The journey to the North did not begin with a grand procession or the cheers of a hopeful. It began with the rhythmic, funeral-like thud of horses' hooves against the mud of the Vernhardt estate. The sky remained a bruised, heavy grey, as if the heavens themselves were refusing to acknowledge the change in the marriage contract.
Verona sat inside the Duke of Aldenar's private carriage, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She was dressed in a traveling gown of charcoal wool, the closest thing she had to mourning clothes that were still formal enough for a future Duchess. Every breath felt shallow, every movement stiff. She felt like an intruder in her own life, a thief who had stolen her sister's destination.
Across from her sat Elric Aldenar.
