Page 1 of Antiletum
Prologue
Slips of silver fell through new green leaves, the light of a full moon shining in theStrigiForest where a bride and groom prepared to wed.
The scent of damp soil wafted with each bare step the bride took down a sacred path, an arrow shooting straight into the center of where life and death converged: a Heartstone. One of three created at the beginning of time when theNocturnecame into being. They once thumped with life, the three siblings connecting magic and shifter gifts from different corners of the world.
Upon the decayed Heartstone, a groom stood clothed in white, his strong neck wreathed with scarlet dried dahlias: flowers he had tended himself for this precise moment, offering his own blood to the soil. All unbeknownst to his bride. He wore a white cloak to represent the purity of his devotion, the red, dead flowers of his collar for the cycle of life and death that comes for all who dare to breathe.
Magic thick in the air, it mingled with the tinkling bells on the bride’s naked ankles, the subtle scrape of silk brushing against her legs, black to represent the depth of what their union would mean.Moonlight bounced off of his pure white garb and absorbed and spread in the darkness of hers.
Balance.
She thought he looked regal—resplendent in his ceremonial robe and wreath. All for her.
He thought she was nothing short of ethereal, transcendent. The meaning of life wrapped into a luscious body, all for him to worship and hold. To revere and celebrate.
She wore a headdress of bones and feathers atop her golden brown hair, honoring their faction’s owldeowithin theNocturne.The groom trimmed the headdress with dried dahlias, matching his. He added them all to his bride’s adornment with his own hand, whispering thanks to the revered barn owl, prayers of duty and promise. It didn’t so much as sway or bob with her slow, seductive steps into the wedding ring.
As the bride came nearer, the groom held his hand aloft. Both a beckoning and a desperate need to touch, to have.
As drawn to him as he to her, a hand slid into his. His fingertips were warm, palms calloused—scars of hard work and devotion to his tasks. At their first touch, a sigh of relief blew through the winds across the world. Magic pulsed in the particles of dust scattered across the atmosphere, pouring fuel into a dying world.
Their power lorded over death.
The ancient, brittle hands of an Ellden clock standing erect at the head of the Heartstone rolled clockwise,vinculumneedles clicking into place to align at the thirteenth hour.
He pulled his bride close, bringing their bodies nearly flush. Her head tilted back to meet his midnight eyes. When their gazes collided, the groom discovered the meaning of the color spectrum when he losthimself in the hazel of his soon-to-be wife, drops of teal sea scattered throughout soil brown.
She was still the loveliest creature he had ever beheld. His being filled with yearning so fierce, he wanted to fall to his knees. Beg her to always be his, allow him to be hers. His hand palmed her cheek, longing owning his actions; her eyes fluttered shut to bashfully hide her own ruefulness, but not too soon before a single tear fell: a droplet to make waves in his life.
Their pairing would be a dot of rain lost to a mirrored pool, making its ripple before smoothing anew.
He bent forth to lick the salty track off her skin. That tiny part of her that now belonged to him mixed with her subtle sweat, the combination fresh in his throat like an impending summer storm.
A surge of life and power and connection roiled through the groom’s body when her tear touched his tongue, bringing forth one of his own.
Far more aggressively than the tender touch he offered, his bride snagged his face with both hands, fingernails digging into his cheeks. She pulled his head down to meet her mouth. Hungry. He ached to kiss her, to have her lips against his. For a breath, he thought she might. That she might need him so desperately that she would go against the grain of a wedding’s progression.
But she turned his head just before their lips could meet. Her soft, hot tongue traced up his cheek, savoring his tear just as he did hers, sweat tangled with it. The groom felt the drag of his bride’s lip lacquer smudging against his face, marking him with her stain.
He belonged to her. And she would make it known.
Priestesses crawled from the shadows, the guttural tongue they chanted echoing in the night. The group of five bathed in the moonlight, man and woman now connected by salt.
A priestess held forth a tray dutifully. The groom took the needle upon it, turning to his bride. “Accept my gift,” he begged.
“I accept.”
He tenderly pulled her earlobe taut before pushing the needle through. A diamond stud landed in his hand, and he threaded it through her bleeding flesh. He did this thrice, and when finished, a triangle of white diamonds decorated her ear.
“Accept my gift,” she pleaded.
“I accept.”
And the bride mirrored her groom’s actions, leaving a mark of black diamonds upon his own ear.
Hands clasped in front of them, he promised, “For all my days, I will cherish you.” Breath reverent in her presence, he had waited for this moment far longer than she knew.
“For all my days, I will allow you to pray at my altar,” she vowed.
