Chapter 44: Wedding Bands

By the time the first evening lamps were being lit along the manor corridors, Valdor realized the kitchens had grown quieter around him. The earlier rush of preparation had settled into a controlled rhythm, with servants carrying covered dishes toward the dining room, kitchen maids polishing the last traces of flour from the tables, and Cook Brenna standing before the main hearth with the air of a general reviewing a completed campaign. The smaller hearth Valdor had been allowed to use burned low now, its coals glowing beneath a pot of rich chicken broth. Beside it, the roasted meat rested beneath a cloth, tender and fragrant with herbs.

Valdor had not realized how much time had passed. The meal had taken more attention than expected, not because the work was difficult, but because every step demanded consideration. He had tasted the broth four times, adjusted the salt twice, and removed one herb after remembering Doctor Haverin’s warning about foods that might disturb an exhausted body. The vegetables had been cooked soft enough for comfort but not so soft that Amor would accuse the meal of being fit for an elderly invalid.

The bread had been warmed rather than toasted hard. The honey-berry sweet had been shaped small enough that Amor could not reasonably accuse him of excessive indulgence, yet large enough that the promise of dessert might survive the vegetable course. Valdor had arranged everything according to usefulness first, then reconsidered and adjusted the placement until it looked beautiful enough for Amor’s eyes. A courtship tray, he discovered, required both stomach and pride to be fed. Cook Brenna watched him place the final garnish upon the broth.

"Oi, Romeo, you’ve been standing there for uh... quite some time there now. You doing okay?"

She said. Valdor looked toward her.

"The greens were uneven."

"Dear, they were parsley leaves."

"They are now even."

The cook’s mouth twitched. She wiped her hands on a clean cloth and approached the tray, inspecting the roasted chicken, vegetables, broth, bread, and small dessert with the authority of someone prepared to find fault if fault existed. When she did not immediately criticize anything, several nearby assistants exchanged glances. Approval from Brenna was apparently a rare seasoning.

"It will do, Sugar Crumbs."

She said. Valdor inclined his head. One kitchen maid made a strangled sound that suggested it will do meant far more than the words admitted. Cook Brenna shot her a look before turning back to Valdor.

"The day was short."

"Hmm, was it? Oh, You must have lost track of time because you were cooking for someone you care about, Prince of Hearts."

Valdor’s hand stilled on the tray edge. Brenna lifted her left hand and wiggled one finger. A simple bronze band circled it. The gesture clearly meant something to the other kitchen staff, because two assistants smiled and a younger maid looked away as though the cook had just revealed something tender. Valdor stared at the ring.

"What is that around your finger?"

Cook Brenna blinked. Then she glanced at the bronze band and laughed once, not unkindly.

"Oh Sweetpea! You truly are not from our neck of the forest."

"No."

"This is my wedding band..."

Valdor’s attention sharpened. Brenna leaned one hip against the table, apparently deciding that a Blackstone warrior preparing courtship dinner for the heir of House Moons required immediate education.

"In the kingdom, when two people marry, they exchange bands. Nobles favor gold, platinum, gemstones, old family pieces, anything expensive enough to make the entire room whisper about it..."

Valdor looked at the ring again. It was not ornate. Bronze, polished by years of wear, warmed by her hand, and marked near the edge by scratches that no careful cleaning had erased. No gems interrupted the surface. It looked more useful than decorative.

"For common families..."

Brenna continued.

"The band is usually made from the best material within reach. Some save for years for gold or silver. Some settle for bronze, copper, iron, bone, or wood."

Valdor frowned slightly.

"Why spend so much?"

"Because that is the point, Smarty..."

He looked unconvinced. Brenna smiled.

"Not the waste, Lord Valdor. The trust..."

She touched the band with her thumb.

"When someone gives a wedding band here, they are placing something costly into another person’s keeping. For the wealthy, it proves they are willing to part with treasure. For the poor, it may represent months or years of work. The one who accepts it wears that cost openly."

Valdor considered the explanation.

"You trust them to replace the loss?"

"Not always in coin..."

Brenna said.

"You trust them to make the loss meaningful. You trust that life with them will be worth more than what you spent to bind yourself together."

The idea settled with unexpected weight. Valdor thought of the gifts read aloud in court, extravagant items given to Alphonsins by the original Amor and accepted without equivalent devotion. Kingdom gifts could become unbalanced, he had already learned that clearly. But this custom seemed to recognize the danger by turning expense into mutual trust rather than one-sided display.

"What if there is no coin?"

He asked.

"Then the band becomes work..."

Brenna reached for a wooden spoon and tapped it lightly against the table.

