The grand hall of the Madurai stronghold was alive with roaring flames, pounding drums, and the heavy stench of roasted meats and sweet, fermented wild-berry wine.
Chieftain Madurai Tamil, a towering warrior whose silver-streaked beard and deep scars spoke of a lifetime of conquest, sat at the head of the raised dais.
Tonight, he hosted the ancient Vakt'ra Night—a wild, uninhibited tribal banquet thrown in honor of the groom and his brides before the formal wedding rites.
The hall was packed with war-captains, tribal elders, and roaring warriors. Drums thudded like giant heartbeats, and couples danced wildly around the central bonfires. Sitting across the Chieftain was Thoris, casually leaning back in his carved chair with his leather tunic half-unbuttoned, nursing a heavy horn of ale. On his right, Adrian sat surrounded by soft cushions, sipping warm broth and glaring at the rowdy warriors whenever their cheering got too loud. And on Thoris's left sat Elyria.
Tonight, something in Elyria had shifted.
The mortification of the previous nights, combined with the looming arrival of her formidable brother Cassian in just two days, had burned away the last of her passive hesitation. She had made a silent vow: she was a princess of Valemont, and she would not spend the rest of her life cowering in the shadows like a frightened bird. She would fulfill her duties as Thoris's bride—on her own terms.
To aid her newfound resolve, the sweet, deceptively strong northern berry wine sat in a silver jug at her elbow. One cup had eased her trembling hands.
Two cups had warmed her cold blood.
By her third deep draught, a brilliant, rosy flush painted her cheeks, her soft blue eyes sparkled with liquid courage, and the towering, terrifying barbarian prince beside her no longer looked like an untouchable monster. He just looked like a very large, very arrogant man who needed to be taught a lesson.
Chieftain Tamil slammed his iron goblet onto the table, his booming voice cutting through the noise.
"A toast! To my son Thoris, who managed to bring home two fine imperial treasures! May your bloodline grow as fierce as the winter storms!"
The hall erupted into thunderous roars and raised cups. Thoris grinned lazily, lifting his horn to his father before taking a long swig.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and cast a careless glance to his left, expecting to see Elyria trembling into her plate as usual.
Instead, Elyria slammed her silver goblet down onto the heavy wood with a sharp, surprisingly loud *CLANG.*
The sudden noise made even Chieftain Tamil blink in surprise. Adrian paused mid-sip, his eyes widening in alarm and Elyria turned her head, her bright, wine-hazed eyes locking directly onto Thoris's fierce golden ones. She didn't flinch. She didn't look down.
"Prince Thoris," Elyria announced, her voice soft and sweet, yet ringing with an unmistakable, alcohol-fueled clarity that carried across the high table.
Thoris raised an eyebrow, a skeptical smirk touching his lips.
"What is it, Princess? Did a fly land in your soup?"
"No," Elyria said, leaning forward. She placed both of her small hands flat on his broad, muscle-bound thigh, squeezing the hard leather of his trousers with surprising firmness.
Thoris froze. The smirk faltered on his face and Adrian almost choked on his drink, whispering under his breath, "Elyria... what are you doing?"
"I have decided," Elyria declared, her cheeks glowing crimson, but her posture straight and proud as an imperial banner.
"You are loud. You are crude. You smell of woodsmoke and leather, and you have terrible manners at the dinner table."
A few war-captains at the nearest table gasped, while Chieftain Tamil let out a low, intrigued rumble in his chest.
"Is that so?" Thoris growled softly, leaning down closer to her, his golden eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.
"Are you drunk, little girl?"
"I am perfectly clear-headed!" Elyria countered, her soft voice brimming with fierce determination. She stood up from her chair, swaying just a tiny fraction before planting her feet firmly. She grabbed Thoris by the lapels of his open shirt, pulling his massive chest down to her height.
Thoris was so completely stunned by her sudden aggression that he actually allowed himself to be pulled forward.
"You scold me for being weak," Elyria continued, her breath sweet with berry wine as she stared right into his eyes, inches from his face.
