Chapter Text
The western outposts on the border with Reshar were no place for court-bred ladies. Everybody knew that: the king, the princes, nobles at court, townspeople in the taverns, soldiers in the outposts. Deniza knew this since she was four and had witnessed the victory parade for the first time, full of strong but scarred men, rewarded by the king for wresting another strip of land from their neighbours. Her brother knew it as well.
And that was exactly why he sent her there.
Deniza's fingers tightened on the edge of her carriage window. She had spent her whole life hiding in the shadows of the court from him and his friends and had learnt how to be a lady so perfect in her feminine virtues that she became invisible. She wore pastel silks, had her hair braided modestly at the top of her head, danced with grace, passably played the piano and harp, and embroidered with precision ever so praised by her mother. She disappeared for days between the library shelves, spoke four languages, calligraphed in three of them, was good at maths and philosophy, brilliant at botany. She would make a lovely bride and gentle wife for some courtier one day, maybe even for a scholar serving one of the princes. And never, even in her worst nightmares, did she imagine herself being married off to a soldier.
Iliaz dared to lecture her on how honoured she should feel about this engagement. "Don't you feel blessed, little sister?" he asked just before her departure, his mouth twisted into a sly smile. These words didn't have to them the cruelty of those he had spoken the night before, but they were a mockery covered with a false affection, nonetheless. "A bride to a son of the prince! I'm sure you two are meant for each other."
She wanted to slap him. Or beg him on her knees not to send her away, if not for his nonexistent brotherly love or for her own sake, then for the memory of the father they shared. She did neither. Instead, she gave a deep curtsy and smiled at him. She thanked him. It wasn't until almost an hour after her carriage had set off that she finally dared to take a deep breath, curse Iliaz, may he choke on his own flattery, and begin calculating the odds of falling gravely ill en route and never arriving to the outpost. They turned out disappointingly small, so she stopped.
The worst part was that she couldn't focus. She tried to read, but her mind swiftly wandered far away, and then she found herself remembering nothing of the last ten or so pages. She tried embroidery but only pricked her fingers. There was no one to talk to. Iliaz didn't see fit for her to bring at least one maid with her (after all, the western outpost are no place for a young girl) and even though the guards he sent with her and the carter were all cordial men, they were also too well-mannered to actually dare to converse with a high-born lady.
After three days, she started to quip in her mind that maybe it wouldn't be fever that should kill her and rescue from marriage but boredom.
After five, she almost started to believe it.
On the seventh day, she became certain that if someone asked her to draw the layout of the leyveins, the only thing distinguishing the nobility from common people, on her body, she would do it with her eyes closed. Not that it was particularly difficult. Her leyveins formed a simple grid of thin, pinkish lines that offered just enough power to facilitate a few basic tasks, like lighting a fire in the hearth or removing an ink stain from her sleeve, but nothing more. Nothing spectacular or majestic like in the tales of old. The same was true for most of the Naseri nobles. They say that in ancient times, their leyveins were coal black, blazing with limitless power, and forming complex spirals and geometric patterns on their sun-kissed skin. However, the passage of time and far too much inbreeding had reduced them to shadows of their former selves. They still believe in their greatness, of course, but few of them were born powerful enough to truly prove it these days.
As evening approached, one of the guards, a red-haired youth with an infectious laugh, appeared at the window of her carriage.
"We shall arrive within the hour, milady."
"Thank you," she murmured, keeping her eyes downcast. "I'll be ready."
The guard left. Deniza bit on her cheek to stop herself from screaming with frustration. She closed her eyes, breathing slowly and deeply, and tried to keep her mind from spiralling by recalling everything she had got to know about her future husband. He was a third son to the prince Krenar Iadreian, one of the king's most trusted diplomats, and lady Emela Vatriath, a pious and respectable patroness of arts, and, like most of the noble-born third sons, he had been sent to join the army at the very young age. Deniza doubted he had ever visited his family at court. She danced with his older brothers a couple of times, though. They were both equally civil and witty to make a girl blush and laugh at their jests, and they painted over their pale leyveins with golden paint in accordance with the latest court fashion, but she didn't remember any of them to even mention that there was another brother. Not that she had been interested in the subject before Iliaz's cursed plan.