"In villages where no one can afford gold, silver, or even bronze, the proposer may carve the band by hand. Some use hardwood, horn, antler, or whatever material their craft allows. A vow is often carved inside."

Valdor’s gaze lifted.

"A vow?"

"Short words mostly..."

Brenna said.

"Something private enough that only the wearer knows unless they choose to share it. My brother carved willow bands for his wife because they married during a poor year. Hers said, ’I come home.’ His said, ’I wait with fire.’"

The kitchen had grown quieter. Even the servants pretending not to listen had slowed their work. Valdor looked back at the bronze ring.

"What does yours say?"

Brenna’s expression changed. For a moment, the stern cook softened into a woman who had once been young enough to receive a promise and believe it would last.

"Mine is bronze, so the words are engraved. My husband worked three extra winters helping a smith to afford it..."

Valdor waited. She smiled faintly.

"Inside, it says, ’Eat first’..."

The answer surprised him. A few kitchen maids laughed softly. Brenna’s eyes warmed.

"He was a ridiculous man. Always claimed I fed everyone else before myself, which was true enough to be irritating."

"Was?"

"He died eight years ago."

Valdor’s expression sobered.

"I am sorry."

"So am I..."

She looked toward the ring again.

"But I still eat first when I remember, because he spent three winters making sure his instruction would outlive his nagging."

Valdor understood that. Not entirely as the kingdom meant it, perhaps, but enough. A wedding band was not only wealth. It was labor, memory, trust, and a vow carried physically upon the body. It could be ornate enough to impress a court or plain enough to matter only to the person wearing it. In that way, it resembled Blackstone customs more than he expected.

"When Blackstone marry..."

He said slowly,

"We mark one another..."

Brenna listened without interrupting.

"Not always the same place. Some choose the wrist, the shoulder, the back of the neck, the ribs."

He touched one of the dark markings crossing his chest.

"The marriage mark joins with existing marks but remains distinct."

"Uh, so like... a tattoo?"

"Yes."

"That sounds... permanent there, Caramel."

"It is meant to be."

Brenna studied him.

"Is it... like supposed to mean... ownership?"

"Some outsiders think so."

"And is it?"

"No..."

The answer came immediately. Valdor searched for the right kingdom words.

"A married Blackstone may still travel, hunt, trade, fight, leave for months if duty calls. The mark does not say, ’You are mine and may not go.’ It says, ’Where you go, I remain carried with you.’"

Cook Brenna’s expression softened again.

"That... is beautiful, Casanova."

Valdor had not expected the word. He looked toward the broth.

"It can also be painful."

"Most true things are, Charmer."

The statement reminded him of his mom, Sarka. She had carried Vervath’s mark near her left shoulder, a black-and-red pattern shaped like interlocking mountain peaks. Vervath carried hers along his ribs, hidden beneath his fur wolf cloak unless he removed it near family. After her death, he touched it whenever he believed no one watched.

A mark was not ownership. It was witness. It proved someone had once chosen to carry another person openly beneath skin. Valdor looked down at his own bare hands. A kingdom wedding band could be removed. A Blackstone marriage mark could not.

Yet the band’s cost, carving, and private vow appealed to him. The object could be held, turned, kissed, hidden, displayed, passed through generations, or buried with the person who wore it. The differences were not weaknesses. They were another language.

’Perhaps someday—’

The thought struck too quickly. Valdor’s ears warmed.

’Someday?’

He had not courted Amor for a full day. They had agreed less than a few hours ago. Thinking about marriage now was foolish, premature, and exactly the sort of thing Vervath would make into a public celebration if he sensed it. Valdor’s hand closed around the edge of the table.

Cook Brenna noticed. Her brows rose. To her credit, she did not say a word. She simply turned back toward the main dinner preparations as though the giant Blackstone warrior standing in her kitchen had not just realized he was imagining vows before completing his first courtship meal. Her restraint earned Valdor’s silent respect. It also made the younger maids struggle visibly not to smile.

Valdor focused on the tray. Broth in a deep bowl. Chicken sliced and arranged with vegetables. Bread wrapped in cloth to keep warm. Honey-berry sweet covered last so Amor would not see it before finishing the proper food. A small cup of restorative tea, prepared according to Doctor Haverin’s instructions but improved with a spoon of honey because Amor would object less.

Valdor checked the tray’s balance. Then checked it again. Cook Brenna looked over without turning fully from the hearth.

"It will not grow more stable if you glare at it, Hotshot."

"I am not glaring."

"You are a Blackstone. Your neutral face intimidates even the furniture, Stoneface."

Several assistants made themselves very busy. Valdor lifted the tray.

"Thank you for the kitchen."

"Pah! Don’t even mention it, Butcher. You cleaned your station better than most of the newbies here."

