Chapter 6: The Coldest Vows

The wedding ceremony passed in a blur of silk, gold, and suffocating protocol. Canterbury bells chimed across the capital as nobles packed the palace chapel, their whispered conversations creating a hum of anticipation that seemed to mock the solemnity of the occasion.

Elara stood at the altar in a gown of ivory silk that had belonged to three generations of queens, its weight threatening to drag her to the stone floor. The dress was magnificent, a masterpiece of court tailoring that transformed her into someone unrecognizable—a noble bride worthy of the Captain of the Royal Guard. But beneath the layers of silk and ancient lace, her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird desperate for escape.

Lord Valerius Thorne stood beside her in court dress of midnight blue, the silver hawk on his chest catching the colored light from the stained glass windows. His profile was carved marble, beautiful and utterly cold. Throughout the ceremony, he had not looked at her once.

"Do you, Valerius Edmund Thorne, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, till death do you part?"

The priest's voice echoed through the chapel like a funeral toll. Elara felt the weight of hundreds of eyes upon them, the collective breath of the court held in anticipation of this moment.

Valerius turned to face her then, his grey eyes meeting hers for the first time since they'd taken their places at the altar. What she saw there made her blood turn to ice—not hatred, which she might have understood, but something far worse. Complete and utter indifference. He was looking at her as though she were a stranger, a duty to be discharged with appropriate ceremony and no personal investment.

"I do," he said, his voice carrying clearly through the chapel. The words were spoken with the same tone he might use to confirm military orders—precise, unemotional, final.

The priest turned to her, and Elara realized her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the prayer book. "Do you, Elara Margaret Meadowlight, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, till death do you part?"

Till death do you part. The phrase seemed to echo in her mind like a prison door slamming shut. She thought of the girl who had arrived at Thornfield Castle months ago, seeking nothing more than comfort for a broken heart. That girl could never have imagined she would end up here, binding herself to a man who considered her presence in his life a form of elaborate punishment.

"I do," she whispered, the words barely audible even to herself.

The rest of the ceremony passed in merciful haste. Rings were exchanged—his hands were warm and steady while hers trembled like autumn leaves. Vows were spoken that sounded like legal contracts rather than promises of love. When the priest finally pronounced them husband and wife, Valerius's kiss was swift, perfunctory, and cold as winter stone.

The wedding feast that followed was a glittering torment of forced celebration. Nobles raised toasts to their happiness while Elara sat beside her new husband at the high table, both of them smiling wooden smiles and speaking only when directly addressed. Queen Isabelle, radiant with satisfaction at her successful matchmaking, regaled the assembly with stories of how she had recognized their perfect compatibility from the moment they met.

"Such spirit in our dear Elara!" the Queen declared, raising her goblet high. "And such steadfast devotion in our Captain! Truly, this union will strengthen both the realm and the noble ideals of marriage itself!"

The assembled court applauded enthusiastically, their laughter and cheers creating a cacophony that felt like mockery to Elara's ears. She caught glimpses of Lady Cordelia Blackthorne's knowing smirks, saw the calculating looks of courtiers already wondering how this marriage might shift the delicate balance of court politics.

Through it all, Valerius remained a statue beside her—present in body but utterly absent in spirit. When required to speak, he did so with perfect courtesy and complete emptiness. When asked about his bride, he praised her virtues in terms so generic they could have applied to any woman in the kingdom.

As the evening wore on and the wine flowed freely, the celebration grew more raucous. But for Elara, each passing hour only brought her closer to the moment she had been dreading since the Queen's decree—their wedding night.

Finally, mercifully, the festivities began to wind down. Queen Isabelle, slightly flushed with wine and triumph, approached the high table with obvious delight.

"My dear newlyweds," she proclaimed, her voice carrying across the hall, "the hour grows late, and I'm certain you're both eager to... retire to your new quarters."

The knowing laughter that followed this pronouncement made Elara's cheeks burn with humiliation. She felt exposed, as though every person in the hall was imagining the intimate moments that were supposed to follow, the wedding night passion that should seal their union.

If only they knew the truth.

The suite of rooms that had been prepared for the new Lord and Lady Thorne was magnificent—a sitting room with tapestries depicting romantic scenes from classical mythology, a dining area suitable for entertaining lesser nobles, and beyond it all, the bedchamber that dominated the space like an accusation.

The bed itself was enormous, draped in silk hangings of deep burgundy and gold. Rose petals had been scattered across the coverlet, and candles flickered throughout the room, creating an atmosphere of romantic intimacy that mocked their actual circumstances.

Elara stood in the center of the sitting room, still wearing her wedding gown, unsure what was expected of her now. The servants who had escorted them to their chambers had withdrawn with knowing smiles, leaving them alone for the first time as husband and wife.

Valerius moved through the space with predatory grace, examining the accommodations with the same thoroughness he might apply to inspecting fortifications. His wedding attire remained impeccable, but she noticed he had removed the silver hawk pin from his chest—perhaps the only sign that he considered this day officially ended.

"Well," he said finally, turning to face her with an expression that revealed nothing, "here we are. Lord and Lady Thorne, as Her Majesty decreed."

