Outside, the grass felt damp and cold beneath the soles of Hermi's shoes. Thirty feet from where they stopped, a barren stretch of ground lay exposed.
Aurellanza's rains had washed away most traces of ash, but they couldn't hide the blackened trunks of nearby trees. Any clash in the forest with a fire mage would leave behind such scars. It was here that Crown Prince Hadrian had captured Hermi.
For a fire mage, Hadrian seemed unusually subdued. His true nature only bubbled to the surface when he found something he wanted to break.
"Had we not shared Father's blood, you would've made a perfect crown princess," Hadrian had mused that day. He had fireballs circling him, as if he were ready to burn the forest down at any moment.
Hermi had extinguished those fireballs with a flurry of air, out of sheer disgust. At the time, she had not realized that wounding a prince's ego was a far more dangerous mistake than wounding the man himself.
After pinning her, Hadrian hadn't just taken her prisoner. He had looped a leash around her neck, then yanked her as if she were a beast. In that same manner, Hadrian had dragged Hermi all the way to her village. He had to ensure she witnessed him roast each villager alive.
The baker who had given her extra bread, the stonemason from the cottage next door, the village elder who had watched her grow, and then his wife.
Hermi had thrashed and cursed with every profanity she knew at first. By the eleventh villager, she had been reduced to apologizing and begging.
Her pleas had done nothing to quench Hadrian's rage. The more tears streamed down her face, the brighter his flames seemed to roar.
—
As Hermi stood there, lost in her own thoughts, the Commander of the bridal escort, Marco, saw his King approach him with a languid stride.
"You seem weary, Your Majesty," Marco remarked.
"Me? Weary?" Cassian scoffed, seemingly busy studying his perfect fingernails. "Don't be tedious, Marco. I am simply enduring a boredom so profound I could fall into Fever simply to provide myself some entertainment."
Marco eyed the King with deep dread at his casual mention of 'Fever'. "Perhaps it isn't wise to let Her Majesty see you in such a state so soon. We haven't even left Aurellanza's lands yet."
"Hardly my fault," Cassian replied, his tone airy and dismissive. "My new wife is far too demure for my tastes. And now I discover she has a tragic fascination with brooding over a cluster of burnt trunks."
Marco's gaze shifted toward the cluster of burnt trunks Cassian just mentioned. From where they stood, he could see only half of Hermi's face. Her long black hair concealed most of her fine features, but her green eyes were unmistakably steeped in sorrow.
In his mind, Marco imagined the young Queen was sad that they would soon cross Aurellanza's border. A sudden sense of guilt struck Marco, knowing what awaited her once they did.
"Her Majesty seems more well-tempered than demure, in my opinion," Marco countered. "Are you certain you wish to test her so early, my King?"
Cassian's bored tone didn't change in the slightest. "After burying that many wives? I am more than certain, Commander. The sooner I test her, the sooner I can drop this tiresome 'devoted husband' act."
Marco still felt compelled to speak for his new Queen. "But to release a Silt Skulker right when we arrive may be… rushed. Her Majesty has never stepped onto mana-drained soil in her life. She may need time to adjust."
Cassian appeared entirely unmoved. "It makes no difference. If the legends were true, then only the most formidable mage this continent has ever seen could awaken the Black Magic. If my wife truly were the one, she had better handle it just fine."
Marco was about to speak again when he saw Hermi turn around. The instant she did, all boredom vanished from Cassian's face, as if it had never existed.
His voice smoothed out into a melodic silk that could charm the birds from the trees. "My dear Herminia," he cooed, "I see you've enjoyed a breath of fresh air."
The sheer speed of change in the King's tone sent cold chills down Marco's spine. If Cassian Malaspina hadn't ruled Ferramonte, he would have been the most dangerous actor in the history of the theater, thought Marco.
—
When the carriage reached the village, they settled into the local inn. Cassian's retinue of forty men descended upon the place like a polite invasion, filling every available room.
Hermi allowed herself the luxury of a slow bath, the steam finally coaxing the tension from her shoulders before she headed downstairs. Dinner was a crowded affair. She sat with her husband in a common room packed to the rafters with their men.
The moment they slipped into the sanctuary of their private quarters, Cassian turned to Hermi. He offered an apologetic dip of his head, his expression softening in the dim candlelight.