"Yes."

"You’re welcome to use it again, I have a feeling we’ll be seeing you around here a lot, Mr. Wedding Bands."

That was apparently her true approval. Valdor inclined his head.

"I will."

"Tomorrow I’m guessing, Hunk-ter?"

"Yes."

Cook Brenna shook her head, though she looked amused.

"Courtshipful week is well on it’s way, then. Must be nice to be young and in love. Don’t miss out on a single moment Lord Amor is stuck in bed okay, Striker."

The term ’courtshipful week’ had already stuck and spread. Valdor considered denying it. He found no reason.

"Yes."

Brenna smiled and returned to stirring a large pot.

"Then remember this, Pumpkin. Kingdom suitors often try to impress with rarity. Rare flowers, rare jewels, rare wines, rare nonsense..."

Valdor waited.

"Food does not impress because it is rare..."

She said.

"It impresses because it arrives when needed."

The advice entered him more deeply than she likely intended. It aligned with Vervath’s guidance, with Sarka’s memory, with Amor’s reaction to waste, and with Valdor’s own instincts. Consistency over spectacle. Return over performance. He nodded once.

"I will remember."

Valdor carried the tray from the kitchen.

---

The corridors outside had changed with evening. Servants lit lamps in brass wall sconces, filling the passageways with pools of amber light, while the faint scent of polished wood and dinner herbs followed him from the kitchens. The household moved toward night with practiced grace, yet nearly everyone he passed glanced at the tray before glancing at him.

A footman bowed. A maid smiled. One older servant whispered something to another and received a sharp elbow in return. Valdor ignored them, though not because he failed to understand. The household knew.

Perhaps not every detail, but enough. Amor had accepted courtship, and Valdor’s first response was to seize a chicken, occupy the kitchen, and prepare dinner personally. The story would mutate by morning into something involving a hunted beast, probably.

He walked steadily toward the staircase. The tray remained warm in his hands. His thoughts, unfortunately, refused to remain as orderly. Wedding bands, marriage marks, a vow inside a circle or a mark beneath skin.

He imagined Amor’s hand adorned not with something purchased from a court jeweler, but with a band carved from dark mountain wood, smooth enough for delicate fingers and lined with words chosen only for him. Then he imagined a more extravagant kingdom version, moonstone and mountain glass set together, beautiful enough to satisfy Amor’s taste while still carrying Blackstone meaning. The image warmed him too quickly. He stopped at the base of the stairs.

’Too soon.’

The thought needed to be stored, not followed. Courtship came first. That meant sharing meals, conversation, learning from one another and gaining permission rather than taking it. He resumed climbing.

Marriage thoughts belonged to a future Amor had not offered. Wanting that future did not make it his. The lesson returned with the same firmness that had stopped him from kissing Amor in the carriage.

’Not claiming. Not yet.’

Valdor reached the third-floor corridor. The estate was quieter here, the lamps lower and the air touched by lavender oil from Amor’s rooms. He could hear faint voices beyond the bedroom door—Lanslet’s controlled concern, Vervath’s unmistakable rumble, and Amor saying something sharp enough to make both fathers pause. The sound eased him.

Amor was awake. Present and safe, it was all he could ask for. Valdor stopped outside the door with the tray in his hands. The conversation inside shifted. Vervath laughed. Lanslet objected. Amor threatened someone with exile from his room.

’Domestic noise...’

Valdor thought.

’Could be another kind of protection.’

He looked down once more at the meal. It was not a jewel, a poem, or a grand outing beneath the eyes of the capital. It was broth, chicken, vegetables, bread, tea, and a small dessert earned after protest. It was the first evening of a courtship Amor could end whenever he chose. It was also a promise Valdor knew how to keep.

It said to eat, rest, heal and in the mean time, I will return. Again and again for you.

Valdor lifted one hand from beneath the tray and knocked.

Knock, knock—

"Come in."

Amor’s delicate voice traveled through the door. Valdor entered Amor’s room with the courtship tray held carefully in both hands.

The conversation within stopped the moment he crossed the threshold. Lanslet stood beside the bed with one hand still resting upon Amor’s blankets, while Vervath occupied the chair near the window as though he had been installed there permanently. Amor sat propped against the pillows, fan in hand, looking as if he had just successfully prevented both fathers from turning his courtship into a treaty negotiation. Valdor looked from Lanslet to Vervath.

"Dinner is prepared."

He said. Lanslet glanced toward the tray.

"I already ordered dinner to be brought in by my staff."

"I brought it."

"Y-yes... I can see that."

Valdor stepped farther into the room and placed the tray on the table without yet uncovering it.

"The household dinner will be finished soon. You will be called."

