Chapter 4 - The Vows of Ice
The cathedral of Artoria was a masterpiece of gothic architecture, its vaulted ceilings lost in shadows, stained glass windows casting fractured pools of crimson and gold across the marble floors. Hundreds of high-ranking nobles, pack alphas, and council members filled the pews, their whispers buzzing like a swarm of angry hornets as Claire walked down the long aisle.
She wore a gown of heavy white silk, her face hidden once more beneath a delicate, shimmering veil of silver lace that obscured her features and the dark brand upon her brow.
At the altar stood Elian, clad in formal black ceremonial armor adorned with silver pelts and the royal crest of the wolf crown. He looked magnificent, untouchable, and utterly desolate.
When Claire reached his side, the high priest began the ancient, binding liturgy of the northern packs. The words echoed off the stone walls, speaking of loyalty, blood, and eternal endurance.
“Do you, Alpha King Elian, take this woman as your queen and bondmate before the gods and the pack?” the priest intoned.
“I do,” Elian replied, his voice steady, cold, and echoing through the silent nave.
“Do you, Lady Claire, take this man as your king and bondmate?”
Claire looked up through her veil at the man who had pulled her from the gutter only to lock her in a cage of gilded isolation. “I do.”
“By the power vested in me, I pronounce you bonded. You may seal the union.”
The congregation leaned forward, holding their breath. According to tradition, the groom must lift the bride's veil and kiss her lips to finalize the spiritual bond before the pack.
Elian reached out. His large fingers caught the edge of the silver lace veil. For a second, his hand trembled—a microscopic movement that only Claire, standing inches away, could detect.
Instead of lifting it to expose her face to the judgmental eyes of the court, Elian paused. He lowered the veil back into place, took Claire’s small hand in his, and pressed his lips firmly against her knuckles.
A collective gasp echoed through the cathedral. The nobles exchanged bewildered, scandalized glances. An unsealed bride? A queen whose face remained hidden from her own subjects?
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Claire stared at him in utter astonishment.
Elian didn’t explain. He simply turned, interlaced his fingers with hers, and led her out of the cathedral as the newly crowned Queen of Artoria, wrapped in a mystery that drove the court wild with speculation.