"I am sorry the dinner was so... unimpressive, my Queen. I imagine the fare here is a far cry from the delicacies you enjoyed at the palace."
Hermi came to sit at the dressing table and started brushing her hair. She met his gaze through the mirror, her face carefully neutral as she replied, "The food was fine, I could manage."
Despite her husband's tender concern, the reality was far less dignified than what it seemed. Had she not been shackled to the role of a refined princess, she would have devoured every rustic dish on the dinner table. It was the food she'd grown up with. She hadn't had it in weeks, and might never taste it again.
Her thoughts snapped cleanly shut the moment she felt Cassian's hands closing around her waist. He pressed his nose into the nape of her neck, inhaling the lingering scent of her bathwater.
Hermi couldn't suppress a shudder. When night fell, the contrast between the biting air and his touch was simply too jarring.
Cassian's body temperature was higher than any normal person's. When he had first greeted her at the palace with a hand kiss, she had genuinely feared the King was suffering from a lethal fever. Thankfully, he had later claimed it was merely his natural state. She had then begun to think of him less as a husband, and more as a walking hearth.
"My King, please forgive me," Hermi murmured, her voice dropping into a solemn register. "I am quite exhausted. Could we simply... find some rest tonight?"
Earlier, she had mentally braced herself for the unavoidable intimacy. However, after memories of Hadrian's massacre over her village, she was in no mood for wifely duties.
To Hermi's surprise, Cassian granted her wish instantly. "Of course, dear. Forgive me, I should have noticed you were exhausted."
She had expected him to push. He was the one to bring up the itinerary in the carriage, after all. Yet, once again, he proved to be a considerate husband. The only thing she found slightly odd was the hint of relief in his tone.
"How about we talk instead?" Cassian invited. Without waiting for an answer, he scooped her up and carried her toward the bed.
For once, Hermi allowed herself to be drawn against his chest, her small frame entirely disappearing into his massive embrace. Though she was still not accustomed to sharing a mattress with a seven-foot-tall hearth, the heat he radiated felt inviting against the midnight chill.
Cassian's skin was unnaturally firm. Pressing her cheek against him felt like touching fine leather stretched over solid oak. Yet, it was remarkably smooth, with almost no hair or visible pores.
Strangely, a faint scent of burnt sugar always seemed to cling to Cassian. It was nothing like Lucian, who had always exuded the fresh scent of forest greens.
The thought of Lucian made her heart sink. Leaning closer to seek a sliver of comfort, Hermi whispered, her breaths heavy with sleep, "Cassian... do you know there is another village with this exact name within a mile of here?"
Cassian seemed surprised that she called him by his name. Despite his repeated insists, she had rarely been able to bring herself to use it, only retreating into the safety of a formal 'My King'.
It took him a few seconds to respond. "Is that so? And what is this twin village called?"
"Veneggio. This is Veneggio the First. The other is Veneggio the Second. They were both derived from the region's name."
As usual, Cassian sounded intrigued. "And what is this region called?"
"It's called Venetia."
"Venetia," he repeated. "What a beautiful name."
"It is," Hermi agreed, a sharp edge slipping into her sleepy tone. "One day, Venetia will belong to Ferramonte."
For a long moment, no more words came from Cassian. Sensing his silence, Hermi glanced up.
Cassian was staring at her, as if he couldn't believe his own ears. Immediately, she realized her mistake. Cassian's warmth had felt too comfortable. She'd blurted out her honest thought too carelessly.
With her husband proving to be a loving king rather than the tyrant the rumors described, a drowsy Hermi was already beginning to plot. She wondered whether a king's love could be turned into her weapon against Aurellanza for some revenge.
"If I ask nicely, perhaps my father would consider gifting it to us," Hermi added, trying to turn her mistake into a joke.
A warm smile instantly eased across Cassian's face in answer. "I doubt your father would part with such a beautiful land. After all, he has already let me have his most beautiful daughter."
Relieved, Hermi buried her face against her husband's chest once more. The rest of their talk dissolved into soft murmurs and lighthearted teases.
For the first time since her world had ended in Venetia, Hermi felt a flimsy hint of hope awaiting her within this forced marriage.