Part 2
### Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Cora, daughter of a powerful Lord and General of the southern armies of the Vanguard Kingdom, has lived most of her life in exile. Raised on a quiet farm under the protection of loyal guardians, she knows only the simplicity of hard work and survival, far removed from the intrigues of court. But her father’s command shatters that fragile peace: she is to marry Lord Garrion Darkmoor, the feared General of the northern armies.
Garrion’s reputation precedes him, ruthless, unyielding, and scarred so deeply that he hides his face behind a mask said to conceal unspeakable disfigurement. Bound by duty to the King, Garrion accepts the marriage, though he believes his new bride to be spoiled and fragile, unfit for the harsh realities of the north.
Yet Cora is not the woman he expects. Beneath her quiet resilience lies a strength forged in exile, a spirit unbroken by punishment and secrecy. As she steps into Garrion’s world of steel and shadows, she must prove that she is more than the assumptions laid upon her.
Together, they must navigate a marriage born of command, where trust is fragile and desire dangerous. Will their union remain a cold arrangement of duty, or will love bloom in the harshest of places, strong enough to melt the ice around Garrion’s heart and reveal the man beneath the mask?
Complete Chapters 40
Rating 4.8 ( 66 reviews ) Age Rating mature
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Chapter 1
Cora POV
The makeshift archery field stretches before me, little more than a patch of uneven earth marked by straw targets and weathered posts. Yet it is mine, carved out of necessity, and I stand within it as though it were a sanctuary. The last breath of summer clings to my skin, warm and fleeting, and I wonder if I will remember this sensation when the frost returns.
My father, Lord and General of the southern armies of the Vanguard Kingdom, sent me here, far from the Southern capital city of Amberfall, to live on this small farm with Aliah and her husband, Bastion.
Bastion is more than a farmer; he is my personal guard, sworn to protect me, though sometimes I wonder if his duty is to keep me safe or to keep me hidden. Ten winters have passed since I last saw Amberfall, its giant spires and crowded streets, the place where the rest of my family still resides. I am twenty now, and my father’s bitterness has not softened with time. He blames me for my mother’s death the day I was born was the day she left this world.
Aliah tells me I look just like her. My hair, white as untouched snow, falls in waves that catch the light. My eyes, pale blue, mirror the sky before a storm. A slim face, full lips, and a gentleness I never knew but am told belonged to her. Each year, as I grow into her likeness, my father’s anger deepens, as though my very existence is a wound that refuses to heal.
Agatha, my older sister, carries the same bitterness. She was five when I was born, old enough to remember the warmth of our mother’s embrace, and old enough to resent me for stealing it away. She is hollow in her grief, a mirror of my father’s rage. Wrex, my eldest brother, was fifteen then, old enough to understand that death does not choose its victims, and that blame is a cruel inheritance. He never held me responsible. One day, Wrex will be Lord and General of the southern armies, and perhaps when that day comes, I will be allowed to return home. Or perhaps not.
Until then, I remain here, in this fragile heaven carved from exile.
“You are slacking, Cora,” Bastion’s voice cuts through my thoughts, steady and unyielding.
“I’m only enjoying the last of the summer,” I reply, forcing a smile that feels lighter than the weight pressing on my chest.
Bastion has been training me in the art of combat. I falter with swords, their weight drags me down, too heavy, too unwieldy. I prefer the bow, the dagger, weapons that demand precision rather than brute strength. Together, he and I hunt for our food, while Aliah tends the vegetables with patient hands. Supplies arrive only in the winter months, when the earth hardens and the animals vanish into hibernation.
It is a simple life, but uncertainty lingers in every shadow. How long will I remain here? How long until my father’s wrath finds me again? The farm feels like a sanctuary, but I know sanctuaries can crumble.
I draw the bowstring back, the arrow trembling against the taut line, my focus narrowing on the straw target. Just as I steady my breath, movement flickers at the edge of my vision. A rider, alone, thunders across the distant field, the horse’s hooves pounding the earth with urgency. Dust rises in a frantic cloud behind him.
Before I can react, Bastion’s hand clamps over mine, pulling the bow from my grip with practiced speed. His voice is sharp, commanding. “Quickly. Go change.”
The order leaves no room for hesitation. Noble ladies of the kingdom are not meant to wield weapons, not even in secret practice fields. To be caught with a bow would be scandal enough; to be seen training would be worse. My heart stutters as I rush inside, stripping off the worn leathers that cling to my skin.
Aliah is already waiting, her hands steady though her eyes betray unease. She thrusts a simple green dress toward me. “What do you think is happening?” I whisper, fumbling with the fabric.
“I’m not a physic, child,” she snaps, tugging the corset strings tight until my breath catches. Her tone is brisk, but I hear the tremor beneath it.
