Ruvaen flanks me at the front of the great hall as I await my bride. The humans in the crowd study us with a mixture of fascination and displeasure. I am sure many would prefer the princess marry anyone but me.
I contemplate the Dwarves. Many eye me with suspicion and outright anger—especially her friend, Bran. I train my face into an impassive mask and hold my head high.
Scanning the great hall as we wait for my princess, I note the decorations. The crowd is seated on rows of wooden benches with an aisle straight through the middle. Flowers adorn the ends and rose petals line the carpeted walkway.
The many stained-glass windows arrayed in the walls cast sparkling reflections on the polished stone floors. The doors open, and my eyes snap to Lyana.
I drag in a deep breath. She is dressed in a long, flowing white gown embroidered with silver threads in an intricate pattern of roses and vines. A crown of silver adorns her head. Her long black hair is arranged on her head like a second braided crown, revealing the elegant column of her neck.
She walks down the aisle with her father. When they reach the dais, he takes her hand and places it in my own. His gaze falls hard upon me in unspoken warning, and I nod, hoping he knows that I will never harm his daughter.
Her dainty hand is warm in mine, and her skin is petal soft. The top of her head barely reaches my chin. She lifts her face to me and her golden-brown eyes fix upon my own as if searching for something, but I do not know what. Gently, she takes my other hand and I note their trembling as they rest in mine.
The priest before us instructs her to recite a set of vows. Her gaze holds my own as she vows to love, honor, and cherish me.
Love. I did not think she would promise this to me, but she does. Suddenly, I have no hesitation promising the same when it is my turn to recite the vows in return.
My heart is lighter just knowing that she would offer such a beautiful gift so readily to me—a perfect stranger and her former enemy. It gives me hope that perhaps ours will be as much a marriage for love as for the securing of a treaty.
A faint smile tilts my lips as I study her—my human mate and bride.
Her father instructs that I must now kiss her to signal the end of the ceremony. Awkwardly, she stretches onto her toes, and I lean forward just enough to press my lips to hers in a chaste kiss.
When she pulls away, I instinctively run my tongue over my bottom lip, tasting the delicate flavor of her kiss.
Together, we turn to face the crowd and walk down the aisle into the great dining hall. I am unsure of what to expect, so I follow her lead as she guides me to a long table near the front.
We take the seats directly at its center as the guests file in behind us. Lengthy rows of tables extend around us, covered in fine silverware and goblets. Servants appear, bearing trays overflowing with cooked meats, fruits, vegetables, and bread.
More servants fill our goblets with fermented ale, and I perceive the Dwarves partaking more than they probably should, judging by their boisterous behavior which grows louder with each drink.
Lyana and I sit side by side in silence. To my left, Ruvaen leans in and whispers, “You should at least try to speak with her. It will make things less awkward for you this evening.”
My cheeks and the tips of my ears flush with warmth as I realize he is referring to the consummation of our marriage.
I consider what I might say to my bride as I drink from my glass, the bitter liquid rolling across my tongue. I set my goblet down and turn to face her, watching her down one glass, then another. Suddenly her intent dawns on me; she hopes to dull her nerves for what comes later.
“Lyana.”
She turns toward me just as the first musical notes fill the air. “We are supposed to dance the opening dance,” she says. “It is tradition.”
Tradition. I ponder this word, remembering what other traditions concern tonight. The thought tastes like bitter acid on my tongue as I recall the supposed witnesses to our joining. She stands, and I offer her my arm as we walk to the center of the room.
The guests fall silent, their gazes heavy on us. I may not know much about humans and their traditions, but I do know how to dance. My people love to dance, and music is a source of great enjoyment among us.
I turn to the musicians. “Do you know volkaera?”
One nods. “Yes.”
“Will you please play it?”
I face Lyana as the slow, hauntingly beautiful melody begins. I chose this specifically because it is a dance of intrigue. The steps placing us so close together we may speak quietly to one another without being overheard.
I raise my palm, and she places her hand against mine as we circle one another. The tempo changes, and we turn, circling in the opposite direction. Her golden-brown eyes are locked on mine as we fall into rhythm, our palms hovering close yet not quite touching in a dance of give and take. The room falls away until we are the only ones here. My heart pounds as she glides past me and places her palm against mine once more.
This is an ancient dance—older than the conflict between our kingdoms. It was once performed by High Elven lords who came to the human kingdom in search of wives. Long before we were enemies, before the great and devastating war that divided us.
The tempo changes, and I wrap my hands around her waist, lifting her in a quick spin before setting her feet back on the ground. I’m surprised by how little she weighs compared to one of my people. When I gather her close to my chest, I can feel the pounding of her heart beneath her breast. My nostrils flare as I drink in her delicate scent, a heady bouquet.