Vervath’s mouth twitched. Lanslet’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"Are you dismissing me from my own son’s room?"

"Yes..."

The answer landed with the blunt simplicity of a stone dropped into water. Amor immediately lifted the fan to hide his smile. Valdor seemed to consider that his response might have lacked sufficient kingdom polish. He inclined his head toward Lanslet and added,

"Sir."

Vervath laughed. Lanslet looked toward the chieftain.

"Do not encourage him, Vervath."

"He added the ’sir’ to be polite. How can I not encourage good manners?"

"That does not transform expulsion into etiquette. You of all people should know that!"

Valdor remained still beside the tray.

"Amor needs to eat while the food is warm."

The argument became difficult to oppose because Lanslet very much agreed that Amor needed to eat. His gaze moved to his son, then to the tray, then to Valdor’s immovable expression. With a sigh that carried several forms of paternal defeat, he stepped closer to the bed.

"Eat slowly, my moonlight. You know how worried I get when you nearly inhale your food. Remember what happened after your fever? You ate everything in sight so fast and ended up with a tummy ache. Let’s not have a repeat, okay?"

Lanslet instructed.

"I know."

"Do not argue over vegetables. They are good for you. You especially need them if you are going to get any better."

Amor’s expression changed.

"Why is everyone conspiring with vegetables today?"

"Because your body requires them and I won’t hear another word about it, Amor Moons. "

"My body would also appreciate cake!"

"Your body may have cake after vegetables."

Valdor looked toward Lanslet with faint approval. Amor noticed and pointed his fan at both of them.

"I dislike this alliance!"

Lanslet fussed once more over the blanket, the pillows, the ankle elevation, and the cup of water within reach. He touched Amor’s hair with brief tenderness before retreating toward the door, though reluctance followed every step. The marquess stopped once beside Valdor.

"No overexertion."

"Yes."

"No emotional ambushes..."

Valdor glanced toward Vervath. Lanslet followed the look.

"That warning applies to both of you."

Vervath rose from the chair and stretched, entirely unrepentant. As he passed his son, he gave Valdor a heavy pat on the shoulder and a knowing wink so exaggerated that even Amor saw it from the bed. Valdor’s face remained stoic, but the tips of his ears darkened slightly.

"[Good hunting, son]"

Vervath murmured.

"[It is dinner.]"

Valdor replied.

"[Yes...]"

The chieftain said, still smiling.

"[Very difficult prey. May the Peaks bless you with bountiful bliss.]"

Amor opened his fan with a sharp snap.

"Leave."

Vervath left laughing. Lanslet followed him into the corridor, already beginning a restrained lecture on why courtship should not be compared to hunting within earshot of the person being courted. The door closed behind them, dulling their voices but not entirely silencing them. A moment later, Vervath said something about Amor being too pretty to be ordinary prey, and Lanslet’s response became too sharp to distinguish. Amor sighed.

"My father will not survive your father."

"My dad will enjoy that."

"That is exactly the problem."

Valdor uncovered the tray. Warm steam lifted into the room, carrying the scent of chicken broth, roasted herbs, softened root vegetables, honeyed bread, and a small dessert that Amor immediately noticed beneath its own covered dish. Valdor set the broth closest, placed the sliced chicken beside it, then moved the dessert to the far side of the table where Amor could see it but not reach it without leaning. His expression gave no indication that the placement was deliberate. Amor stared at the dish.

"You did that on purpose."

"Yes."

"I ate vegetables at lunch so I’ve had enough for the day."

"You will eat more at dinner."

"There must be a legal limit!"

"No."

"Humph! You are not a physician!"

"The shaman advised vegetables."

"Doctor Haverin advises many unpleasant things that doesn’t mean I should do every little thing he asks of me."

Valdor placed the spoon in Amor’s hand and adjusted the tray to a comfortable height.

"Eat."

Amor gave him a wounded look over the fan. Valdor did not move. After a long, dramatic pause, Amor lowered the fan and began eating the broth. The first spoonful weakened his resistance more than he wished to admit. It was warm, rich, and soothing without being heavy, and the herbs had a faint unfamiliar edge that made the familiar chicken taste deeper. He glanced toward Valdor suspiciously.

"You made this."

"Yes."

"Wait, all of it!?"

"Yes."

Amor looked down at the bowl again. The warmth spreading through him changed. It was no longer merely food brought from the kitchen because someone had ordered it. Valdor had prepared it with his own hands, adjusted it to suit Haverin’s instructions, and carried it up himself before dismissing two fathers from the room with more courage than some soldiers showed in battle. Even the vegetables seemed slightly less offensive beneath that knowledge.

Only slightly.