Chapter 61: Bound To Aethermor.

Chapter 61

The heavy doors of the cathedral swung open, revealing a breathtaking expanse of stone arches bathed in the golden light of dozens of silver chandeliers. Sigrid took a deep breath, resting her hand upon the arm of Chester, who stood rigid and proud in his formal court attire to escort her down the long, velvet-carpeted aisle. Holding a delicate bouquet of frosted winter lilies in her free hand, she swept forward, expecting the modest, somber gathering typical of high noble functions but empty. Instead, her crimson eyes widened slightly as she took in the vast sea of faces filling the wooden pews to capacity. The attendance was astonishingly grand, composed not merely of titled aristocracy, but of hundreds of local villagers, common craftspeople, and northern tradesmen. It became instantly clear that despite his formidable and terrifying reputation abroad, Duke Soren was deeply beloved by the common folk of his realm.

As they approached the high altar, Sigrid’s gaze locked onto Soren, and for a brief moment, her breath caught in her throat. He was clad in an immaculate, dark navy velvet tunic embroidered with silver thread that mirrored the frost-patterns of her own gown, his short black hair styled back with rare, tailored precision. The moment his icy blue eyes settled upon her, the stern composure on his face cracked, his eyes widening in uncharacteristic awe. As Chester formally released her hand and stepped back, Soren leaned down slightly, his deep voice carrying a rare, velvety warmth as he whispered beneath the echoes of the choir, "You look remarkably beautiful, my Duchess."

Sigrid offered him a radiant, serene smile, softly replying, "And you are exceptionally handsome, my Lord," though internally she could not help but dryly note that the man managed to look devastatingly handsome even in plain battle armor.

The old pope began the sacred ceremonial rites, his voice reverberating through the cavernous hall as he spoke the traditional vows of union. Sigrid, lost in the gravity of the moment, had completely forgotten the tradition of exchanging wedding bands, assuming such trivialities were overlooked in the rugged North. However, when Orion stepped forward and presented a velvet-lined wooden box to the Duke, Soren reached inside to draw out the rings. Sigrid’s eyes widened as she caught sight of the jewels. The bands were fashioned from intricate, intertwining silver patterns, holding a center stone of the most vibrant, hypnotic crimson she had ever laid eyes upon.

Mesmerized by the brilliant gem, she absentmindedly allowed Soren to guide her hand, slipping his corresponding silver band onto his finger. When it came time for Soren to place her ring, the formidable warlord unhesitatingly dropped to one knee before the entire congregation. He carefully slid the crimson band onto her finger, brought her hand to his lips to press a warm kiss against her knuckles, and uttered a low, resolute, "I do."

"By the grace of the high heavens, you may now kiss the bride," the pope solemnly declared. Soren rose to his full height, his broad hands gently lifting the sheer lace of her veil. Cupping her cheek with a firm, warm touch, he leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, possessive kiss that consumed her senses entirely. A thunderous roar of cheers, applause, and joyous shouting erupted from the villagers in the pews, shattering the solemn silence of the cathedral.

The transition from the holy sanctuary to the fortress grand hall passed in a blissful, hazy blur for Sigrid. Soon, she found herself standing beside Soren near the head table of the main hall, which had been transformed into a lavish festival of lights, rich meats, flowing wines, and lively bardic music. Sigrid held a polished goblet of dark wine, glancing around the bustling hall before turning to her husband. "I must confess, I did not realize you held such a warm relationship with the common people of the territory," she murmured softly.

Soren took a quiet sip from his own goblet, his stoic gaze sweeping over the celebrating crowds. "A lord who detachment himself from his people is nothing more than a parasite upon the land," he stated plainly. "Without their labor and loyalty, I would be just another foolish noble. I owe the prosperity of this fortress to their strength, and thus they belong at my table today."

Curiosity prying at her mind, Sigrid turned her gaze down to the stunning crimson gem shining on her left hand. "Tell me, Soren... when did you manage to purchase such extraordinary rings?"

Soren paused, his icy eyes flickering toward her hand before returning to her face. "When I last journeyed to the capital, I happened to overhear several highborn ladies whispering of a renowned foreign jewel merchant. I visited his establishment and saw these bands. The deep clarity of the red gem immediately reminded me of your pretty eyes."

Sigrid’s hands tightened around her wine goblet as a sudden, unfamiliar wave of heat flushed across her cheeks. "You... find my eyes to be pretty?" she asked, her voice dropping slightly.

Soren looked at her with utter, oblivious sincerity. "They are mesmerizing, in truth. I find great contentment simply looking into them."

Sigrid cleared her throat hastily, taking a long drink from her cup to compose herself. "Well... my Lord, I must briefly excuse myself to check my reflection and freshen my attire," she stammered, turning gracefully on her heel to escape into the quieter, cooler corridors of the keep.

Stepping out into a secluded courtyard archway to breathe in the crisp night air, she raised her mirrored compact, staring at her crimson eyes in the glass. "I am officially a married woman once more," she muttered to herself, a dark, fleeting thought crossing her mind. If the noble houses of the capital ever discovered that the Duchess of Aethermor had already been a married queen in a past life, it would unleash a scandal that would rock the entire kingdom for decades.