There is no time to change my boots. Mud clings to them, betraying the hours of training, but I pray the rider will not notice. My palms are slick with sweat, and I wipe them against the folds of the dress as we step back outside.
“Stop fidgeting, Cora” Aliah scolds, her voice low and sharp, as though the rider might hear even from a distance.
The horse slows, its breath steaming in the cooling air, and the rider pulls hard on the reins. He dismounts at the gate, movements quick and deliberate, securing the animal with a soldier’s efficiency.
Bastion steps forward, placing himself between me and the stranger, his stance rigid, his hand hovering near the hilt of his blade. His eyes are narrowed, calculating. He is ready to kill if the situation demands it. The rider’s gaze fixes on me, sharp and assessing, as though weighing my worth against the dust of the road. “Lady Cora?” he asks, his voice carrying the formality of court even here, at the edge of exile.
I nod, my throat tight, and at once he drops into a deep bow, the kind reserved for nobility. “My Lady, a letter from your father.”
From within his cloak he produces a large scroll, the seal glinting faintly in the fading light. Bastion steps forward, hand outstretched to claim it, but the messenger jerks the parchment back with a firm shake of his head. “This is for my Lady’s hands only” he declares, his tone leaving no room for argument.
A ripple of unease passes through me. My father’s words, carried across miles, now rest inches away, yet the weight of them feels heavier than any sword. I force my steps forward, each one deliberate, until I stand before the rider. He places the scroll into my hand, his fingers rough from travel, mine trembling despite my attempt at composure. “Thank you,” I murmur, clutching the parchment as though it might vanish.
He bows his head again, respectful, though his eyes flicker with curiosity. I sense his scrutiny, the way he measures me against the stories he must have heard.
“How rude of me,” I say quickly, trying to summon the grace expected of a noblewoman. “You’ve come a long way. Would you care for something to drink? Bastion, please tend to the horse.”
I stand behind him, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on me. Who rides so fast, so far, to reach this forgotten farm? And what message do they carry that cannot wait?
The words feel rehearsed, borrowed from a life I have not lived, but they spill from my lips with practiced steadiness.
The messenger’s expression softens. “Thank you, My Lady. It is very kind of you.”
He follows Aliah inside, leaving me standing in the yard with the scroll pressed against my chest. Bastion lingers near the gate, his eyes never leaving the rider’s back, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. The air feels charged, as though the letter itself carries a storm within its seal.
I glance down at the parchment, my palms damp against its surface. My father’s words await me, but I cannot yet bring myself to break the seal.
I lower myself onto the worn bench, the scroll heavy in my hands, and my eyes fall upon the wax seal. The crest is unmistakable, pressed deep into the crimson wax, its lines are sharp and deliberate, as though carved to endure centuries. At its center lies a shield, its clean edges stark against the soft sheen of the seal. Behind it, two swords cross in a fierce diagonal, their straight blades forming a rigid X that frames the shield in perfect symmetry.
Encircling the emblem is a narrow double ring, the inner band etched with words that have haunted me since childhood: Never Yield. My family’s motto. My family’s curse.
The sight of it sends a chill through me. This is no casual message, no passing note. This is formal correspondence, the kind that carries weight and consequence. My fingers hesitate, trembling slightly, before I press against the wax. The seal breaks with a sharp crack, and I unroll the parchment with care.
Across the page stretches my father’s handwriting bold, and severe. Each stroke of ink feels like a command, each letter heavy with the authority of the man who has never forgiven me.
You are commanded to return to the Southern capital within a fortnight. The King himself has sanctioned your union with Lord Garrion Darkmoor, General of the Northern Armies. Your belongings will be taken from this farm and delivered directly to his estate in Nordvaar, where you will reside after the wedding.
The wedding shall be held in one month’s time, within the walls of our castle, before the eyes of the court and the Kingdom. This matter is not subject to debate, nor will your voice alter its course. You will fulfill your duty to this family, as is expected of you, without hesitation or defiance.
Do not mistake this for a request. It is an order.
Lord Tharion Blackthorn, General of the Southern Armies
Aliah sits beside me, her presence steady though her hands tremble faintly against her lap. The messenger mounts his horse once more, the leather creaking, hooves striking the earth with finality as he rides away. The sound lingers, echoing like a warning.
I hand her the parchment, my fingers reluctant to let it go. She unrolls it, and the moment her eyes skim the words, she gasps a sharp intake of breath that chills me more than the letter itself.
“How much do you know about Lord Garrion?” I whisper, though the question feels dangerous even spoken aloud.
Her voice drops low, almost conspiratorial, as though the walls themselves might betray us. “He is ruthless. Kills without mercy. When the King desires someone gone, Garrion is summoned. They say that part his face was torn apart in battle when he was only sixteen. The scars are so deep he hides behind a mask, covering most of what remains.”
Her words coil around me like smoke, suffocating. My stomach twists.
