Chapter Text
Effeny lowered the veil over her face. The lace was an heirloom, a birthright. Her fingers brushed the intricate ivory patterns, the texture dragging her back to childhood. She remembered begging her mother to let her wear it, draping the heavy fabric over her head and playing in the great halls of her home. The maids had tutted and her father had laughed, but she wondered now if they had known even then. Had they known this would never be a joyous day? That this lace would never frame a smile, as it had when she was a girl pretending to marry some copper-haired prince, one with emerald eyes who smelled of bonfire and moss.
That girl was gone. Effeny’s hands clenched the sickly sweet flowers placed in her palm by some doe-eyed fae. Happily ever after had died long ago. She was merely a piece on a board, though she had never expected a move quite so wretched as this: to be married below her station to keep alliances strong.
She looked at her bridesmaids. All strangers. They were a blur of caramel curls and freckles, the Inner Circle’s chosen elite. In the mirror, she looked like a vixen in a chicken coop. Her eyes were a sharp pine green, her mahogany hair dark and cool, her full lips now pulled into a thin, tight line. There was no joy on that cunning face. The sharp lines of her jaw and high cheeks refused to fill out, to her mother's dismay. She was never soft or sweet like the females fluffing the train of her dress, but a harsh beauty. Her teeth ground together as she thought of the male waiting behind the doors. A lesser fae. A bastard-born Illyrian, utterly feral in temper if Eris’s teasing was to be believed.
"It’s time," the High Lady said, smiling with a warmth Effeny found insulting. She lowered her head, hiding her scowl. If she could not fake pleasantries, she would remain hidden. She took a deep breath and wondered if she could survive not just today, but the rest of her immortal life.
The doors swung open. The crisp air was nothing like the damp, chill mist of the Autumn Court; it felt bitter on her tongue and made her nose itch. Her throat tightened at the sight of him. Legendary wings of a demon, shadows that whispered unknown secrets.
She took a step back before catching herself. The music was a spindly, lifeless melody of harps and flutes. To Effeny it lacked the grounding thrum of the drums that usually shook the floorboards of the Forest House during weddings. Her shoes felt like lead as she forced herself toward the altar. She kept her head lowered, too disgusted to look at the male she was destined to spend eternity with.
When they were told to hold hands, her soul recoiled. Her cold fingers wrapped around his scarred palms. A black ribbon was wrapped around their joined hands, binding them. She wanted to burn it to ash. Effeny spoke the vows that bound her. He spoke in return, his voice hollow and deep, rattling in her chest. When he lifted her veil, she refused to truly see him. She would not appreciate the cut of his jaw or eyes that seemed colder than her own.
He moved to kiss her, but he stayed his distance, hovering just above the flesh of her cheek. The guests let out a lackluster round of applause. It was done. She was the wife of the Shadowsinger.
The reception was ghastly. Platters overflowed with pies, blackberry tarts, and juicy grapes, while jugs of wine and warm ciders were poured by servants in midnight blue. Effeny watched, her brows furrowed, as her husband thanked a servant by name. The food tasted of nothing. In Autumn, everything was cooked over oak fires, the smoke adding a richness that stuck to the bones. Here, it was all too light, too jarring. She shoved her fork away and swallowed mouthfuls of watery, tasteless wine.
"You look beautiful, Effeny."
Her back tensed. Lucien stood there, clutching a small silk bag. Traitor. "Thank you, cousin." Her voice was a shard of ice. She remembered their childhood—the mud he had pushed her in as younglings, the scratches she clawed down his face, the torn dolls. How strange to be all grown up now. Her husband stiffened beside her.
Lucien held his palm out. "A gift. For you and yours."
Inside the bag were two gold tokens: twin flame charms customary for their court. "I thought you would appreciate something from home," Lucien whispered.
Effeny tied the bag shut. She did not offer Azriel his half; she would not hand something so sacred to a male who clearly despised her. "Thank you, cousin," she said, her head tilted just enough to dismiss him.
"Happy wedding day, Azriel," Lucien added.
The Shadowsinger leaned back, his hand resting on the back of Effeny’s chair, his jaw as tight as hers. "Lucien," he grunted.
As her cousin walked away, the music swelled.
"How long do we have to be here for?" Effeny asked. Her first chosen words to him.
His shadows stilled. "I think we have to dance. Then we can leave." He poured another glass of wine. He had sunk a staggering amount; she hoped he might simply keel over as he stood and reached for her hand.
On the dance floor, their bodies remained a calculated distance apart. She smelled the alcohol on his breath as his hand snaked over her waist. She wrapped a hand around his neck, refusing to meet his eyes. "If everyone knows this is a marriage of convenience, why are we bothering with theatrics?"
He laughed, a flash of white teeth. "I do not know how you do it in Autumn, but this is the least theatrical wedding I have ever been to."
After the dance, the guests cheered. Neither of them smiled as he guided her out of the hall, music and revelry falling away behind her. The wedding day was over.
The flight was a nightmare of motion. The sudden snap of his wings catching the wind sounded like a crack of thunder right beside her ear. Effeny squeezed her eyes shut as the ground vanished, her stomach plummeting into her heels with every sickening lurch of the air. The wind whipped her mahogany hair into a stinging lash that cut across her cheeks, and the high altitude air felt thin and hollow, as if it were trying to starve her lungs. She gripped the thick leather at his shoulders until her knuckles turned white, terrified that at any moment his hands might simply let go.
He had muttered something about a house on the ground being prepared, but for now, there was only this: a cold tower with ten thousand steps, no morning walks with hounds, and no woods to ride in. No chestnuts crunching beneath her boots.
When he placed her down on the cobbles, surrounded by weapons and armour, his voice was dead. "Follow me." He walked with quick steps down a hallway. Golden glowing sconces of faelight cast a shadow of his cruel wings across the wall. He stopped and pointed at a solid pine door. "Your room. The kitchen is down there."
Your room. Not ours. The relief was a sharp pang in her chest, but she could not catch her breath. The corset was a vice, suffocating her now that the adrenaline of the day had faded.
"Where are my maids?" she demanded.
Azriel’s eyebrow rose, arms folded across his chest. "We do not have maids."
Effeny’s eyes fluttered shut. She did not miss his faint snicker. "What do you need?" he asked.
Her cheeks burned. This was worse than she imagined. She needed the corset off; she needed to sleep and forget this day existed. "Undo it." She turned, bracing her hands on the wall.
He did not move.
"Please," he said quietly. It was not a request.
Effeny’s nails dug into the stone. "Undo this, please."
"Do you plan on wearing this again?"
"Cauldron boil me, no. I never want to see the damn thing again."
A sharp, flicking sound came from behind her. The corset instantly went limp. Effeny gasped, her lungs filling properly for the first time that day. Her hands flying up to hold the bodice against her chest. Small pieces of sliced ribbon drifted to the floor like snow.
He had cut it. He had used a knife rather than touch her skin.
She spun around, venom on the tip of her tongue, but the hallway was empty. He was gone.