We dance and whirl across the room in a series of intricate steps. Our movements are smooth and fluid as we weave around each other, and I cannot help but hope this is a sign of what our union may be.
She places her palm in mine again as we circle one another, and I dare to cautiously thread my fingers through hers, watching in wonder as her cheeks flare a lovely shade of pink. My people are taught from a very young age to hide our emotions behind impassive masks. I am completely captivated as my gaze holds hers and a dozen emotions flicker across her face. I stare unabashedly as I study her, completely and utterly enthralled.
The music ends far too soon, and I blink as I return to my senses. Couples join us on the floor as a joyful tune begins to play. Bran approaches my bride and taps on her shoulder. She turns to him, flashing a dazzling smile that rivals the brightness of the sun.
Irrational jealousy steals through me. I wish she greeted me as kindly as she does him. I narrow my eyes as Bran sweeps into a bow and extends his hand, whisking her away from me to whirl about the room.
How dare this Dwarf take my bride? I level an icy glare and stalk toward him but stop when I catch sight of her face. She shows more joy at this moment than anytime she has looked at me. I blink slowly, reconsidering.
Challenging him is not the way to win Lyana’s favor. No. That is what Bran wants, and I refuse. I understand the game he tries to play as he smirks in my direction.
Instead, I approach them calmly, though I am anything but. I extend my hand, and she cautiously takes it. I pull her away, and we whirl around the room, rejoining the other dancing couples.
She tilts her head to the side. “I did not think the High Elves liked to dance.”
I arch a brow. “It seems there are a great many things we do not know about one another.”
“I suppose you are right,” she replies, her expression unreadable.
When the reception ends, a group of servants guides us from the dining hall to the far wing of the castle. It seems we will not be sleeping in either of our rooms as I assumed.
This part of the castle appears deserted but it is still neat and clean, as if ready for guests at all times. I’m ushered into one room and watch her disappear into the next.
I do not understand why we have been separated until a servant steps forward and begins unfastening my robe. I pull away.
“I can do this myself,” I insist. “Simply tell me where to go once I am changed.”
Her eyes widen slightly before she nods and gestures to the sheer fabric on the bed. “Once you have changed into your joining robes, go through those doors. The princess will be waiting on the other side.”
Clamoring in the hallway draws my attention, and I frown. “What is that noise?”
“The witnesses, my lord.”
This is the moment I have been dreading. I push past her and fling open the door. I step into the hallway and face the bustling group, blocking the doorway that leads to my bride. “Stop,” I state firmly. “You will not come any closer.”
A man with gray hair and elegant dress, suggesting he is someone of importance, glares at me. “We are the witnesses. This is tradition. How dare you—”
“No,” I spit through gritted teeth. “How dare you presume this is what my bride wishes?”
They blink at me, and I realize I have caught their attention.
“I will honor this tradition, but only if she agrees. If she does not, none of you may enter. If anyone dares enter without our express permission, you’ll meet the end of my blade,” I growl. “Do you understand?”
Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and head back into my bedroom.
“You may all leave. I must prepare for my bride,” I tell the servants. They bow low, then rush to exit.
I remove my clothing and pull on the sheer fabric covering. I glance down at my body, wondering if she will find me strange. I’ve heard our anatomy is remarkably similar to Terran males, but I do not know if it is truth.
It is customary to give a gift to our bonded one on the night of first joining. I take the small wooden box from the pocket of my discarded tunic, hoping she will be pleased with this token. I hold it tightly as I move to the door between our rooms and gently knock.
“You may enter,” she calls.
Cautiously, I push the door open and step into pitch-black darkness.
My eyes readily adjust to the absence of light. I thought humans lacked night vision, but perhaps I was wrong.
Lyana’s black hair hangs loosely around her shoulders in long, silken waves. I study the lovely contours of her face, marveling at her delicate cheeks, nose, and brow.
I allow my gaze to travel over her body. The sheer fabric does nothing to conceal her form from me. My eyes move down the elegant column of her neck to the soft swell of her breasts, the slight dip of her waist, and the gentle flare of her hips. Desire rises within me as I drink in her exquisite, graceful form. She is more beautiful than I ever imagined.
“I hope you’ll forgive the darkness, my lord,” she says. “It is tradition for there to be witnesses to our… joining. I thought it might provide us more privacy.” Cautiously, she extends her arm toward me. “If you follow the sound of my voice, you will find me.”
I tilt my head to the side. She does not realize I can see her in the darkness without difficulty.