Only after the announcement, she started to listen more carefully, and then, as there was literally nothing to listen to, asked questions herself. And yet, the only thing she was able to get was a couple of shy words, repeated over and over again and deprived of meaning. A soldier. Honourable. Strict. Callous. His father's son. A commander at barely twenty-one. The only thing of any substance she managed to learn was that his leyveins were sharp and clearly visible on his skin. A hopeful sign, promising great-share of magical power when it shall finally bloom into the first surge. Or at least greater than one needed to light a candle or warm a blanket at night.
The outpost turned out larger than she had imagined. Louder as well. Busier. Full of men running around, shouting orders, and training. Most of the soldiers they passed barely spared her carriage a glance. She was surprised to see several children, mostly boys with bruised knees and windswept hair. She didn't expect any in a place like this, but maybe she should have. Soldiers had their needs. Iliaz made it more than clear to her the night before she left.
Deniza clenched her fists, letting out an angry exhale. She really shouldn't think about that conversation.
Finally, the carriage stopped in front of one of the more presentable buildings. Her escort opened the door for her and helped her out. One of them announced:
"Lady Deniza of House Valon, daughter of the Count of Rezart."
There was no welcoming committee, no music, no comment. Only a man standing a few paces away with his arms folded, way too relaxed for someone receiving a noblewoman, not to mention his soon-to-be-wife.
She looked at him and let out a small gasp.
His leyveins were even darker than she expected, as if someone had painted them wish freshly spilled blood on his tanned and sun-freckled skin. Hers looked translucent in comparison. She didn't like it; wasn't it enough that he was already taller and stronger than her? Did he really need to be able to dominate her with magic as well?
She shifted the attention to his other features so she could ignore the fear growing inside of her. He wasn't like the man she was accustomed to, that was for sure. He wore a well-worn uniform that looked like it had been slept it. No embellishments, no gems, no personal touch to it. He was clean-shaven though; his brown hair was cut short but unevenly, clearly by someone who lacked skill or patience. Or both. It looked strange and almost made her chuckle, but it had its good side as well. With longer, more carefully styled hair, he would look far too much like Iliaz. And then there would be the risk of her accidentally scratching his face on their wedding night.
Deniza stopped at the proper distance and curtsied low. He looked her briefly up and down, and didn't seem impressed.
"I was told not to expect you until the day after tomorrow," he said crisply. His voice was pleasantly deep but flat. Barren of affection, not impolite but not warm either.
"And I was told that you don't like waiting, so I thought you would appreciate punctuality."
"Did you really?"
She felt her face turning red at the subtle taunt in his voice but didn't cast her eyes down. She looked him straight in the eye and smiled as if he had just complimented her thoughtfulness.
"I can ask my guards to take me back to the last tavern we slept in and come back the day after tomorrow if that's what you want."
"Waste of time." He shook his head. "Your accent sounds weird. Do you always sing-song like that?"
Startled, she reached for her throat, frowning.
"Funny. You don't speak like a son of a prince."
To her shock, his mouth twitched into an amused smile.
"You don't yield easily, do you? That's good."
For a moment, they stared at each other in complete silence. Strangely, she didn't get the impression that he was judging her. More like he was waiting for something. She cleared her throat.
"Are you not going to introduce yourself, my lord?"
He raised a brow.
"Why should I know? You know who I am. Or at least you should know."
"I do. But I'm talking manners."
"You can't be serious," he said, scoffing. Deniza didn't answer, just crossed her arms over her chest and proudly raised her chin. He sighed. "Whatever. I'm Laert Iadreian, captain of the fifth infantry and lord commander of this lovely piece of hell-bound paradise. Your intended, if I'm not mistaken."
The bow he made before her had nothing to do with respect of any kind, or even good manners. It was a mockery. But not the kind her older brother had accustomed her to: elaborate and aimed precisely to hurt as much as possible. This one felt like accepting a challenge, a game she had invited him to play.
It didn't feel exactly right. But it made her smirk, nonetheless.
"Wasn't that hard, was it?" she asked, curtsying again. "I'm honoured to meet you, Captain Laert."
"No, you are not. But your sing-song sounds prettier when you lie," he gave a short laugh. "Now, enough talking. Come."
He turned on his heel and walked away. He didn't even look to see if she followed him. Well, he knew she didn't have much of a choice. She looked up at the sky and sighed inwardly, once again cursing Iliaz and his political ambitions. And then she did follow Laert, thinking about what a perfect disaster their marriage was shaping up to be.