The room was warm. Uncomfortably so.
Vesaria hovered by the heavy wooden door a moment too long, her spine stiff, her fingers curled into fists at her sides.
The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine from the feast still clung to her, though the taste had long gone to ash in her mouth.
Her skin crawled with the memory of eyes—dozens, maybe hundreds—watching her walk the long corridor to this place.
Watching with drunken, leering grins, their howls echoing in her bones.
She couldn't understand their tongue, but she knew the meaning in their laughter.
Vesaria had kept her chin high, her shoulders back, each step a forced march toward something she didn't understand.
Her pulse had pounded in her throat, thick with dread and hatred and a cold kind of clarity. She considered what she could grab and stab with before they reached the bed. Would she fight him? Could she?
But now, standing in his quarters, the air different, thicker somehow—there was no clarity. Only heat.
The fire roared in the hearth, casting shadows over the walls, which were hung with things that reeked of conquest: the tusks of a snowbeast, a tattered banner from some fallen city, a polished skull with a crown still fused to bone.
Azgar's den. His lair. Everything here reeked of him—woodsmoke and iron and a quiet, terrible strength.
He stood by the fire, already unbuckling the thick leather of his ceremonial-belt.
With that discarded, he stripped off the upper half of his tunic, revealing the kind of body that would've been sculpted into marble back home. Scarred, yes—but powerfully built, brutal, unpretentious. His back was a battlefield, crisscrossed with faded marks from blades, claws, gods knew what else.
He was not beautiful. Not in the courtly sense. But he was devastating.
And he didn't look at her.
Vesaria's hands trembled at her sides, hidden by the sleeves of her wedding furs.
The silence stretched between them, only the low crackling of the fire filling the space.
Then, he spoke.
"You look like a frightened rabbit," his deep voice thick with amusement. "Did you think I'd throw you over that bed and rut you like a beast?"
Vesaria stiffened, her face heating with mortification at his vulgarity. "You will keep your hands off me," she hissed, eyes flashing with fury. "If you so much as try, I will—"
"—What?" He cut in smoothly, unlacing the leather at his wrists.
"Kill me?" He scoffed, as if the very idea was laughable. "Little rabbit, you barely made it up the mountain without collapsing. How exactly do you plan to slit my throat?"
Vesaria gritted her teeth, shaking with rage. "I will escape. My uncle will come for me. He will burn this miserable place to the ground, and you will regret ever touching me."
Azgar threw back his head and laughed. A deep, rumbling sound filled the chamber—the raw amusement of a man who found genuine entertainment in her threats.
"Is that so?" He leaned against the heavy wooden table, arms crossed, studying her like a wolf eyeing prey. "Where are they then? It's been days has it not? Why haven't they come for you?"
Vesaria paused at that. Why hadn't they come for her? How long had it been since she got here?
She looked up at Azgar and saw the amused look in his eyes. He was trying to bait her. She wouldn't fall for it!
"I do not accept this marriage," she spat, chin high. "I do not accept your customs, your people, or you."
Azgar smirked. "That's unfortunate. Because you are my wife now."
Her stomach twisted violently. Wife. The word felt like a noose around her throat. She had been forced into this. And now… now, she was supposed to—
She swallowed hard, chest heaving. If he touched her tonight, she would be worth nothing when she finally escaped. Her uncle would not take her back. She would never reclaim her place.
She had to stop this.
"If you think I'll just lie there for you," she seethed, "you are gravely mistaken. I'd sooner tear out my own throat than let a barbarian touch me."
Azgar chuckled again, clearly unbothered. He strode past her, his sheer size making her feel like a cornered animal, and took a seat near the fire. He grabbed a horn cup from the shelf, poured dark liquid into it, and lifted it to his lips without a care in the world.
"You misunderstand, little rabbit," he said lazily, tilting the cup in her direction. "I won't be touching you at all."
Vesaria blinked, thrown off guard. "What?"
Azgar leaned back, stretching one powerful arm across the back of the bench. "You heard me."
"I do not understand," Vesaria frowned. "Wasn't the marriage—"
Azgar smirked over the rim of his drink. "The marriage must be consummated, yes," he drawled. "But you'll be the one crawling into my bed for it."
She went rigid. "You're lying."
"Am I?" He gestured around them. "I could have already had you, yet here you stand. Still untouched. Still seething."
He leaned forward, voice dropping to something dark and wicked. "I have a long line of women begging for my cock, wife. Why would I force you?"
