Page 39 of Fading Sun

My breath catches from my gown’s constricting bodice, and everything blurs around me. It’s like a hand is wrapped around my chest, squeezing and squeezing so I have no air at all. All I feel is the pressure of having all eyes on me, along with the knowledge that the responsibilities I’m taking on will be far more than I can possibly understand right now.

Starting with the responsibility of getting the Solar Scepter and killing Astrophel.

No.

Starting with the responsibility of going through with this ceremony without having a full-blown panic attack. I’ve never had a panic attack, but if there was ever time to experience my first one, it’s now.

A traditional wedding march sounds through the air, played by a string quartet tucked discreetly to one side.

The music feels too formal. Too cold.

Somehow, this moment is far scarier than the Minotaur’s Labyrinth or an army of shadow souls could ever be.

But just like I did with those, I have to face it head on.

So, I take a deep breath and start my walk down the long, rose-covered aisle.

Damien stands at the altar. He’s wearing a perfectly tailored suit, as per usual. His expression is unreadable, his posture rigid, as if carved from the same marble as the statues lining the room.

He looks like he’s attending a funeral—not a wedding.

Eventually, I’m there. At the altar, facing him.

His eyes meet mine, icy and distant, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the draft in the room.

He says nothing to me, and I say nothing to him.

The night warden—their version of a priest—clears his throat to get our attention. He’s wearing a long, black robe with a pointed hood down his back that’s giving a medieval cult vibe. A narrow table stands in front of him, waist-height, with an intricately designed silver dagger laying on top of it.

In his hands, he holds the rings. They’re simple bands, made from meteoric iron, which gives them a rougher texture than traditional metal. One is thicker—Damien’s—and the other is thinner and daintier.

Mine.

Soon, that ring will be on my finger.

I swallow down a ball of anxiety at the thought.

“King Damien Fairmont and Ms. Amber Benson,” the warden says, presenting a ring in each hand. “Please prepare the covenant.”

I’m glad I was told what to expect, otherwise I’d have no idea what he meant.

As it is, I’m prepared.

Damien reaches for the dagger first, and he draws the blade across his palm, drawing blood. He doesn’t flinch, his hard expression unchanging as he makes a fist and drips his blood onto the thicker ring, and then the thinner one, coating their surfaces entirely.

Wordlessly, he holds the dagger out to me.

I could run. I could lift this ridiculously huge dress, kick off my uncomfortable stilettos, flee down the aisle, and leave the Fairmont.

But where would I go? I can’t leave Manhattan. And if I don’t see this through, the city might not even be here a few months—or weeks—from now.

So, I take the dagger.

Damien’s fingertips brush mine as I do. He watches me, waiting, as if he knows exactly what just went through my mind.

He nods for me to continue.

Taking a shaky breath, I draw the dagger across my palm. The sharp pain is a jolt of reality, and I let my blood fall onto my ring, and then his, the droplets of our futures joining together in a dark promise.

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