The morning sun poured golden through the castle windows, casting long bars of warmth across the stone floor. It wasn't cold that day — not the kind of biting chill one would expect from the North — but tempered, clear, like the land itself had softened its edge in honor of the event.
Killan stood at the center of his chambers, already dressed in his battle-worn armor. The same armor he'd worn through a dozen campaigns — dented in the chest, repaired at the shoulders, the red and black of his House colors draped behind him in a ceremonial sash. It was heavy, but real — and that, to him, mattered more than polish or pageantry.
He could hear the distant bells of the central tower. They had been ringing since dawn.
Yesterday, they'd opened the lower city gates and shared food, music, and firelight with the people of Athax. Aya had insisted on walking among them — not from obligation, but with curiosity. He had watched her speak with merchants, play with the children at the plaza, and drink thick, sweet cider from a clay cup.
The people had cheered her. Not just out of politeness, but something more… genuine. Athax was wary of new blood, yet she had made a mark.
He hadn't said anything then, but he'd felt it in his chest — a quiet relief.
She belonged here. Even if she didn't see it yet.
A knock pulled him from his thoughts. Vignir stepped into the room, similarly dressed in formal Southern regalia, his hair sleeked back.
"She's ready," he said simply.
Killan nodded, exhaling slowly. "Then let's not keep her waiting."
The Great Hall had never looked like this before.
It had been cleared of its long feasting tables and banners re-hung high above, crimson and silver and black weaving together in a union of Houses. At the front, beneath a simple arch of iron and pine, the officiant waited. Guards, courtiers, soldiers, and nobles from both realms lined the walls and filled the upper gallery.
Killan stood alone beneath the arch.
Then — silence.
Aya appeared at the far end of the hall, walking alone.
Her dress moved like smoke, silver-gray with pale white embroidery that shimmered subtly as she walked. Her hair was half-bound in braids, pinned with bone and froststone, and a single thin circlet rested against her brow. She wore no veil. There was no need to hide.
She met his eyes the whole way.
Behind her, a short distance away, her council stood in quiet witness — Elex, Asta, and the rest — as was tradition for Northerners, who honored the steps of their queens by walking not before or beside her, but behind her, in deference.
Killan stepped forward as she approached, offering his hand. She looked at it for a moment, then took it, her grip steady and cool.
The rites were spoken aloud — words from both their Houses, stitched into a single oath. The priest passed them the ceremonial band, which Killan used to bind their hands with care. Their fingers rested together — bare, ungloved — and for a long moment, that was all the world.
And when the vow was done, he turned to her.
She waited, calm and unreadable.
He leaned in and kissed her lightly — only the corner of her mouth — not a claim, but an offering. A promise of respect.
She didn't flinch. Nor did she lean in further.
But she didn't pull away.
The people roared, and bells clanged from the towers, wild and joyful.
Killan kept her hand in his as they turned to face the city — a city that now called her Queen.
Later, as they stood above the hall and prepared to descend for the next feast, he looked at her and asked softly, "Still breathing?"
"Barely," she murmured, though her eyes held mischief.
"You were perfect."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
She tilted her head. "Now comes the hard part."
"Which one?"
"Living through a feast with your generals and my brothers in the same room."
Killan laughed, genuinely this time. "We've survived worse."
Aya touched the edge of his sleeve, almost absentmindedly. "We'll survive a lot more, won't we?"
He looked down at her — this woman of snow and iron, of quiet defiance and grace — and knew the truth before he could speak it aloud.
"Yes," he said. "Together."
The feast that followed spread through the entire castle — not just for lords and nobles, but for everyone. The kitchens opened their doors. Fires burned from one end of the castle to the other. Mead, wine, and every variation of bread and game were passed in endless courses.
Killan, seated beside his new bride at the high table, watched the room burst with energy.
Nolle and Masa were already deep in drink, exchanging exaggerated tales about their travels. Vignir sat stiffer than usual, but even he looked pleased. Elex and Santi took turns trading wits, with the latter failing miserably but trying nonetheless.
The members of House Ambrea, Lord Garrett and Lady Ioanna, together with their daughter, Silene, arrived earlier with Juno's caravan and are now mingling with the other lords and ladies of the Southern Court. Juno stuck by his elder brother's side for the most part, but ran wildly to his sister's open arms upon seeing a moment's freedom from the crowd and ceremony.
Aya, for her part, had changed into a simpler dress— still elegant, but more comfortable. She laughed quietly with the others, sipped from her cup, and even danced with her younger brother when the music took a playful turn.
The Southerners loved her already.
Not because she'd tried to be anyone else — but because she hadn't.
Killan watched her speak with a woman from the kitchen staff, helping her gather fallen rolls from the floor as if she hadn't just become a Queen. No pretense. No theater.
He leaned toward Vignir, murmuring, "She'll run this place better than I ever did."
Vignir nodded once. "She already does."
Later that night, when the halls grew quieter and the guests retreated to their chambers, Killan entered the room prepared for the two of them.
Aya stood by the hearth, hands folded before her. She turned to his direction and smiled at him.
The silence was gentle. Not awkward — but uncertain.
Killan closed the door behind him, then paused. "You don't need to worry."
She raised a brow.
"You remember what I told you, right?" he asked.
I'll never ask you for anything you do not wish to give. Not even the duties expected of a wife. This is a choice for both of us — always.
Aya looked at him, uncertain for just a moment. Then she said, softly, "I remember. But those things... I wouldn't know where to begin."
There was no shame in her voice. Only honesty.
Killan nodded. "Then we begin with nothing expected. No roles you haven't chosen. No steps taken unless you want to."
Aya nodded.
"Come," Killan held out a hand. "You must rest. You've had a long day."
"So did you," Aya let out a light laugh and walked towards the bed, climbing in and arranging herself under the covers.
He crossed the room to take his place on the other side of the wide bed — a distance between them, but not a chasm.
But as he lay down, just before he turned away, Killan paused.
She met his eyes, uncertain but unflinching.
Without a word, he leaned in slowly — careful, deliberate — and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. His lips lingered there just a moment longer than necessary, as if sealing a vow only he could hear.
Then he leaned back, giving her space.
She watched him for a moment, then slipped into the bed, facing away, silent.
Killan laid back, staring at the ceiling.
"I meant it, you know," he murmured. "I'll never ask you for anything you don't wish to give."
There was no answer — only the sound of her quiet breathing.
Eventually, she said, "Thank you."
And that was enough.
In the quiet after the wedding, as the fires dimmed and the halls returned to their slow rhythm, a shift moved through Atahx — subtle, like the first ripple on still water.
Not all who had witnessed the wedding raised a cup in celebration.
And far beyond the castle walls, the storm that had been waiting at the edges of the world finally began to turn toward them.