Ollem wakes me before the sun breaks the horizon. In the dark, I can almost imagine Leavi still here—surely she's sitting in my chair, watching the dying fire. Or perhaps she fell asleep at my desk. She sat on my rug only a couple hours ago; it seems cruel there is no trace of her now. Regret aches in my chest: for Leavi, for how I treated her, for how I acted last night. For never having been strong enough to be cold. I try to leave the pain behind with the suite.

On the way to the wedding attendants, Ollem gives me a small meal to eat. After yesterday's casting and the late night, my growling stomach is grateful no matter how meager it is. The two women in charge of making me presentable order around Ollem and another man, who work quickly but none-too-gently. They cut my hair, trim my nails, and—when the women step out—douse me in oils and fragrances.

As they pull the wedding clothes onto me, my gut churns, and I can't decide whether it's because of nerves, frustration, or the building feeling of exhaustion. Everything I imagined my reign would be like is slipping through my fingers like dust I foolishly thought I could hold. The coming ceremonies mark the beginning of much faster loss, and soon, nothing will be left in my grasp.

Yet it is not mine to decide or mine to question. Solus will do well for the Corps when I leave. I will face my fate with a patriotic head held high, trusting that every step away from my country is one taken for my country.

Even so, walking to take my place in the Morineause wedding feels more like stepping up to a funeral pyre. I wonder if every man that marries a court woman, a Lady, any girl of position even, feels like this. Married off by his mother or sister for financial and relational gain, no chance to object, no choice.

I don't feel like I'm really here. Riszev let herself be wrestled into a proper Morineause dress, and exotic and gorgeous, she takes her place at my side. It's distant, though. This isn't reality. This is a strange, numb nightmare I'm only watching. Even when I speak—rote, memorized, meaningless words that feel like foreign shapes in my mouth—it's not my lips, not my tongue. Some spell has taken my body, some illusionist is making everyone think this is me, but it's not.

If I got to choose who to marry, if I wasn't worried about my country or my people, I would be fleeing down a tunnel with a different strange girl. I would forget all the pain of my family and the court, and when I decided to propose to her, I would mean it. I wouldn't let anyone force my hand, not even her, and she wouldn't try to. Maybe we would travel for years, penniless vagabonds, before I chose some copper treasure that we'd both prize above gold to offer her. We'd marry in some warm, chaotic festival like the peasants, or quietly under the stars, or—

I slam the door on the deceitful thoughts and snap the key lest they coax me into freeing them. Leavi is no more. I don't know the girl who serves the woman that will shortly be my wife. That is my new reality. It must be.

It's still hard not to steal glances at her distant face once I spot it in the crowd.

The ceremony ends with me and Riszev's wrists bound to each other, and we leave the Auditorium amidst deafening well-wishes. She glances at me while we walk, but I don't speak. Once we're down a few silent halls, we unbind the ribbon and part, adjourning to the same rooms we previously readied ourselves in. The attendants' adjustments for me are minimal. True Retran tradition would demand clothes Sela found demeaning, so the aunt agreed to let me remain clothed mostly the same. The real change will be Riszev's attire.

We are married. It doesn't seem real, and I can't figure out if that's because there is another ceremony to conduct or because I barely remember the first one.

As the attendants start to lead me out of the room, my stomach twists, and I clench my fists and eyes. I'm not usually this weak-stomached, but it takes all my will not to let the sudden dread send my breakfast back up.

"Milord?" Ollem asks.

I wave him away, opening my eyes. So much for having accepted all this. I suck on my lip and go.

My feet carry me past the Auditorium, where the guests still wait in intermission. Some sort of pre-reception celebration entertains them there while we quietly complete the Retran ceremony in the room behind the dais. Though the Retran policy on female ownership of her husband is similar to the Morineause, no one here would be happy with such strict ideas being applied to the Second Son.

Selenia, Shava the priestess, and Riszev's aunt wait in the small room. Before long, Riszev also appears. Her ceremonial shtan is brightly colored and almost gauzy, and the top piece doesn't cover her shoulders. Heat rises in my cheeks, but we move forward to face the priestess.

She gives a short speech about us being certain of this marriage and says she's going to test that certainty. She speaks in Retran, repeating herself in Morineause after every sentence or so. Riszev responds as easily and even-toned as always, but the pounding in my head makes it hard to focus. I do my best to speak at the proper times without stumbling.

Shava has us lie down inside a diagram, and she casts. The ritual takes a few minutes, giving me too much time to guess and double-guess what she might have in store. Then the urge to sleep washes over me. Panic surges at the idea of submitting myself to this veiled caster, but panic holds no power over her magic. My body succumbs to the exhaustion.

The fingers of her spell pluck out memories and thoughts, pushing them to the front of my mind—moments with maids I have been friendly to, Ladies not as conniving as others, Leavi. Distant, sleepy concern seeps into me. I don't know the priestess's definition of certainty, and I don't want my connection to Leavi to discredit the marriage. I feel like I'm on trial, testifying against myself.

With the images, something between a question and a feeling enters my head. Who do you want to marry?

