Bride of the Wolf King

Chapter 1

"A toast to Queen Wyllow on the one-month anniversary of her death," the priest's voice droned through the large hall, a metal ball of incense swaying from his hands as he turned slowly.

"To the queen," the crowd murmured, raising their wooden goblets above their heads and splashing drops of crimson wine on the rough-hewn stone floor.

Princess Brynhilda bowed her head, hands shaking with anger at the empty words.

"A toast to our Princess Brynhilda," the priest continued, wafting the incense over her head. "On the eve of her wedding to Boor the Bald. May this union save our people from starvation and blight."

"To the princess," the words rippled through the crowd.

More wine splashed to the ground, as if the advisers, guards, and maids were shedding her own blood to seal the prayer.

Brynhilda raised her head, her hands gripping the edges of the dark red cloak of velvet that hung from her shoulders.

Her father, the King, stood from his throne behind her. Together, they looked at their subjects, the people of Kore.

The queen had been ill for as long as Brynhilda could remember, but in her last month, her mind seemed to slip as well, her constant mutterings about the white snake and the willow tree weaving into Brynhilda's head until she couldn't sleep at night for worry over her mother. The day she died, Queen Wyllow had tied the blood-red cloak around Brynhilda's shoulders and made her swear that she would never take it off, her wide, crazed eyes chilling her daughter to the bone.

Since her mother's death one month ago, the rains in the heavens had dried. A mudslide in the mountains on the border with the Duchy of Drednacht had diverted the rivers. The crops destroyed in a windstorm. The people touched with a dark blight that filled their lungs with sores and caused their skin to harden like bark.

Their once thriving kingdom, the richest of the six kingdoms surrounding the Central Sea, now starved. Only a union with the Duchy's aged and lecherous Boor the Bald could save them now.

"My daughter," the King's deep voice echoed across the stone walls, reverberating against the stain-glass windows. "Our hopes rest on you."

Brynhilda lowered onto one knee and lifted the golden spindle to her chest. Had she been a man, it would have been an iron dagger that she pricked against her sternum.

A single drop of blood slid from the point of the spindle and splashed against the stones.

"With my blood, I seal my vow," she said, gaze on the floor by Boor the Bald's feet. "I will join hands with-"

"Stop!" the guards outside the Great Hall's doors screamed.

The heavy wooden doors shook.

Brynhilda looked up sharply.

"Daughter," the king hissed.

Instantly, she dropped her gaze again. Nothing could disturb the ceremony, not even herself.

The crowd gasped and pressed together.

"Guards," the king called.

Men in armor rushed to the entrance, forcing pikes against the door and wedging them in the cracks on the floor.

The wood groaned and exploded inward. The force blew the soldiers back, their pikes splintering and cracking like twigs. A cloud of black mist wove into the room, surrounding each person until they stood rooted to the floor in horror.

A growl hissed through the darkness.

"Finish the ceremony," Boor the Bald shouted.

"Silence."