The Marriage Decree

The King looked at each of the sisters in turn.

“You all know the Marriage Decree of King Arion. You know what is required of this house.”

His eyes flicked to Loren. 

“I had hoped to keep you with me longer but the King of Windrider is dead and the Prince cannot be crowned without a Queen. You will leave for the east before the moon is full.”

Loren had known this was coming but the weight of his words landed anyway. 

“Sybille, you will go north to Frostborne, to your mother’s people,” he said. “Rowan, you are promised to Count Xander of the Mirefolk, you will leave for the south before the year is out.”

Loren was first to break the silence. She did so with her hands clasped in front of her, knuckles white.

“I accept,” she said, voice steady. “I will be ready when the arrangements are made.”

Her father gave her a nod, as if she had passed a test he’d set for her years before.

Sybille said nothing. She folded her hands at her waist, eyes down. Only once did she glance at the fire, at Tristan’s hunched shoulders, before snapping her attention back to the floor. 

Tristan let out a long exhale. He prodded the fire and then left the room without a word, his steps echoing off the stones.

Rowan didn’t wait for the click of the latch before she erupted. 

“You’re shipping us off as if we were cattle,” she said, her voice sharp. "Count Xander is…” she seemed to lose the exact insult she wanted. “He’s a peacock. A painted, useless peacock.”

The King laced his fingers together. “That peacock is the brother of the King of Mirefolk and you will be at his side.”

Mariselle, who had not said a word, stepped forward. 

“I wish to marry Henrick the apprentice,” she said with a force that seemed to surprise even her.

A line twitched in the King’s jaw. “That is out of the question.”

“I’d still rather.”

The King drummed his fingers on the table. 

“Mariselle, you will accompany your sister to Windrider as her companion, as a distraction from your more…unsuitable entanglements.” He did not look at her as he said it.

Loren met Mariselle’s eyes with something like relief.

Rowan glared and muttered, “He’s still a peacock,” but there was no real fight left in it.

The King gave a single clap as if dismissing his hounds. “Go and make yourselves useful. I have letters to write.”

The sisters filed out. Outside, the corridor was dark. The girls stood in a knot, silent.

Loren cleared her throat. “Well. It could be worse.”

Rowan snorted. “How?”

“He could be an ugly peacock,” Mariselle quipped.

Sybille reached for Rowan's hand and gave it a brief, fierce squeeze. “At least we’ll be together a little while longer,” she said, before closing her eyes briefly. “I must go find Tristan.”

***

She left the others in the corridor. The castle felt strangely quiet now the decision had been spoken aloud. For years the marriages had existed as distant obligations, now they were real.

She found Tristan in the armoury, polishing a hunting knife that was already spotless. 

“Tristan.”

His hand stopped. He set the knife down and turned.

“I thought I would be prepared when the time came,” she said softly.

“So did I.”

The honesty of it hurt more than she expected.

For years they had avoided speaking about it. It had been easier to pretend there would be another summer, another winter, another year.

“They expect me to marry him,” Sybilla said, her voice unsteady. “To smile and stand beside him and have his children and spend the rest of my life in Frostborne.”

When she finally looked up, Tristan had gone very still.

“I know.”

“I can't do it.” The admission emerged as little more than a whisper.

Tristan crossed the room in three strides. He took her face in his hands. Then rested his forehead against hers.

“Neither can I,” he said.

Sybille shut her eyes.

For months she had prepared herself to be brave. She had told herself that when this day came she would accept it with dignity. She was her father's daughter. She understood duty. But standing there with Tristan's hands trembling against her cheeks, duty felt like a very poor thing to build a life upon.

When she opened her eyes again, his were fixed on hers.

“What do we do?” she asked.

Tristan gave a small shake of his head. 

“I don't know.”

That frightened her more than the marriage itself. Because Tristan always knew what to do.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. Sybille buried her face in his shoulder and held on as though she could somehow stop time.

They stood there like that for a long time. 

Slowly, Tristan slid to his knees, sliding his hands down her body, pressing his face into the warm mound between her legs, inhaling deeply as if all the oxygen in the world came from her. 

He pressed her back against the window sill and lifted her skirts, spreading her thighs wide, burying his face in the warm wetness of her. His tongue licking and lapping until she was quivering around him, covering his face with her slipperiness.

When she could take it no more, she pulled him upwards. “Take me, Tristan, take me now,” she begged.

He grabbed her hips and wrapped her legs around him, sliding her onto his throbbing cock that belonged to her and her alone. She rode him, gripping him tight, gripping the back of his head, until he sighed and climaxed inside her. All the while hot tears streamed down her face.

***

Back in his chamber, the King finished his letter to the Duke of Windrider, signed it with a firm hand and left it to dry in the candlelight.

He looked up, just once, glancing toward the fireplace where Tristan had sat since he was a child.

The future was coming, whether they were ready or not.