The way he said their new shared name made it sound like a curse.

"Valerius," she began, then stopped, unsure how to continue. What did one say to a husband who had been forced into marriage? How did one bridge a chasm that seemed to widen with every passing moment?

"Let me save us both some time and discomfort," he said, moving to a sideboard where decanters of wine and spirits waited. He poured himself a generous measure of what looked like brandy, his movements precise despite the obvious tension in his shoulders. "This marriage is a legal arrangement imposed by royal decree. Nothing more, nothing less."

He took a sip of brandy before continuing, his voice as controlled as ever. "I have no intention of playing the part of the devoted husband for private audiences, nor do I expect you to perform the role of adoring wife when we are alone. We are bound by law and convenience, not by any romantic delusions."

Each word landed like a physical blow, but Elara forced herself to stand straight, to meet his gaze without flinching. "And what does that mean, practically speaking?"

"It means," he said, settling into one of the elegant chairs with studied casualness, "that we will maintain separate lives under the same roof. You will have your duties as my wife in public—accompanying me to court functions, managing our household, presenting the appropriate image to society. In return, you will have the security and status you so clearly desired."

He gestured toward the bedchamber with casual dismissal. "As for more... intimate... expectations, I have no intention of imposing myself upon an unwilling bride. The bedroom is yours. I will make other arrangements."

The casual rejection stung more than she had expected. Not because she harbored any romantic feelings for him—how could she, when he clearly despised her?—but because it emphasized just how thoroughly he had written her off as a person worth knowing.

"How generous of you," she said quietly, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. "And what if I find these arrangements... insufficient?"

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that she was not simply accepting his terms without question. "Insufficient in what way?"

"You speak of maintaining appropriate images in public, but what you're describing sounds more like two strangers sharing accommodations than a married couple. Even the most cynical court marriages require some measure of... partnership."

"Partnership?" The word seemed to surprise him. "What exactly did you have in mind, Lady Thorne?"

The new name sent an odd thrill through her—not of pleasure, exactly, but of power. She was Lady Thorne now, with all the influence and authority that title carried. Whatever else this marriage might be, it had elevated her beyond anything she could have achieved on her own.

"I had in mind a wife who is consulted on matters affecting our joint interests," she said, moving closer to where he sat. "A partner who is informed about the political implications of our union, who understands how our marriage affects your position at court and acts accordingly."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "You wish to be involved in political matters?"

"I wish to be useful," she corrected. "You've made it clear that you consider this marriage a burden imposed upon you. Very well. But I refuse to be a useless burden. If I must be your wife, I intend to be good at it."

For the first time since the ceremony, genuine interest flickered in his grey eyes. "Good at it?"

"You require a wife who enhances your reputation rather than damaging it. I require a marriage that provides me with purpose beyond serving as decoration at court functions. Surely we can find common ground in mutual benefit, even if we cannot find it in mutual affection."

He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You surprise me, Lady Thorne. I had expected tears, protestations of innocence, or perhaps dramatic declarations of unrequited feeling."

"Would any of those change our circumstances?"

"No."

"Then they would be a waste of both our time." She smoothed her wedding gown, the silk whispering around her legs. "I may be provincial, Lord Thorne, but I am not stupid. I understand our situation as clearly as you do."

"Do you?" He rose from his chair, moving closer with that predatory grace that seemed to characterize all his movements. "Do you understand that this marriage has made you enemies among the court ladies who will see you as an upstart who stole a prize meant for their daughters? Do you understand that every political rival I have will now see you as a potential weakness to exploit?"

His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "Do you understand that your every action will be scrutinized for signs of the calculating ambition I am certain brought you to this moment?"

The accusations hung in the air between them like drawn blades. Elara felt the familiar spark of defiance that had carried her through every crisis since Thornfield, the stubborn refusal to be dismissed or underestimated.

"I understand," she said quietly, "that you have already decided I am guilty of crimes I did not commit. I understand that no evidence will convince you otherwise, because your mind was made up the moment you first saw me. And I understand that this marriage will be a battle of wills fought in parlors and bedchambers instead of on traditional battlefields."

She took a step closer, close enough to see the faint scar near his temple, close enough to catch the scent of brandy on his breath. "What you don't seem to understand, my lord husband, is that I have no intention of losing that battle."

Something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to something that might have been respect, or perhaps simply recognition of a worthy opponent.

"Brave words from someone who has never faced true court warfare," he said, but there was less dismissal in his tone than before.

"Then perhaps," she replied with a smile that held no warmth, "it's time I learned."

They stared at each other across the candlelit room, two people bound together by royal decree and separated by mutual mistrust. The marriage bed waited in the next room, rose petals and silk hangings proclaiming a romance that existed only in the Queen's imagination.

But as Elara met her husband's challenging gaze with one of her own, she realized that their wedding night was not ending with passion or tenderness or even civilized distance.

It was ending with a declaration of war.

And despite everything—the forced marriage, his obvious contempt, the impossible circumstances that had brought them to this moment—she found herself looking forward to the battle ahead.

After all, she had come to court to prove herself unforgettable.

Mission accomplished.