Raven King’s Bride

Bride

Freya thrashed against the pull of the lake, her limbs growing heavier with every passing second. Darkness edged into her vision, the icy grip of the water tightening around her chest. Her screams had long been swallowed by the currents, and now, as her strength waned, she surrendered to the inevitable. This was it. The end.

Her lungs burned, her vision blurred, and just as the suffocating void seemed to claim her completely, everything shifted. One moment she was sinking, the next, she was free-falling through the air.

Wind roared past her ears, tearing at her drenched clothes and whipping her soaked hair in every direction. It was disorienting. Impossible. Was this what death felt like? Her heart thundered against her ribs as she spun in the air, unable to comprehend what was happening. Before she could even scream, something sliced through the chaos—a sound. Flapping. The heavy, rhythmic beat of wings.

And then, she stopped falling.

Strong hands gripped her firmly, breaking her descent with an abruptness that made her stomach lurch. Her eyes snapped open, and her breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t in the water anymore. She wasn’t even on the ground. She was in midair, held tightly in someone’s arms. A man’s arms.

Panic clawed at her chest, but her gaze locked onto the face of her rescuer. He looked… human. His features were sharp, almost sculpted, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. His black hair framed a face that could have been carved from marble, but it was his eyes that stole her breath. Deep, dark, and piercing, they stared into hers with an intensity that made her forget how to think.

“Got you,” he said, his deep voice reverberating through her, warm and commanding all at once.

She gaped at him, unable to form words. The sound of flapping wings continued, and it wasn’t until her gaze dropped that she realized what was happening. The man—no, the creature—was flying. A massive pair of black wings spread from his back, powerful and sleek, moving effortlessly as they soared through the sky.

Freya’s breath as if stopped. She was certain she had drowned in the lake and this was death’s strange afterlife. “Are you… the angel of death?” she whispered, barely able to speak through the shock. Her voice trembled, weak against the rush of wind.

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, like a dark melody. “You’re not dead,” he said, his tone calm, almost amused. “You’ve simply returned to your destined fate. To me, my bride.”

Her heart stopped. His bride? What was this man—this thing—talking about? She stared at him, her mind racing as she tried to make sense of his words. But nothing made sense. Not the sky, not his wings, and certainly not this ridiculous claim.

‘What in the mythological nonsense is this?’ she thought under her breath, struggling in his arms. But her resistance was useless against his strength, and as her eyes fell on the ground far below, fear overtook her. They were high—too high—above a land that didn’t look anything like home. She froze, clinging to him despite her confusion, her breath quick and shallow.

“Put me down!” she screamed, twisting in his arms.

“Stop squirming,” he commanded, his voice sharp and full of authority. “You’ll fall.”

The wind howled around them as they flew in silence for what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than minutes. Freya’s panic didn’t subside, but her energy began to fade, her soaked clothes and exhaustion weighing her down. Finally, she saw the ground rushing up to meet them.

With a graceful sweep of his wings, he landed. His boots touched the earth soundlessly, but the impact jarred Freya, making her realize just how real this nightmare was. Before she could gather her wits, he set her down.

The moment her feet touched the ground, she bolted.

Her bare feet felt cold marble as she ran, her heart hammering in her chest. She didn’t care where she was or what had just happened—all she knew was that she had to get away from him. But she didn’t get far. From the shadows, people emerged. Dark figures wearing strange garments surrounded her, their hands grasping her arms and holding her in place.

“Let me go!” she screamed, thrashing against their grip. “What is this? Who are you people?”

No one answered. The figures remained silent, but their grip was unyielding. Freya’s panic only grew as she turned her head, searching for an escape. That’s when she saw him again.

The man—or whatever he was—was approaching her, his dark eyes locked onto her like a predator stalking its prey. He was even more imposing on the ground, his wings still open behind him. It was almost as if death was approaching her. He was tall—at least a foot taller than her—and his muscular frame was encased in a simple black shirt and pants that did nothing to hide his strength. There was something about the way he moved—fluid, deliberate, and entirely in control—that made her stomach twist.

“What kind of nightmare is this?” she whispered, her voice trembling as he came closer.

“There’s nowhere to run, little human,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with something darker. “You’re in Corvia, the Raven Kingdom. And you…” His lips curved into a smile that sent chills down her spine. “You are going to be my bride.”

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Freya’s breath caught, and her knees buckled. She stared at him, her vision swimming. His words echoed in her mind, impossible and terrifying all at once. She wanted to scream, to fight, but her body wouldn’t obey her. The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was his face—calm, confident, and terrifyingly beautiful.

And then, she passed out.