Chapter Text
The castle towered high above her, carved sharply and ruthlessly into the mountain’s face. The gray sky above gave no comforting ray of sunshine to soothe her unease. A sudden gust of wind shook the thin traveling cloak she was wrapped in, the chill reaching deep into her bones.
This was the king’s stronghold in Drimor, the icy Northern kingdom. The lady herself was from the Southern kingdom of Shewen, a warmer, brighter place. She had never left its borders until now.
Now, she was betrothed to this barren land’s cruel king, Sargon the Ice-Hearted.
The carriage behind her pulled away with a loud clopping of horse hooves on stony earth. This place was so much quieter than that of her home; every whisper here seemed as loud as a shout.
The attendants that her father - Lord Oswald, Duke of Addington - had hired fell into line on either side of her. She did not know a single one of their faces. She had left all her known companions behind. All the servants and friends of her youth back in Shewen did not know of the fate that had befallen her. They all believed her to be somewhere else and destined to marry another.
Her entourage marched forward, and she fell into step between the two rows of knights. Together, they climbed the several hundred feet of stairs that led to the plateau which held the visitors’ gate of the castle. Below and behind them, spread all around the valley, the capital of Drimor lay silent and still. Beyond the town, the outer wall kept away the wolves and bears.
At the entrance, another two rows of servants greeted the lady. They were dressed warmly for the cold, politely looking away from her. At the head of the line, facing her, stood His Majesty, flanked by two guards on either side. He wore furs and leather suiting the chill in the air. His dark hair was cropped short and covered by an ornate silver crown fashioned to look like interwoven antlers. He was broader in the shoulders than she recalled, and his height dwarfed her petite frame by at least a foot.
She met his eye, though she had not meant to. The cold gray gaze sent more of a chill through her than any of the landscape had so far. He did not smile. His hard expression did not falter. He regarded her from head to foot without comment.
Once she was within ten feet of him, she curtsied low, eyes on the stonework beneath her feet.
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty. Thank you for having me.”
He didn’t respond, and she waited in the low bow for several long seconds. Only after he replied could she rise. The countless etiquette lessons of her youth taught her that. She was surprised as a pair of boots entered her vision. The king had walked closer.
“Lady Emmeline?” he asked softly. His voice was more gentle than she expected.
Against protocol, she glanced up to catch his eye again. He was looking at her speculatively, eyes slightly narrowed. Did he know? Could he tell? Was he suspicious of her?
“Y-yes, Your Majesty?” she stammered, her heart pounding in her chest.
Sargon regarded her in silence a few moments longer. She was certain the game was done. He could see right through her. He knew of her deception. He had to.
To her surprise, he simply nodded. “Welcome home, my lady. I hope you will find the accommodations to your liking.”
Relief flooded her, and she curtsied again, deeply. “I am delighted to be here, Your Highness.”
With another curt nod, he turned and started back inside, his guards following.
Her new servants buzzed around her, introducing themselves and discussing wedding preparations. She heard it all as though it were floating down a long, echoing corridor.
For a moment, she had thought she’d been had. For a moment, she was certain it was the end.
For a moment, she was sure that he knew she was not the real Lady Emmeline of Addington.
The day Emmeline of Addington was born was the day Lord Oswald, Duke of Addington, knew true joy.
The little dame was a bright ray of sunshine in an already sunny world. Her temperament was agreeable; her little mind was sharp. Even after his wife’s passing, Lord Oswald doted on his little daughter - perhaps more so than most other noble fathers of the era.
The day that Emmeline of Addington was kidnapped was the day Lord Oswald knew true fear.
She was only ten years of age when a band of thieves plucked her from her carriage en route to her cousins’ manor. Oswald paid the ransom without question, the babe was returned unharmed, and the ordeal seemed to be over. Yet night after night of sleeplessness beleaguered His Grace, and in a fit of near madness, he charged his knights with a peculiar mission: go out into the kingdom and find him a girl matching Emmeline’s height, age, and appearance.
The hunt took several months. The girls brought before the duke were found subpar. The hair color was wrong, the height difference too great, or the appearance altogether wasn’t similar enough.
When his knights returned with Renna of Bravenwood, Lord Oswald, for a moment, believed he had somehow fathered twins. The girl was perfect, albeit lowborn. Her peasant parents were paid handsomely for their silence, the girl was moved into the duke’s estate, and her tutelage alongside the true Lady Emmeline began.
This was an ancient, secret tradition of the noble families of Shewen, referred to in private as the Lady’s Shadow. Though Lord Oswald had never seen it put to practice, his concern for his own little lady had reminded him of this custom. From thenceforth, Emmeline would travel secretly while Renna took her place in the ornate, gaudy carriage. Renna would stand in when Emmeline was unwell. Renna would meet with unruly dignitaries or if the particular situation seemed too risky.
And when Lord Oswald later found himself caught between two equally attractive suitors for Emmeline’s hand, Renna would find herself standing in for the lady in a manner she never expected.
“And with their hands bound with these cords, so are their souls bound forever in the halls of the gods.”
Renna was striving not to hyperventilate as she watched the priest wrap hers and the King’s joined hands with the holy cords of matrimony. From her shield behind the lacy veil, she hoped no one could tell.
Preparations had flown by in a matter of days. She’d been introduced to her staff and flung into a whirlwind of wedding planning. Before she could even stop to think, she found herself kneeling on the altar next to His Majesty.
Renna hadn’t seen him in the entire three days she’d been staying at Castle Drimor. She wasn’t sure if he was avoiding her or was purely a busy royal. At first, being alone in this bleak, dark place had frightened her. Fortunately, the interior of Castle Drimor was entirely opposite that of its exterior.
The hallways were warm and cozy. Large and detailed tapestries of great hunts and mythology adorned the walls, trapping heat and entertaining guests at the same time. In every room, a grand fireplace roared with an inferno the size of which Renna had never seen.
The staff was welcoming and sounded delighted to have a mistress again. Her understanding was it had been some time since the King’s mother had passed.
She was shaken from her reverie as the veil before her eyes lifted and she got her first full look at Sargon since her arrival.
He was still expressionless, lips pressed into a tight, thin line. She noted that the eyes she’d thought were gray were a steely blue. A litter of light scars patterned his features. He was younger than she had thought, too; this man didn’t look as though he’d even reached his thirties.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
She swallowed, nervously. This was the sealing of the contract. With this kiss, the first step of her mission would be complete. She would be his wife. She would be Queen Consort.
Renna wasn’t sure what she expected his kiss to be like; she knew so little of his personality. But Sargon lightly placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned down to meet her height.
The kiss was chaste, barely what she would call a kiss. His lips hardly touched hers before pulling away. A polite smattering of applause came from the small congregation behind them. Only roughly thirty nobles were in attendance.
“May I present Their Majesties, King Sargon of Drimor and the Queen Consort, Emmeline of Shewen!”
The applause was louder this time as those in attendance rose to their feet. Her head spun as reality fought to return. She’d done it. She’d convinced everyone she was Emmeline.
She merely had to keep the pretense for the rest of her life.