Her face burned. "You—!"
"Oh?" He arched a brow, his grin sharp. "Did I offend you, little rabbit? Are noble ladies not accustomed to hearing such things?"
Vesaria hated him. Hated how he spoke with such ease, how he treated this entire ordeal like a game.
She clenched her fists. "I swear to you, I will escape."
Azgar only laughed again, shaking his head. "Such fire for such a small thing." He took another drink, then stretched out comfortably in his chair, legs spread wide, utterly at ease.
"You can seethe all you want," he murmured, voice smooth like silk over steel. "But you are my wife now, and I am your husband. And whether it's tomorrow, next week, or months from now, we both know where you'll end up—" His smirk widened. "under me, gasping for more."
"In your dreams, warlord."
"Soon to be frequent, I imagine," he replied, deadpan.
Vesaria scoffed, incredulously. "Your ego might be the largest thing in this room."
"You haven't looked close enough, wife." He tilted his head, smirk widening. "I can show you something bigger if you ask nicely."
Vesaria was shaking—whether from fury or something else entirely, she didn't know.
"I will never come to you," she spat.
Azgar's grin was slow, infuriatingly confident. "We'll see."
The fire popped, sending a spray of sparks up the chimney. Vesaria stared, lips parted.
Instead, he stood and walked to the bear-pelt couch without another word, dropping onto it with the weariness of a man who'd spent too long in the saddle and not enough time sleeping. His cup dangled loosely in one hand.
He didn't look at her again.
Vesaria stood frozen in the silence. Her heartbeat was deafening. She was still a bride—technically. Still untouched. Still dressed like a sacrifice.
She wasn't safe. That much she knew. Not in a room like this. Not in a keep full of men who wanted her kind humiliated and broken.
Vesaria trembled with rage. She refused to be ignored, to be dismissed. She stormed toward him, hands clenched, ready to—
"Go to sleep, little wife," Azgar murmured without opening his eyes.
Vesaria froze. His tone had lost its amused edge and felt colder than the north winds.
Her heart pounded. She had never felt so humiliated. So powerless.
She clenched her teeth so hard it hurt. "I hate you."
Azgar smirked. "Good."
*****
The fire burned low. Shadows stretched long and slow across the walls.
Vesaria sat in the corner of the room, knees drawn to her chest, her back pressed against cold stone. She hadn't changed out of the gown. She hadn't moved since Azgar lay down.
He slept. Or at least pretended to. The rise and fall of his chest was even, steady. One arm draped across his midsection, the other flung over the edge of the couch.
He's too relaxed.
The thought echoed. She had been trained to read body language, taught by tutors and guards and mentors who knew the importance of perception.
Azgar's body spoke of confidence so deep it bordered on arrogance. As if even in sleep, he feared nothing.
He doesn't fear me.
Why would he? He was a warlord—no, the Warlord. He had shattered her king's lines, marched through fortified cities like they were made of clay. He had demanded her hand like spoils.
And now he ignored her.
Her cheeks flamed, and not from the heat. Shame churned in her gut like bile.
Vesaria had prepared herself for violation, for screams and tears and blood. Not this. Not being dismissed.
A flicker of something ugly sparked inside her. Pride? Hurt?
She gritted her teeth, curling tighter into herself.
The fire shifted, casting new light over the scars on Azgar's back. Marks of a life lived on the edge of steel. What had he traded to win this war? What had he become to sit on the ashes of her world?
She thought of the court, of her family's terrified faces as she was carried off.
She had survived. For now.
But survival came with questions she didn't have answers to.
Why hadn't he touched her?
What game was he playing?
*****
Hours passed. The moon climbed higher, silver light filtering through the lone window above the hearth.
Vesaria didn't sleep. Every creak of the wood, every sigh of the fire, every shift of Azgar's breathing made her flinch. She was a knot of tension, muscles screaming, mind spiraling.
Better? Worse? There were no stories for this. In all the tales, the warlord takes what he wants. The bride screams. Then obeys.
Not this. Not the silence. Not the waiting.
She watched Azgar's form in the dim light.
He meant it. I don't think he'll touch me.
Not unless she asked.
That was the worst part. Because it meant she might one day choose to.
She scoffed, shaking her head. What was she thinking? Her uncle and his men would rescue her soon. She would put this whole thing behind her.
It was good he left her untouched. Her ancestors were truly watching over her.
Unless they had something worse in store.