PrologueÂ
The Blood Wedding
âIâm ready. Will you open the doors?â
At her command, the servantsâdressed in somber grayâpulled open the heavy double doors with a deep, echoing sound.
Through the widening crack stepped the brightest figure of the dayâLamberta Coronis, the bride of the hour.
The grand hall, a proud emblem of the Coronis estate, was a blend of northern austerity and southern elegance. Two stories tall, its upper balconies offered a sweeping view of the guests belowâso many that one could scarcely find space to stand.
Most of the attendees were dressed in the refined, spotless style of the South or the lavish fashions of the capital. Yet scattered among them were a few northerners, standing apart in dark, weathered leathers.
Neither side acknowledged the other. Not a word, not even a glance passed between them.
When Lord Avian Coronis, head of the house and master of the estate, rose from his seat and extended his hand toward his daughter, the guests followed suitârising and applauding in unison.
âIs that the living sacrifice of our generation?â
âYes. This yearâs offering of House Coronis. A shame to see such a fine body defiled by northern hands.â
Lambertaâs stepsâsoft upon the crimson carpetâgrew heavier with every whisper that reached her ears.
With each measured pace, the murmurs seemed to sharpen, digging beneath her skin.
The living sacrifice of Coronis.
That name had followed her since birth.
Once every generation, a daughter born to House Coronis of the South was bound to marry a man of the North. The tradition, handed down through countless ages, had been her destiny long before she could walkâone she had never dreamed of escaping.
And today, that destiny had come for her.
Her wedding day.
The southern proverb said: âEven to your enemyâs bride, offer a blessing.â
But it seemed that did not apply to a woman marrying into the North.
âPoor girl. You know what northern men are like.â
âThey play with their brides until they tire of them⊠then kill them. Sheâs so young, too.â
The voices hid behind false concern, but they were nothing more than spiteful gossip.
Rumors of northern savagery had always been the Southâs favorite pastime.
Lamberta straightened her back, praying that the rumors were lies, and walked on.
If this had been a marriage between southern families, they would have met many times already. The whispers might have been laughed off.
But thisâthis was a political union with the despised North.
She knew only her groomâs name.
âDione, son of Rukon, hero and leader of the Northââ
Her fatherâs solemn voice drew her gaze upward. For the first time, Lamberta looked upon the man she was to marry.
Golden hairârare even among northernersâshimmered under the chandeliers, tousled and elegant. Beneath that radiant hair was a face so refined it could have belonged to a southerner: gentle eyes, a serene smile.
It was a smile that made her thinkâperhaps her fears were nothing more than nerves, and happiness might truly await her.
âI, Avian Coronis, Lord of this house, thank all guests for attending my daughterâs union.â
As her father spoke, Lamberta cast quick glances between him and Dione. She could not hold back the small smile tugging at her lips.
âSo what if itâs a political marriage? Mother met Father the same way.â
She recalled her motherâs old advice: âSave your brightest smile for the very end of the ceremony.â
âAh⊠I hope Dione feels the same. That even if this marriage was arranged, he might someday come to love me.â
Her fatherâs words blurred into background noise.
In this ceremony, the bride and groom were little more than formal necessitiesâsymbols of an alliance sealed by their parentsâ oaths.
âNow, with the vow of a kiss, let us sanctify this union and declare its rightful bond.â
A beat too late, Lamberta understood his words. Dione reached out his hand first.
She could not suppress her smile as she placed her trembling fingers in his.
If her first kiss felt like thisâwarm, tender, hopefulâthen surely her life would be blessed.
She closed her eyes, leaned forward ever so slightlyâŠ
And just as her lips were about to meet hisâ
Shaaakâ! Crash!
Thud!
It wasnât only glass that shattered.
The rush of wind. A scream. A dull, wet sound. Lamberta opened her eyes in confusion.
âKyaaaaaaah!â
Not her voiceâbut that of another noblewoman.
A heavy, hollow thump echoed through the hall.
Her pristine white gown bloomed red as blood soaked through it.
And then she saw itâDioneâs body collapsing onto her, lifeless, an arrow buried deep in his heart and skull.
For a moment, time slowed to a crawl.
âAhâŠâ
A sound escaped her lips, faint and broken.
But no more followedâbecause the same arrow that pierced Dioneâs chest had torn through her as well, scraping her ribs and leaving a burning wound.
No. This must be a dream. Thereâs no dream like thisâŠ
That was her last thought before the world tilted, and she fell beneath the weight of her dead husband, into darkness.
Chapter 1 â Property Without an Owner
âHereâ! Lady Lamberta⊠sheâsâsheâs awake!â
Lamberta opened her eyes to the faint memory of falling into a lake as a child. Voices rang in her ears, muffled and distant, as if she were still underwater.
Her head spun violently, as though her mind and body were sliding apart.
Heat and chills tangled through her limbs. Even beneath the heavy blankets, her body trembled.
When she coughedâa dry, rasping soundâthe door burst open.
The family physician, Ronstenâs, rushed in, followed by flustered servants being shoved back by the maids.
âMy lady! Can you recognize me?â
But Lambertaâs eyes werenât focused on him.
People were pouring through the doorâshouting, panicking.
The vision from before she fainted replayed behind her eyes:
Arrows raining from the ceiling, masked attackers breaking through windows and doors with axes and blades, blood splattering across marble floors.
âBring the sedative! Now!â
Ronstenâs voice thundered, but it was just noise in her earsâdistant, hollow.
Screams, cries for help, the smell of blood.
Her body began to lean sideways, weak and unsteady.
Dione⊠please get up. I canât bear this anymore.
Surely, he was still in her arms. How else could her body feel so heavy?
As she swayed backward, the crimson stain spread anewâ
Lambertaâs dress darkening once again with the blood that never truly dried.