Chapter 38 The bells rang across the city of Cardania - solemn, elegant, and final. A flock of white doves lifted from the spires as if they too, were feeling the weight of the day. The grand cathedral double doors opened, the music swelling gently as the first notes of the bridal procession hummed through the marbled air. Marcella stepped into the aisle, her arm looped through her father's arm. The red pendant hung heavy around her throat, a gift no bride should ever wear. Not after what it had shown her. Not after the vision of the weeping bride who had been chained, kissed on the forehead like a blessing, then offered like a lamb. Her fingers brushed the jewel absently, and the long-dead bride's scream curled in the back of her throat. Marcella had told no one. Not Sister Evelyne. Not even Anthony. The sun filtered in through the stained glass in soft, colored beams painting the floor. Incense lingered in the air, clove and myrrh, carried in waves through the chapel's vast stone halls. Everything was beautiful. Her wedding gown flowed around her like silver smoke - gossamer layers brushing over the marble floor with each step she took. The neckline dipped just enough to kiss her collarbones, and the sleeves wrapped around her arms. It was stunning. The seamstress had stitched the house crest onto the bodice, but deep down, Marcella felt like a woman going to war. Her chest tightened. Not from the pressure of the corset that made her hard to breathe, it was the fact that this was her second time walking toward Berith. This was her second marriage to the same man. A different world, and yet here she was again. Fate had a cruel sense of humor. Marcella blinked, trying to push past the lump in her throat. Her veil brushed against her cheeks as she glanced up at her father. High Priest Alistair wore his formal robes, a deep gray lined with gold, the color of solemn vows. His features, usually so stern and unaffected, were clouded with something more fragile today. Sadness. His jaw was clenched. But Marcella saw the slight downturn of his mouth, the tightness in his shoulders. At this moment, she realized that he was walking his daughter down the aisle, handing her over to a man he couldn't fully protect her from. Marcella's fingers tightened on his arm. Then he looked at her. Just for a moment. In that heartbeat of a glance, time seemed to halt. His eyes now shimmered with unshed tears. Marcella saw what no priest, no noble, no king could ever truly understand. It was a father letting go of his child. Alistair had stood before kings and creatures of divine wrath without flinching but here, walking with his daughter towards her future, he felt powerless. Powerless in the most human, most painful way. All he could do was walk beside her, until the very last step..then let her go. Marcella felt her throat tighten. In that single glance, she understood the depth of her father's love. It was the kind of love that said goodbye without ever truly letting go. They walked forward, step by step. The nobles in attendance turned to watch, their expressions filled with admiration and curiosity. Rows of foreign dignitaries, church elders, and royal officials bowed their heads in greeting. The pews, dressed in velvet and gold, were lined with the finest of nobility. King Thomas and Queen Isolde sat like portraits come to life in the front row on their gilded seats. Crown Prince Lucian sat beside them, watching her with intense curiosity as though trying to decipher a puzzle only he had noticed. Lady Agnes sniffled once, pressing a handkerchief to her mouth. She didn't cry, but there was something like regret hidden in her expression. Then there was Verona. Gentle, aging Verona, who had held Marcella as a child when she scraped her knees, who braided her hair when her mother had been too ill. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Not crying. Not openly. But mourning in a way that only old hearts do-quietly, with memories lodged like glass in the chest. Her sister Rachel blinked back tears, shoulders stiff, mouth trembling from words she couldn't speak at that moment. Anthony, her dearest friend. The man who knew her heart in ways she never could. Rage simmered beneath his skin. Helpless, restrained rage. His hands were clenched in his lap, from the ache of watching someone he loved being handed over like a political offering. And yet... no Sister Evelyne? She should have been here. Blinking away, Marcella forced her gaze forward to the altar, to the man waiting. Berith looked like a figure pulled from the myths, unholy in his beauty. His dark wedding coat trimmed with silver, ancient symbols were stitched into the lapels. A