A Marriage
1212 Words
The Hall of Blazing Accord had not seen a royal union in over two hundred years. It had been built during the Age of Twin Thrones, when gods once walked among mortals, and marriage was not merely between people—but between powers.
Now, the hall groaned under the weight of history as courtiers, nobles, and priests filled its columns and balconies. Smoke from ritual braziers curled into the air, casting halos of firelight around the stained-glass saints of old. Red-gold banners hung like rivers of flame down the walls, bearing the sigil of the Ember Throne: a phoenix rising from its own ashes.
Elira Virellian stood behind the gold lattice veil of the bridal sanctuary, her pulse a thunderous drumbeat in her chest.
The dress clinging to her skin was ceremonial—woven with threads of molten copper, its fabric enchanted to shimmer like coals. Fire runes spiraled up her arms in delicate ink, a sacred reminder of her lineage. Her hair, pinned in an elaborate crown of flame-shaped coils, itched beneath the weight of duty.
“This is madness,” she whispered.
Beside her, High Priest Valen adjusted her veil, his fingers trembling.
“Madness, yes,” he said. “But necessary.”
“I don’t love him.”
Valen gave a dry chuckle. “Love? Princess, this is not a union of hearts. This is a union of gods.”
---
Across the hall, Kael Drenvir stood stiff in his silver-trimmed formal armor, the wolf sigil of Vaelir etched into the blue ice-metal at his shoulder. He had refused a crown, choosing instead a leather band of frost-stone and iron. His hair was pulled back in a warrior’s knot, his sword still sheathed at his hip, despite the ceremonial restrictions.
“They’ve caged me like a lamb,” he muttered.
Archmage Varion stood behind him, expression unreadable beneath his hooded robe. “Lambs don't carry blades, nephew.”
Kael glanced sideways. “And what is your advice?”
“Play the role. Smile. Speak vows. Then, when the time comes, choose your war wisely.”
Kael’s jaw tightened. “You think there will be war?”
“I know it.”
---
The brass horns flared. The crowd hushed.
High Priest Valen took the altar as the great fire-robes of his office billowed like wings. “Let the divine vessels approach.”
The two heirs walked toward each other, slow and reluctant, footsteps echoing like fate across the obsidian floor.
Elira’s eyes met Kael’s. Not a trace of warmth. Not yet.
He offered his hand. She took it, but only because her mother’s life—and the balance of their kingdoms—hung in the silence between them.
Valen raised the Phoenix Tome, reading from a passage older than either kingdom:
“When fire meets frost, there is ruin.
But should they hold fast,
Flame tempers ice.
And ice cools fire.
In union, not conquest, may gods rest.”
Kael spoke first.
“I vow, by the breath of Orvaal, god of stillness and storm, to take you as my equal. To guard your flame when it wavers. To stand against you only when you threaten what I must protect.”
Elira’s voice was softer, but not uncertain.
“I vow, by the heart of Ignarion, god of blaze and rebirth, to take you as my match. To burn with you, not for you. To rise above you only when you fall below what you claim to be.”
The priest placed both their hands on the Flame Crystal.
The world shifted.
Fire exploded beneath Elira’s skin—surging like a tide breaking its dam. Ice, sharp and bright, surged up Kael’s arm. Their divine essences clashed where their palms met.
Sparks hissed. Frost bloomed across Elira’s shoulder. Fire etched lines of molten heat down Kael’s chestplate.
The crowd gasped.
But neither flinched. They gritted their teeth, held fast—and endured.
A beam of white light burst from their joined hands. The crystal cracked down the middle.
And the gods... went silent.
---
That night, Elira stood on the edge of her mother’s sickbed. The queen was conscious again, though pale as parchment.
“You hate him,” Syrenne whispered.
“I don’t know him,” Elira replied. “But I hate what this is. What you’ve made it.”
Syrenne coughed, a weak sound. “You think love is for those who carry gods? Love is for poets. You are a sovereign.”
“You chose father,” Elira said. “Didn’t you?”
Syrenne’s silence was answer enough.
Elira turned to leave, but her mother’s voice followed her.
“Kael is a blade. If you don’t wield him, someone else will. And you won’t like the cut.”
---
The royal chambers were vast but cold. Two bedrooms connected by a shared library and lounge. It was the most privacy any political couple had been granted in a hundred years.
Elira stormed into the lounge, still trailing ceremonial ash from her gown. Kael was already there, pouring himself a glass of Vaelirian blackroot liquor.
“You didn’t have to try to kill me during the vow,” she said.
Kael didn’t look up. “That wasn’t me. That was Orvaal.”
“Convenient.”
“I didn’t enjoy it,” he said, sipping. “Not all of it.”
She eyed the second glass. “Is that supposed to be a peace offering?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ll pour you one if you ask nicely.”
Elira stared. Then laughed—unexpected, rich. “You are completely insufferable.”
“And you are flammable.”
She crossed the room, grabbed the bottle, and poured her own drink.
“So,” she said, settling into the chair across from him. “Do we pretend we’re in love for the people, or do we pretend we’re enemies and wait for the collapse?”
Kael shrugged. “Let’s start with not pretending.”
“Fair.”
Silence stretched between them, taut but not unpleasant.
Finally, Kael asked, “Do you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“The silence,” he said. “Since we joined hands, I haven’t heard Orvaal.”
Elira frowned. “Ignarion’s quiet too. It’s… unnatural.”
Kael nodded. “Like two storms that cancel each other out.”
“Or two blades held so close they can’t clash.”
They sat, drinking quietly as the fire crackled in the hearth—neither warm nor cold, just balanced.
---
Far beneath the Ember Palace, in the forgotten catacombs of the old flame priests, Archmage Varion stepped into a circle etched with black firestone.
He placed his palm to the altar and whispered, “The bond has formed.”
From the shadows, a cloaked figure stepped forward, face obscured by bone-white ash paint.
“The third god stirs.”
Varion nodded. “Yes. Neraxis watches. The world is about to change.”
“The vessels?”
“Strong. Balanced.”
The figure hissed. “Then we must unbalance them. Before the gods unite completely. Before the flame and frost become… something new.”
Varion touched the cracked crystal shard he’d stolen from the altar.
“They will never be ready.”
- Writer