“Is he old?” I ask, though the answer hardly matters. Age will not spare me from his bed, nor from the duty of producing heirs strong enough to carry his name.
Aliah shakes her head, uncertain. “Perhaps late twenties… but I cannot say for sure, Cora.” She squeezes my shoulder, her touch meant to comfort, though it feels more like a tether keeping me from collapsing. Her eyes are heavy with sympathy, but sympathy cannot alter fate.
I stare at the broken seal lying on the bench, the family crest glaring back at me like a brand. My father’s command is absolute.
Ladies like me do not marry for love. We are bargaining chips, bribes, and political favors. And now, I am to be bound to a man whispered about in fear, a man whose mask hides not only scars but the promise of violence.
The air feels colder, though the sun has not yet set.
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### Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The road to the King’s palace stretches endlessly, each hoofbeat of my horse a dull reminder of chains I cannot break. I ride not as a free man, but as a hound summoned to heel, called to do his bidding once more. If I refuse, if I act on my own judgment, he will scold me for breaking the chain of command, as though protecting my people from bandits before the snows fall is a crime. Winter in the North is merciless. If the bandits are not cleared now, they will come for our stores, our homes, our children. And then fighting them off will consume every waking hour. I need at least one winter where my people can sleep without fear of being cut down in their beds.
The city walls rise in the distance, pale stone against the horizon. I slow my horse, reaching for the mask that has become my second skin. Lightweight steel, painted black, it slides into place with a familiar chill. I was sixteen when my father forced it upon me. “Too beautiful,” the ladies whispered, as though beauty were a curse. In the North, beauty is weakness. The cold strips it away, the brutality devours it. So I wear the mask still, even now, a shield against their stares, a barrier against their schemes. It has served me well, scaring off suitors, silencing talk of marriage. I do not want a wife. I do not want a child. My life belongs to the North, to the men who fight beside me, to the land that bleeds beneath my boots.
As I pass through the city gates, the air shifts. People murmur, voices hushed, eyes averted. Mothers pull children indoors, shutters slam closed, and the streets empty as though I carry plague upon my shoulders. I have grown used to it, the fear, the whispers but it gnaws at me all the same.
The palace looms ahead, its towers strangled by vines that creep upward like veins. It is a monument to excess, built not to shelter but to flaunt. Gold and marble, banners and stone, all meant to remind the people of their King’s power. Yet I know the truth. He does not care if they starve, so long as his plate is full and his goblet brims with wine.
I tighten my grip on the reins, exhaustion pressing down on me like armor too heavy to bear. My thoughts drift northward, to the biting winds and the quiet strength of my people. To the hearths that burn low but steady, to the land that asks for nothing but loyalty. Home. I long for it with every step closer to this palace, even as duty drags me further away.
“Lord Darkmoor, His Majesty is expecting you.” The guard’s voice is clipped, formal, and without warmth. He gestures sharply, and I follow, boots echoing against the polished stone as I am led down the long corridor. Each step feels heavier than the last. This will not be a private summons, it will be a public scolding, a spectacle meant to remind me of my place.
The doors to the throne room swing open, and I am swallowed by its grandeur. Tapestries line the walls, their woven threads depicting victories long past, battles fought by men who are now dust. Gold gleams from every surface, catching the sunlight that pours through the glass ceiling above. The air itself feels heavy, thick with the weight of wealth and power flaunted in excess.
At the far end of the hall sits King Dorian, draped in silks, his crown catching the light like fire. His son, Dorrian the Second, stands at his side, a shadow of arrogance already etched into his young face. Aside from them, the throne room is empty, no courtiers, no advisors, no audience. Just me, the King, and his heir. The emptiness makes the silence sharper, more dangerous.
I move forward, each step deliberate, until the weight of their gaze presses me down. I kneel on one knee, bowing my head low, the mask cold against my skin. “My King,” I say, forcing the words past the bitterness lodged in my throat. I try to summon respect for this man, though every fiber of me resists.
The silence stretches, taut and suffocating, before the King speaks.
“Lord Darkmoor, it has been far too long since you have graced us with your presence,” King Dorian’s voice rings out, smooth and commanding, echoing across the gilded chamber.
I bow my head lower, forcing civility into my tone. “I came as soon as I received your summons, my King.” The words taste like ash, but flattery is the only shield I have here.
“Yes, yes, rise, my boy,” he says, gesturing with a languid hand. His smile is indulgent, but I know better than to trust it.
“I would like to congratulate you on clearing your territory of bandits,” he continues, his voice dripping with praise. “Perhaps you could show the rest of my generals how it is done.”
I incline my head, careful to keep my voice even. “I have done only what was necessary to protect the people, my King.” Pleasantries do not come naturally to me, but I force them out, each word a blade dulled for survival.