single brooch, a silver serpent curled around a blood-red gem, was pinned at his collar matching the signet ring on his gloved hand. His raven-black hair was slicked back, sharp chiseled cheekbones and those endless black irises... focused solely on her. He looked beautiful, devastating, dangerous, all at once. For a moment..one awful, irrational moment..Marcella almost believed she could love him. But her heart didn't flutter in that thought. It clenched. Each step toward him felt like a chime of fate. As she neared, the murmuring among the court dimmed. All eyes were on them now. Then her foot touched the edge of the dais. Marcella climbed the final step, the altar rose like a cage of gold behind them. Alistair gently released her hand into Berith's as he offered his hand. Hesitation rippled through her. Her hand hovered for a second. Then she took it. Their fingers touched. His palm was warm, his thumb brushing her knuckles. The priest opened the holy book and began with the well-worn words that he used in every noble wedding across Cardania. "We are gathered here under the grace of the Divine, in celebration of unity, devotion, and sacred bond, under the watch of heavens and the eyes of men to unite this man and this woman in the eternal bond of sacred vow." The pendant around her neck pulsed. Then, a ripple of something passed through her. A flare in her blood, a slow blooming heat under her ribcage. Like a force awakening. What is happening? Another jolt pulsed through her ribs. Not pain this time-but heat. Like her blood had turned to ink and was being drawn up through invisible strings. "Do you, Duke Berith of House Montclair, accept her as your bride? Will you honor, shield, and stand as her gate, sealed by the will of flame?" The priest continued with the words she couldn't hear, couldn't process. Berith looked at her. His eyes, darker than night, held no tremor. No doubt. But somewhere behind them, Marcella saw it. And for a second, a true second, Marcella thought he might refuse, that he might save her. The tiniest crack, "I do," Berith replied as nothing in his voice betrayed anything more than compliance. "Do you, Lady Marcella of House Valemont, accept him as your husband? Will you bear the flame, and carry the seal, bound to his gate as the divine demands?" Marcella's lips parted. Her throat tightened. She glanced at Berith because she needed to look him in the eye before she said it. She expected coldness. But what she saw startled her. There was something in his gaze like he was holding something back. "I do," Marcella nodded. The moment the words left her lips, the cathedral bells tolled above, and a second flare of heat pulsed through her spine. And something beneath her ribs screamed. Marcella felt like she was outside her own body, suspended in a moment that had already been decided for her long ago. She wanted to run. But her legs wouldn't move. The priest smiled gently, lifting the rings from the velvet pillow. "With these rings, may your bond be sealed." Berith took the ring and slid it onto her finger. Likewise, Marcella also took the ring and placed it on his hand. The moment it slid past his knuckle, the ground beneath the altar hummed. The words were spoken. The rites sealed. A gold thread, soaked in holy oil, was wrapped around their joined hands by the priest. It burned cold. "In the eyes of the Divine," the priest proclaimed, "and before your houses, I pronounce you bound as husband and wife, by blood, by vow." Berith bowed his head, swallowing something back - a tremor of magic? Of pain? He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her brow. It was not romantic. It was not cruel. It was a benediction. His breath was warm. When his lips touched her skin, something inside him flared...sharp, wild, hungry. The Gate inside him pulsed. Marcella saw his eyes flicker - just for a second. Gold. He blinked. It vanished. The moment his lips left her skin, the pendant at her throat seared hot. Her breath caught as pain tore through her chest. Her knees buckled. She knew better that it was the flame torturing her inside. Because Marcella had already sealed the flame. She wasn't an empty vessel anymore and when the ritual tried to fill her... it found her already full. Marcella had rebelled against the pact. Like a lock snapping into place... but the wrong key had been used. They turned together to face the crowd; cheers rose around them. They were married and she was a Duchess now. Dojun, who married out of necessity and immediately left for a foreign country, suddenly appeared at his marital home and then at his company, without any prior notice. He brought with him several pho...