Two in the Morning

The heavy oak door clicked shut, severing the last of the wedding feast’s clamor. Silence rushed into the bridal chamber, thick and immediate, pressing against my eardrums like deep water.

I stood in the center of the rug, my fingers still stained with the iron-gall ink of the Treaty of Confluence. Three hours ago, I had been the Keeper of the River Accounts, balancing the grain ledgers for the city council. Now, I was the wife of Marek of the High Hills, a title that felt as loose and ill-fitting as the borrowed silk gown scratching at my neck.

Marek sat on the edge of the bed, one boot unlaced, the other still strapped tight against the hard leather. He was a man built for steep ascents, all broad shoulders and corded forearms, currently occupied with methodically wiping the dust of the upper passes from his riding gloves. He didn’t look at me. He was waiting.