The King leans forward, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “I would like all the people of my kingdom to see that I reward loyalty to the crown.” His tone is sweet, almost fatherly, but I know there is always a catch.
“Your praise is all the reward I need, my King,” I reply, hoping to end this charade before the trap is sprung.
“Nonsense!” His voice booms, and he claps his hands together, the sound sharp as steel. “I have found you a wife.”
The words strike me like a blow. My body stiffens, every muscle locking in place. He did what? I am a Lord. It is my right to choose whom I marry, and when. That choice is mine alone or so I believed.
“You flatter me, my King,” I say carefully, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Perhaps you might bestow this honor upon another, one more deserving.” My words are honeyed, my tone deferential, but inside I am seething.
The King’s smile widens, cruel and knowing. He has no intention of releasing me from this snare.
“Your family has served mine with fierce loyalty,” King Dorian begins, his voice smooth, almost indulgent. “You paid a high price when you were sixteen, and I have not forgotten. Allow me, then, to repay you.”
His smile widens, predatory. “Lord Tharion Blackthorn has agreed that his youngest daughter, will make a fine bride for you. From what I hear, she is quite pretty.”
The words echo, but all I hear is the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears, drowning out the chamber’s silence.
“The wedding will be held in a month’s time, at their home in Amberfall,” he continues, his tone light, almost cheerful, as though announcing a festival rather than a sentence. “Tharion is positively thrilled by this alliance. Imagine it, his bloodline bound to yours, the South and North united.”
He gestures, and a servant steps forward with a goblet brimming with wine. I take it, my hand stiff, the cool metal biting against my palm. I raise it to my lips, though the taste is ash, my mind still reeling, struggling to process the weight of what has been forced upon me.
“But there is more, my boy,” the King says, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “As a wedding gift, I will not call upon your services for two winters. Two full winters without summons. That should give you ample time to get a couple of heirs out of her.”
The words strike like iron chains, binding me tighter than any battlefield command. I force myself to remain still, mask hiding the storm beneath, though inside I feel the walls of the palace closing in.
Two winters. The words echo in my mind like a foreign language. I have never been granted so much time at home, never been allowed to breathe without the weight of summons pressing down on me. Perhaps, just perhaps, this could be a reprieve. A season to rest, to rebuild, to remember what it feels like to live without war gnawing at my heels.
I steady myself, masking the flicker of hope with careful calculation. “May I ask a bold favor, my King?” My voice is measured, respectful, though inside I brace for the strike.
King Dorian leans forward, his eyes gleaming with indulgent curiosity. He nods, granting me permission to speak.
“Can we make it three winters?” I say, forcing the words past the tightness in my chest. “I have always wanted a large family.” The lie tastes bitter, but I let it linger on my tongue. The thought of children makes my skin crawl, the idea of heirs a chain heavier than any battlefield armor. I was the only child, and I know too well the burden that comes with being born into expectation.
The King’s smile widens, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Fantastic. Perhaps if you have a daughter, she can marry into the crown.”
The suggestion slithers through the air, venom disguised as generosity. My jaw tightens beneath the mask, my body rigid though I force myself to remain still. Over my stone-cold body.
Inside, the thought burns like fire. He would bind not only me, but my bloodline, my children, if ever I had them, into his web of power. The King sees families not as people, but as pawns, pieces to be moved across his board of politics and war.
I bow my head lower, hiding the storm behind the steel mask. “As you wish, my King,” I murmur, though the words are hollow. My loyalty may be demanded, but my soul is mine, and I will not surrender it, not to him, not to his crown, not to the future he imagines for me.
The moment I am dismissed, I ride like hell, spurring my horse until the wind claws at my cloak and the pounding of hooves drowns out every thought. Freedom tastes bitter when it is only borrowed. My men are waiting for me, we are five days’ ride from Amberfall, and part of me longs to turn north instead,to vanish into the cold embrace of home. The King’s punishment would be less painful than the chains of a marriage I do not want.
By the time I reach camp, night has fallen. The fires burn low, casting long shadows across the tents. Mika, my second in command, is already waiting, arms crossed, his sharp eyes catching every detail.
I dismount with a huff, muscles aching, and rip the mask from my face. The steel feels heavier than ever, as though it carries the weight of the King’s decree.
“Wow,” Mika drawls, smirking. “Looks like you had a great time with His Majesty.” His tone is teasing, but I am in no mood for jest.
“He wants me to marry Lord Tharion’s youngest daughter,” I spit, the words venomous, tasting of iron and rage.
Mika bursts into laughter, clapping me hard on the back. “Congratulations, my lord!” he chuckles, walking away with a grin, his laughter echoing in the night.
I stand there, mask dangling from my hand, the firelight flickering against its black steel. His laughter fades, but the weight of the King’s command does not. It clings to me like frost, colder than any northern winter.
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