By dawn, Vesaria hadn't moved. Her legs had long since gone numb, but she refused to stretch. To relax. To pretend comfort belonged here.
Azgar stirred as sunlight crept over the mountains, gold flashing across his face. He grunted, squinting at the light, and rolled onto his back.
Then his gaze found her.
"You'll kill your spine sleeping like that," he muttered, voice thick with sleep.
"I didn't sleep," she said, hollow.
He raised a brow. "Foolish choice."
Then he stood, barefoot and shirtless, utterly unbothered, and walked into a side chamber.
A splash of water followed.
She sat frozen, her heart rising into her throat.
What now?
Would he return with shackles? Drag her to some pit of obligation? Parade her outside like a broken mare? Or simply… take her?
When he came back, a cloth slung around his neck, he didn't look at her. Not at first. He walked to the bed. Stared at it.
Vesaria's pulse hammered. Why was he just standing there?
Then he moved—toward her. Furs in hand.
She scrambled back, but he was on her. No words. No warning.
"What are you—"
Her scream was cut short as he threw the furs over her, smothering her in thick, choking dark. She thrashed, clawed, panicked. Her lungs seized.
The world turned dark. Her limbs thrashed wildly, blindly. Furs wrapped around her face, blocking breath, suffocating. She couldn't see.
She couldn't think. She bucked and clawed and kicked, a raw, primal scream tearing from her lungs as the panic swallowed her whole.
He's killing me. He's killing me. He changed his mind. Gods—
Then the world shifted. She was hoisted up, limbs flailing, still wrapped in suffocating heat.
He dumped her on the bed. Hard.
The furs fell away. Air hit her face like ice. She gasped, shaking, chest heaving.
"What—what in the gods name is wrong with you?!" she rasped, arms raised weakly, instinctively, warding off the next blow that didn't come.
His eyes dropped to her outstretched hand.
Before she could pull it back, he caught her wrist in a firm, calloused grip. She whimpered, struggling weakly.
"Stop," he said.
He pressed his thumb against the cut they'd made on her palm the day before—the ceremonial slice of blood for the wedding. She cried out as he pushed down, opening the scab.
Blood welled up anew. She tried to yank her arm away, but he held fast, smearing the fresh crimson across the thick white fur he'd used to smother her.
Her stomach lurched.
She watched, frozen, as he rubbed the fabric between his fingers, satisfied. The blood was obvious.
Proof.
Her thoughts reeled. They'd expect blood. Expect the sign of consummation.
Her chest still heaved. She was soaked with sweat, trembling, knees drawn toward her chest like a child. Her muscles ached from the struggle, her arms felt like lead. The thought of what had just happened—or almost happened—crushed down on her, leaving no air.
If he truly wanted to, he could have taken her just now. The thought made her sick.
Azgar stood over her, looking down at the blood-stained fur, then at her. His gaze flicked briefly across her face, her shuddering body.
Something passed through his eyes—acknowledgement, maybe, but not guilt.
He reached for her again.
She flinched.
His fingers went to the collar of her shift.
Her breath caught in her throat. No, please—
But he paused.
A heartbeat passed. He didn't tear it. Didn't tug.
Instead, he stepped back.
His voice, when it came, was forced.
"They'd want to see my marks. There's no use doing all this if you're fully clothed."
Vesaria stared at him, stunned. Tears streaked her cheeks, her limbs still curled defensively around herself.
He tossed the bloodied fur higher onto the bed, adjusting it like it mattered.
Then, without warning, he returned to her side.
"You can cry if you want," he said. "But stay still."
She blinked, confused—until he leaned in and bit her.
Hard.
She cried out, jolting under the pain. His teeth sank deep into her neck. A mark.
A warlord's claim.
He didn't linger. Didn't soothe. Just stood, wiped his mouth, and turned away.
"No one will check for bruises. Just the blood. And the bite. They only need to believe I fucked you."
She didn't speak. Couldn't.
He stood up and walked back to the shelf, poured himself a drink, lifted the horn to his lips, and drank as though to chase away the taste of what he'd done to his new bride.
His face was unreadable, save for the frown creasing his brow.
