That night, the Kenwools did not sleep. The castle of Ashford was quiet on the outside, its towers resting beneath a calm sky, but inside, behind closed doors and guarded corridors, the air was tight with whispers and unfinished thoughts.
In Lord Fabio's inner chamber, candles burned low, their flames steady but thin, as if they too were listening.
They sat around the table..Fabio at the head. Festus close to him, arms folded. Frank leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his fingers interlocked.
Fabian sat beside Fen, both silent, both watching. Frida stood by the window, her back turned to them, her eyes on the dark horizon.
No one spoke at first. The silence stretched. Then Fabian broke it. "Why is Felix not here?" His voice was calm, but it cut through the room.
Fabio did not hesitate. "I saw how well he plays with the Cliffland army," he said, brushing the concern aside with a wave of his hand. "He is fond of them."
A pause.
"I no longer want to carry him along." Fabian nodded slowly, though his eyes lingered on his father a moment longer.
The room settled again.
Then Frank leaned forward slightly. "Father," he said, "I will suggest we poison the drink." The words hung in the air.
Simple, and clean. Too easy. Festus glanced at him, but said nothing. Fabio did not respond immediately.
Frank continued, "We have the opportunity. The hall will be filled. The king, his wife, his council. One moment, one mistake, and it is done."
But Frank shook his head before anyone else could speak. "No," he corrected himself, his tone shifting. "That is not a good idea."
All eyes turned to him. "We will have servants from both sides serving wines and foods," he added. "It could easily be mixed up."
The thought lingered. Too many hands. Too many eyes. Too many chances for it to fail.
Fabio nodded slowly. "Then we do this the old way." His voice lowered, firm. No room for debate. "We hide blades within us," he said. "Our soldiers must not drink."
His gaze moved from one face to another. "And when they are drunk enough."
He paused.
The kind that settles into the bones. "We will attack." No one spoke, no one objected either.
One by one, they nodded. The decision was made.
Frida remained at the window. Still, and unmoving. But her lips curved, just slightly.
Morning came faster than it should have. Ashford woke with noise, with movement, yet with celebration.
The streets filled early, banners raised high, voices rising in excitement. Word had spread through every corner of the kingdom.
A wedding, not just any wedding, but a union between houses, between power, between futures.
By midday, the castle was alive. Nobles from different houses arrived in bright garments, their presence announced with laughter and the clinking of ornaments. Gifts were carried in, wrapped in silk and gold-thread cloth.
The great banquet hall was filled. Tables stretched from end to end, lined with food, with wine, with excess.
Young maidens danced at the center, their steps light, their movements rehearsed, their smiles practiced.
Music played: Soft at first, then louder, then fuller. The atmosphere swelled. Then, the first bell rang. It cut through everything.
Clear, sharp, and final.
The music slowed. The dancers stepped back. The voices softened, and heads turned.
At the far end of the hall, the priestess of Osonobruwhe entered.
This one was not young, not soft. She moved with purpose, her steps steady, her face unreadable. In her hand was a knife. It gleamed under the light.
She stepped onto the altar and turned to face the hall.
Silence fell completely.
"Let the couple approach the altar." Her voice carried without effort.
The second bell rang. From opposite ends, they appeared.
Frida, and Theon.
Frida walked beside her father, Lord Fabio, her posture perfect, her expression calm. There was no hesitation in her steps.
Theon walked from the other side, escorted by Connel Ferran. His face held a smile, but it did not reach his eyes.
They moved forward, step by step. Until they stood before the altar. Before the priestess. "Do you wish for the unification ceremony to continue?" Her eyes moved between them.
"Yes, I do," they answered at once. No delay, no pause.
The priestess nodded once, then she lifted the knife. Without warning, she took Theon's hand, and cut Theon's palm.
"Snuuuuuu!"
The sound escaped him before he could stop it. His body tensed, his jaw clenched, his shoulders tightening as the blade opened his palm.
The priestess did not look at his face. She pressed his hand hard, and blood flowed out. She guided it into a bowl, and pressed again until it was enough.
Then she released him, and took Frida's hand. The blade came down again.
"Aaaassssshhhhh!"
Her voice broke louder than his: sharp, and unfiltered. But the priestess did not pause. She squeezed until blood flowed, and filled the same bowl.
Then she Mixed the blood together until there was no distinction. Then she lifted the bowl, and raised it high.
"In the presence of you all," she declared, her voice echoing through the hall, "I declare Theon Kendrick and Frida Kenwool as one blood in the name of Osonobruwhe."
"Amin!"
The response came like thunder. Unified, loud, and unquestioned.
"From this day forward," she continued, "they shall live as one. Bear one name, and share the same purpose."
"Amin!"
"May Osonobruwhe bless them and give them sons and daughters."
"Amin!"
Her voice shifted then. Lower, and ilder. She spoke in the ancient tongue of the seik. "Ode lo Ose, Ode lo omo, vo Ode Erhi ofuofuo."
"Amin!"
The hall answered again. She lowered the bowl, and offered it to Theon.
He took it. His hand trembled, just slightly. But he lifted it, and drank.
The taste lingered. Heavy, metallic, and final. Then he passed it to Frida. She did not hesitate, she drank, and finished it.
Then, shw returned the bowl.
"It is completed," the priestess said. "You are now one. In body, soul, and name."
The silence lasted only a second.
Then it broke. The hall erupted. Claps, and cheers. Voices rising all at once.
Music returned, this time, it was louder, and faster. Dancers rushed back into the center. The tension dissolved into celebration. Or at least, it seemed to.
Drexo stood among his men, clapping, his face lit with relief, with satisfaction. Maria sat beside him, her hand resting lightly over her stomach, her eyes were on the couple.
The lords raised their cups. Wine flowed. Laughter followed, but beneath it, were subtle novement.
Along the walls, among the Ashford warriors, hands slipped beneath sleeves. Fingers curled around hidden steel.
Short blades that were concealed beneath robes. Waiting for the signal from Lord Fabio.