The same conflict I've experienced all day rises up in me again. My selfishness says Leavi, and images concerning her flick through my mind. Warm eyes through the slit in my cell door, us standing in the house in Niv with her little lights glowing between us, a crying girl in the moonli—

Desperately, I fight against the unnatural sleep. This magician has no right to pry through my mind, to unwind my memories and use them against me.

The moments dissolve into the black of my mind.

Don't fight me, boy. The priestess's hard voice echoes in my head.

Don't meddle with me, I respond. This woman does not get to second guess what I've already set my mind to. Whatever she might find, whatever I might have wanted, I chose this. I sold my life for the Kadranian's slaughter, bound myself for my country's freedom.

For my people's sake, I will marry this foreigner, this kind but controlling, opinionated stranger.

I have no other choice.

When the deal is done, though. Shava's voice slinks through my mind. What then? Will you leave Riszev?

Disgust ripples through me. The prying fingers reach for my mind, and this time, I don't bother blocking her. Marriage is not flexible. Images of Ladies who sent their husbands on extended 'vacations' in other cities flick to the forefront, and indignation follows them. Marriage is a promise, and I am not one for breaking mine.

Leavi slips into view. Would you leave Riszev for her?

Now I push the fingers away, and Shava pushes back. Pain flares through my mind, and my defenses weaken. Shava's magic surges forward to seize the memories, and anger swells in me like a knife. She hisses in pain, and they slip from her grip. My defenses solidify.

Do not meddle with me, I say again. Whatever I think of Leavi, it is mine alone. You don't have to fear; I will keep my word. I refuse to cast aside my wife for an idea and a hope.

With a disdainful flick, Shava's fingers disappear from my mind. Sleep threatens to overtake me in my relief. For a moment, I fight it, but I eventually fall back into its depths. Time is unknowable.

Shava claps. "Awake."

My eyes snap open, and I shoot upright. Beside me, Riszev also sits. The panic bleeds away. I wonder what questions the priestess asked her. With the Retran focus on masculine submission, I can't help but feel she perhaps was not so worried about Riszev's faithfulness as mine.

Such a thought should excite frustration in me, but all I feel is quiet observation. The fight with Shava hollowed me out, like the emptiness after a long night casting. There's nothing left to feel or fear—there is but to do what must be done.

The priestess beckons us to stand. Once we rise, she says, "Eri has given her blessing to the marriage. Now we bind you."

We step aside, and she clears away the diagram with purifying water. She draws a new one with two large circles and one small one. Thin channels connect the circles to each other as a triangle.

It's strange that their marriage ceremony is some sort of spell. Generally, circles in a diagram denote an object or person to be placed there, and channels indicate some sort of energy transfer between them. Perhaps it's more symbolic than magical, though.

"If the woman, man, or their witnesses do not condone the union, then let the objection come now, before the bond is sealed." She waits. No one speaks.

The priestess steps into the small circle. "Though you are both here of your own free will, today you will bind yourselves to each other: Ebni-min-Ska Riszev to provide for Elyud-zin-Dri Astraeus and Elyud-zin-Dri Astraeus to submit himself to the Ebni-min-Ska. The bond cannot be broken, anymore than Retra can be conquered or Eri can be killed."

It's darkly amusing that's our vow when any land can be harmed and Eri doesn't exist. Between that and her use of my Retran title and regnal name, I feel like I've stumbled into some other twisted reality.

She beckons Riszev forward, who skirts the diagram as she approaches. Shava applies oil to her head in the name of the Empire, the Ska-min-Viy, and Eri. Three things, I note again, that ought to have little strength here. Riszev steps into one of the larger circles, and the priestess hands the oil to her. "If you, Ebni-min-Ska Riszev Zarit, want to take this man, Astraeus Jaqcobi, you must mark him as your own." My body remembers before my head that this is my cue to step toward her.

Despite knowing that I will, I must, I already have, I don't want to marry this woman. The urge sweeps me to shrink back, and I grit my teeth and hold my ground. Foolish, rebellious mind.

Riszev swipes the oil onto my forehead.

"Ebni-min-Ska, tell your betrothed to step into the circle. This will be the first command of your marriage, and Elyud-zin-Dri, this will be your first chance to obey."

Riszev looks at me, gentle authority hanging in her eyes. "Take your place in the circle, Elyud-zin-Dri."

Sudden hatred of signing away my rights to a foreigner grips me, fracturing my shell of detachment. Leavi would never attempt to control me, not like this woman and her country, not even like if I had married a Lady of the court. Any whispers of freedom I had left in this castle will all but die upon stepping into that circle, and what little remains will be stripped from me upon exiting Morineaux.

Bitterness burns the back of my throat. I hope to the stars that the Retran army decimates the Kadranians.

I step into the circle.

"You, Elyud-zin-Dri Astraeus Jacqobi-Zarit, are no longer your own, coming here of your free will, but you are Ebni-min-Ska Riszev's, and you can stand forevermore only where you are tethered to her." The priestess faces the Consort. "You, Ebni-min-Ska Riszev Zarit, take your husband, and be merry in your marital possession."

Riszev turns toward me and takes my hands. "Husband," she greets.

My voice is devoid of emotion or inflection. "Wife."

Her lips meet mine, but the face in my mind is of a woman now long-lost.