The Northern cathedral was a masterpiece of cold stone and soaring arches, draped in the Aldenar's Crest. To the common folk of the capital, it was the wedding of the century, the union of the North's iron might and the South's ancient pedigree. Elric stood at the altar, his heavy ceremonial furs feeling like lead on his shoulders.
It was a strange, soaring thing he felt in his chest. He had been a man of war, a man of blood and borders, and the prospect of this marriage had initially been a matter of duty. But as he had watched Verona walk down the aisle, his heart had betrayed his stoicism. He had felt a surge of genuine hope. He had looked at her and thought, Perhaps this is where my life truly begins. Perhaps I can be more than just a wall against the frost.
But as Verona reached him, the hope had curdled into a cold, sinking dread.