Then, without a word, he tipped back another cup, the sharp scent of the liquor cutting the air. He grabbed a shirt from the floor, yanked it over his head, and stalked to the door. The slam as it shut behind him echoed like thunder.
And then—
Silence.
It swallowed her whole.
Still curled in the middle of the massive bed, Vesaria sat in the darkened quiet, bruised inside and out. The fire hissed. Her breath rasped in her chest. Her heartbeat thundered like it didn't know whether to stop or keep running.
She didn't cry again. Not yet.
There was nothing left in her to spill.
She was too high strung. Too stunned. Crying was for later—when the world made sense again.
If it ever did.
Right now, she just… stared. At the stone wall. At the scattered pelts beneath her. At the crimson smear staining the fur. At the fresh mark on her palm, raw and swollen where the finger had dug in.
She flexed her fingers. A dull throb answered.
She touched her neck. Winced. It would bruise. It already felt hot and puffy. Her skin remembered the feel of his hand even after it was gone.
Her clothes hung off one shoulder, stretched and pulled where he'd gripped it. Her chest stuttered with shallow, broken breaths. She could still smell him. His sweat. His skin. The spice of him and the salt of herself and the faint metallic whisper of blood.
Was that what he was aiming for? Having their sweats mix in the sheets? To what ends?
And then—then—the tears came.
Not sobs. Not wailing. Just… leaking.
A slow, steady humiliation. Hot streaks trailing down her cheeks as she hunched forward, buried her face in her hands. Her ribs ached. Her throat burned. Her heart felt like it had cracked down the middle.
This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.
She was a lady. A noblewoman. A respected lord's daughter. Her blood was old and proud.
Where was her uncle? Why hadn't he come for her?
He was supposed to protect her. He was supposed to stop this—wasn't he?
But he hadn't.
And her parents—Mother, Father, if you were here…
If they were here, none of this would have happened. Her father would have sent an army to drag her back.
But they were dead. And Vesaria was alone.
Alone, and shivering, and still reeking of a man she hated.
"They just need to believe."
The words echoed.
If she stayed clothed—if they came in and saw her untouched—the pain, the humiliation, would have no meaning.
So she made a choice.
Even if it sickened her. Even if her hands shook so badly she could barely move.
She tore off the Northern garments, fumbling with unfamiliar ties until frustration took over and she ripped them loose, hurling them across the room.
Some landed on the floor. Some crumpled at the foot of the bed.
Her shift, stained with blood, fell from her skin.
Then she wrapped herself in the furs.
She felt exposed. Like a rabbit in an open field during hunting season, every breath a gamble, every inch of skin a target.
A knock broke the silence.
She flinched.
The door opened before she could answer.
Three women entered. Older. Middle-aged. Their dresses were simple, practical. Their faces were plain—calm, composed, professional.
They'd done this before.
One of them gasped softly when she saw Vesaria huddled there, wrapped in furs, her face streaked with tears.
Another spoke. The words were soft, melodic, unfamiliar.
Vesaria didn't understand a thing.
The third woman took a step closer, hand outstretched, fingers open, gentle.
Vesaria recoiled like she'd been struck. A sharp gasp. Her eyes widened, panic rising.
"No—don't—" she rasped, voice hoarse.
The women stopped. Exchanged glances.
One of them spoke again, slower this time, more careful.
The third backed away. Instead, she set a basin of warm water at the bedside. Folded towels. A bundle of clean clothes.
They moved through the room. They smoothed the tangled furs. They adjusted the bed. Tended to the flames in the hearth. Examined the stain. Nodded.
The lie held.
One looked at her again, murmuring something low and solemn.
Vesaria didn't respond.
And then they left.
Leaving behind warmth. Soap. Silence.
She sat still, swaddled in blood and fabric, breathing in shallow bursts.
Somehow, she was still here.
Whatever this had been—a ritual, a lie, a game of power—it hadn't killed her.
Not yet.
Her gaze drifted to the clean clothes: a shift, a tunic, a cloak, fitted trousers, a belt.
She didn't reach for them.
Instead, she sat upright.
Wrapped in fur and silence, she stared into the flames and didn't look away.
Let them believe.
She'd give them a show they'd never forget.