The wind carried the scent of damp earth and pine as Belin stepped away from the towering walls of Lyst Castle. His breath curled in the cold evening air, his mind heavy with the weight of the bargain he had made. A wife for an alliance. A stranger for the future of his kingdom.
His horse moved at a slow, steady pace as he followed the dirt path winding down the hill. In the distance, the flickering lights of a small village beckoned him. He hadn't intended to stray too far, but the need for solitude pulled him away from the watchful eyes of Lord Gruhl's men.
Upon entering the village, he found a modest tavern nestled between thatched cottages. The wooden sign above the door creaked in the breeze, and inside, the warmth of the hearth and the scent of roasted meat filled the air. He pushed the heavy door open, stepping into a space where the chatter of men and the clinking of ale-filled tankards dulled the thoughts crowding his mind.
He took a seat at a corner table, watching as a serving girl moved between patrons with a worn expression, her apron stained from the evening's work. He waved her over and ordered a drink.
As he sipped the bitter ale, his thoughts drifted to his impending union. He knew nothing of Lord Gruhl's daughter—nothing beyond what little the old lord had told him. The unease in his chest deepened.
Curiosity gnawed at him. He turned to the man sitting a few stools away, a burly fellow with a scar running down his cheek. "Tell me," Belin began, keeping his voice steady, "Lord Gruhl's daughter—what is she like?"
The man raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. "Do you mean Ingrid?"
Belin's fingers tightened around his tankard. "Is that her name?"
The man snorted. "Aye, that's her name." He took a long swig of ale before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "But why would a fine lad like you waste his breath asking about Ingrid?"
Belin frowned. "What do you mean?"
The man scoffed, nudging his companion beside him, a wiry man with a missing tooth. "He's asking about Ingrid."
The second man let out a cackle. "Gods, why? She's ugly and fat! And too innocent—so much so you'd think she was slow-witted."
Belin's stomach twisted, but he said nothing.
The burly man chuckled, shaking his head. "Even if I were offered a mountain of gold, I wouldn't take her as my wife. Well, perhaps if the coin was enough, I'd take her, but only to warm my bed. Nothing more." He threw his head back and laughed.
Belin sat in silence, the weight of their words pressing down on him. He had no reason to believe these men, yet their laughter echoed in his ears.
The first man leaned in again. "You know, Lord Gruhl sent her away to Inkwell Hold because she's stupid. Imagine—a lord's daughter who couldn't read at the age of ten. That's cursed-level stupidity!" He laughed again, slamming his tankard on the wooden table.
Belin's stomach churned as the men's cruel laughter filled the room.
Minutes passed after they left, but their words lingered. His thoughts swirled in a storm of doubt and frustration. He had bound himself to a stranger, a woman whose name he had only just learned. Would she be a burden? Would she be what they claimed? If she truly was unworthy, what did that mean for his future, for his kingdom, for Liria?
The thought of his sister snapped him out of his gloom. If he abandoned the agreement, he would lose Gruhl's support, and with it, any chance of reclaiming their home and finding Liria. He had made a choice, and there was no turning back now.
He exhaled sharply and stood. His fate was no longer his own.
… … …
By the time he returned to the castle, the sky had darkened, the moon casting a pale glow over the stone walls. The halls were silent, save for the distant sound of the wind howling through the cracks in the fortress.
The hall prepared for the ceremony was adorned with old banners, their colors faded with time. At the center of the room stood a stone altar, weathered and worn from centuries of use. Candles flickered, casting shadows on the faces of the gathered nobles and priests.
Lord Gruhl sat on his wooden throne, his body draped in thick furs, his breath labored. The illness consuming him was evident in the pallor of his skin and the way his hands trembled as he gripped his cane. But his eyes remained sharp, watching as Belin entered.
"You have returned," the old lord rasped. "Good."
Belin inclined his head. "I am ready."
The priest stepped forward, holding a golden chalice filled with dark wine. "The Bonding of House Lyst is a sacred tradition," he intoned. "For generations, this ritual has sealed the unity between our house and those who join it. In the absence of the bride, the groom must take the oath alone, binding himself not just to his wife but to our family, our honor, our name."
Belin clenched his jaw as the priest handed him a ceremonial dagger. He had read about such rituals before—an ancient practice meant to test one's devotion.
"You will make an offering," the priest continued. "Blood given willingly, to signify your commitment."
Belin rolled up his sleeve, pressing the blade against his palm. With a swift motion, he made a shallow cut. Blood welled up, dark against his pale skin. He held his hand over the chalice, letting the drops mix with the wine.
"The blood of House Lyst welcomes you," the priest declared, lifting the chalice high before passing it to Belin.
He brought it to his lips, swallowing the bitter liquid. The metallic taste of his own blood lingered on his tongue.
Lord Gruhl raised his cane. "With this, you are bound to my house. And soon, to my daughter. There is no turning back."
Belin met his gaze. "I understand."
The ceremony concluded, and the nobles murmured amongst themselves. The weight of the ritual settled over him, but his thoughts were still in the village, still haunted by the words of drunken men.
His bride—Ingrid. Who was she, truly?
He would soon find out.