The elven priestess stood beside the orc shaman, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white. The shaman regarded me with flat, knowing eyes, his tusks painted with ochre symbols that glistened in the torchlight.
I stopped before them, and Gromm turned to face me fully. His amber eyes swept over my gown, my face, the iron ring on its cushion. Something softened in his expression, a crack in the iron mask he wore. Then it was gone.
The priestess stepped forward, her voice trembling as she recited the old words of binding. She produced a length of silver ribbon and wound it around our joined hands, her fingers shaking against my skin. The words felt hollow, a mockery of the sacred rites I had dreamed of as a girl.
Then the shaman spoke. His voice was low and guttural, a chant in the orcish tongue that rumbled through the stone beneath my feet. The sound vibrated through my chest, unsettling and alien. When he finished, he gestured for the rings.
Gromm lifted the iron band from its cushion, his eyes watching mine as he waited for my hand. I raised it up, and he slid the ring onto my finger, his touch gentle despite the immediate pain flooding through me.
It wasn’t the searing agony I had feared, but a dull, draining ache that spread up my arm and into my chest. My magic recoiled inside me, shriveling like a flower touched by frost. I hissed through my teeth, clenching my jaw against the sensation. Gromm watched me, his expression unreadable.
The orcs erupted into cheers. Their war cries rose into the night, shaking the torches in their sconces. Below, my people stood in silence, their faces etched with horror. I could not look at them. I could not bear to see what I had become in their eyes.
Gromm took my bound hand in his. His grip was firm, steadying. "Come," he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "The ceremony is done. Now we seal it."
He led me through the corridors of my own home, past orc guards and terrified servants, until we reached the royal chambers. The doors swung open, and I stepped inside.
And then I saw him.
Mythias was chained to the far wall, his wrists bound in iron manacles that hung from brackets set into the stone. He’d been patched up, wiped clean of blood and soot, tended to by the healer. Yet his eyes burned with a fury that made my blood run cold.
Gromm's hand pressed against the small of my back. "It is tradition among my people," he said, his voice flat, "that a witness be present for the consummation. I chose one you know well. One who needs to understand his place."
"No," I breathed, the word escaping before I could stop it. "No, Gromm. Not Mythias. Anyone but him."
I turned to face the orc, my bound hands pressing against his chest plate. The iron ring throbbed against my finger, a dull ache that pulsed in time with my racing heart. I could feel Mythias's gaze burning into the back of my neck, could hear the rattle of his chains as he shifted against the wall.
"Please," I said, and my voice cracked on the word. "I will do what you ask. I will lie in your bed. I will bear your heirs. But do not make him watch. Do not make me..."
The words died in my throat. I could not speak the rest.
Behind me, Mythias laughed. It was a broken sound, jagged and hollow. "You beg him to spare my eyes, but not to spare your body." His chains clinked as he strained against them. "You would have let him take you without a word. But the thought of me watching is what breaks you."
I turned to look at him. His cerulean eyes held a contempt I had never seen before, a cold recognition that cut deeper than any insult.
"You care more about my opinion than your own honor," he said, each word dripping with bitter realization. "You are not a prisoner fighting to survive. You are a woman who wants to pretend this is not her choice."
The accusation struck like a blade between my ribs. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but Gromm's hand closed around my wrist, pulling me back.
"Enough." His voice carried the weight of command, and Mythias fell silent, though his jaw remained tight. Gromm looked down at me, his amber eyes unreadable. "My guards told me how he spoke to you in the dungeon. How he threw stones instead of offering comfort."
He stepped closer, his massive frame blocking the torchlight. "This is how strong warriors are broken, little elf. Not by pain. Not by death. By watching the thing they love most slip through their fingers and knowing they could not stop it."
I trembled beneath his gaze, the truth of his words settling into my bones like frost.
“Please, Gromm,” I say, pleading with the fearsome orc, “don’t do this. I’ll do what you want, but don’t make him watch. It will only make Mythias hate you more.”
“Of course I hate him!” Mythias’s voice tore through the chamber, raw and jagged. The chains rattled as he lunged forward, the iron biting into his wrists. “He killed our king. He killed elves. He slaughtered our people in the streets and you expect me to feel anything but hatred?”
Gromm did not turn. His amber eyes held mine, steady and unblinking, as though Mythias’s outburst was no more than wind rattling a shutter. The torchlight carved deep shadows beneath his brow, and when he spoke, his voice came low and measured.
“I did not come to your kingdom to wage war for sport.” He said it simply, as though explaining a matter of trade. “My people were starving. The lands we claimed were barren, stripped by drought and blight. I sent emissaries to your father, asking only that he cease his raids on our villages, that he allow us to cultivate the stretch of valley we had settled.”
I stared at him, the words not quite fitting into the shape of my understanding. “Raids? What raids? My father never spoke of attacking orc settlements.”
“No,” Gromm said, and something hard flickered in his gaze. “He would not have. Ask him.”
He tilted his head toward Mythias.
I turned slowly, my breath catching in my throat. Mythias had gone quiet. His cerulean eyes had dropped to the stone floor, his jaw tight, the muscles in his neck corded with tension. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
“Mythias.” My voice came out thin. “What is he talking about?”
He did not answer. His hands curled into fists, the chains groaning as he pulled against them. When he finally raised his head, the anger was still there, but something else had crept into its shadow. Guilt. Shame.
“We were protecting our borders,” he said, but the words lacked conviction. “The orcs were encroaching on sacred ground. Your father ordered the patrols to drive them back.”
“Drive them back,” Gromm repeated, the words dripping with cold irony. “With fire and iron. You burned our crops. You slaughtered our women and children who had come to gather water. You called it defense.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. I turned back to Mythias, searching his expression for denial, for anything that might refute the orc’s accusation. But he would not meet my eyes.
“Fine,” I whispered, pressing my fingers to my temple as I take a deep breath. “Fine, let us consummate the marriage. Right here. Right now.”