Her musings were interrupted as a group of local village elders and their families approached the archway, bowing with deep, genuine respect to offer their congratulations. Sigrid accepted their warm wishes with practiced grace, noting with quiet satisfaction that their joy for Soren’s marriage was entirely sincere and free of noble deception. After conversing with several local families, she made her way back into the warm clamor of the main hall to seek another drink, only for her eyes to catch a group of lavishly dressed strangers standing near the center hearth.

Rejoining Soren at the head of the room, Sigrid gestured faintly toward the group. "Who are those individuals, my Lord? Their attire does not match the local nobility." Soren glanced over, his jaw tightening slightly. "They are high-ranking lords from the neighboring duchy across the border. Because our fortress guards the northern frontier of Arkovia, they came to present formal gifts and pay their respects."

Sigrid watched as the border nobles approached, offering shallow bows and opulent chests of silk and spices. However, Sigrid’s crimson eyes narrowed sharply as a young, highborn lady within their retinue stepped forward. The girl was staring up at Soren with an shameless, brazen intent, practically eyeing the Duke like a prized conquest to be stolen. While Sigrid acknowledged that her husband was indeed a magnificent prize, such open disrespect on their wedding night was an insult she refused to tolerate.

Step forward with icy elegance, Sigrid stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Soren, casting a freezing gaze upon the young noblewoman. "Mind your eyes, young lady," Sigrid declared, her voice dropping into a dangerous, commanding register that silenced the immediate area. The noble girl gasped, her eyes widening in sheer shock at being publicly called out, before flashing a sharp glare toward the new Duchess.

Sigrid merely smiled back, a cold, predatory gleam in her eyes that silently promised ruin. "Unless you wish to be formally removed from these halls for disrespecting the house, you will turn around and leave," Sigrid added smoothly. Terrified by the sheer weight of Sigrid’s aura, the foreign delegation quickly bowed and retreated toward the exit.

Soren blinked, looking down at his wife in mild confusion. "Is something amiss, Sigrid?"

"Nothing at all, my Lord," she replied sweetly, taking his arm as the night resumed its lively pace.

By the time the midnight hour arrived and the last of the distant guests had departed, physical exhaustion finally caught up with Sigrid. She sat slumped upon a plush velvet couch near the quiet hearth, her heavy silk train surrounding her like a cloud. Soren, having finalized the security details for the night, motioned for Orion to take over the remaining guards before turning his full attention to his tired bride. Approaching the couch, he bent down to lift her into his arms, but Sigrid held up a hand, frowning slightly. "I am capable of walking, Soren. I have no need to be carried like a helpless maiden."

Soren paused, looking down at her weary posture before leaning close to whisper near her ear, "You are swaying where you sit, Duchess, and the stone staircases are steep. I will not risk you tumbling down them on our wedding night."

Before she could offer another protest, Soren effortlessly scooped her up into his broad chest, holding her securely against his warm frame. Lilith stepped forward to assist her mistress up the stairs, but Soren cast a firm look over his shoulder. "You are dismissed for the night, Lilith. I shall attend to my wife." Sigrid’s heart did a sudden, chaotic flutter against her ribs as she caught the dark, intense gleam in Soren’s icy eyes.

He carried her down the quiet, torchlit corridors until they reached the master bedchamber, pushing the heavy mahogany doors open and securing the iron latch behind them. Walking over to the grand canopy bed, Soren gently lowered Sigrid onto the soft feather mattress, towering over her as the warm light of the fireplace illuminated his striking features. He leaned down, placing his hands on either side of her shoulders, his voice dropping into a low, rough rumble. "Are you prepared for this night, my Duchess?"

Sigrid felt a rare, fluttering nervousness in her chest. Though she was no innocent maiden, the overwhelming intensity in Soren’s burning blue gaze was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Yet, as her eyes drifted to the tips of his ears, she noticed they were flushed a brilliant, charming shade of pink despite his stoic expression. A soft, breathless giggle escaped her lips, erasing her lingering doubts completely. Reaching up, she tangled her slender fingers into his short, silky black hair, pulling his face down toward hers. "I am ready, my Lord," she whispered.

Soren needed no further invitation. He captured her lips in a passionate, burning kiss that stripped away the lingering exhaustion of the day. Together, they shed the heavy, formal layers of their wedding attire, discarding the silks and velvet onto the polished floor. Sigrid’s breath caught as her hands trailed across his broad shoulders, feeling the thick rise of his muscles and the faint, rugged textures of old battle scars that adorned his back.

Soren hovered over her, his icy blue eyes locking with her fiery crimson gaze in the flickering firelight, his breath heavy with restrained desire. "I have waited for this moment since the very day you boldly demanded my hand," Soren whispered, his voice thick with devotion. "You are mine, my brilliant, beautiful Duchess." Sigrid smiled radiantly, pulling him down to her as the quiet night consumed them both in a flame of unyielding passion.