"You accuse me of trembling. But I am here! I am standing right in front of you! I am going to be the wife of this house, and I am going to fulfill every single duty required of me!"
She poked his hard chest directly over his heart with one slender finger.
"So stop treating me like I am going to break! If you want a bride of the steppes, then treat me like one! Touch me, command me, or talk to me, but do not ignore me ever again!"
Silence fell over the high table.
Adrian put a hand over his mouth, torn between absolute horror and profound pride for his soft-hearted sister. Chieftain Tamil threw his head back and let out a boisterous, earth-shaking laugh that echoed through the stone rafters.
"HA! Excellent!" Tamil roared, slapping his knee.
"She has the spirit of a mountain hawk! Well spoken, daughter of Valemont!"
Thoris didn't laugh.
He sat completely still, his heavy heart thumping against his ribs where her small finger had just poked him. He stared at the flushed, breathless princess towering over him with trembling shoulders and blazing eyes. Her timidness hadn't vanished—she was clearly still terrified, her pulse fluttering wildly in the side of her neck—but she was facing him anyway. She was using every drop of courage she possessed to claim her place beside him.
A slow, dark, and deeply genuine grin spread across Thoris's face—not his usual arrogant smirk, but the look of a predator realizing his quiet prey had sharp little teeth after all. Then without a word, Thoris reached out, grabbed Elyria by her slender waist, and easily hauled her onto his lap.
Elyria let out a soft, breathless gasp, her hands instinctively clutching his broad shoulders to steady herself as she sat straddling his lap in front of the entire chieftain's court.
"Careful what you demand, Princess," Thoris rumbled, his deep voice thick with a low, dangerous heat as his large hand rested possessively against the small of her back.
"When I stop holding back, fragile things tend to get crushed."
Elyria's heart hammered frantically against her ribs, the warmth of the wine rushing to her head. But instead of shrinking away, she rested her hands firmly on his massive chest, lifting her chin with regal, stubborn pride.
"Then try not to crush me, Great Warrior," Elyria whispered back, straightforward and unyielding. "Because I am not going anywhere."
Across the table, Adrian let out a long, quiet sigh, shaking his head with a faint, amused smile as he watched his soft, timid sister officially tame the wild prince of the Iron Steppes.
"You are to be a bride of my house," Thoris said, his voice ringing through the stone pavilion with absolute, unyielding certainty.
"From this moment on, no one in this stronghold—not a servant, not a warrior, and certainly not Vikra—will speak of you with anything less than total honor. If anyone raises a whisper against your name, they answer directly to my blade."
Elyria stared at him, her breath catching in her throat as the pale, frightened color slowly returned to her cheeks. She could feel the raw, unfiltered truth in his words. Thoris was chaotic, crude, and frustratingly prideful, but he was not a liar. When he gave his word on his steel, he meant every syllable.
"...Thank you, Prince Thoris," Elyria whispered softly and Thoris gave her a sharp, satisfied nod before adjusting the heavy leather pauldrons on his shoulders, his stance relaxing as he turned his attention toward Adrian. In an instant, the fierce protector vanished, replaced by a dangerous, familiar smirk.
"As for you..." Thoris murmured, leaning close enough to bump his broad shoulder heavily against Adrian's.
"...you look like you're about to collapse. Back to bed."
Adrian clicked his tongue, his brow furrowing into an immediate glare as he shoved Thoris's chest away.
"I am perfectly fine. Stop hovering over me, I'm eating."
"You look pale, and you've been standing out here in the draft for entirely too long," Thoris insisted, completely ignoring the weak push. He reached out, casually grabbing Adrian around the waist with one thick arm and tucking the smaller prince right against his warm side.
"If you faint out here, Vikra will give me another four-hour lecture about taking care of my family."
"Let go of me, you brute!" Adrian grumbled, squirming furiously against Thoris's iron grip, his pale hands pushing against the leather strap across Thoris's chest. Yet, despite his fiery protest, he lacked the actual energy to fight him off, his tired body involuntarily leaning into the barbarian's steady support.
Elyria couldn't help a quiet, genuine laugh from escaping her lips as she watched Thoris practically haul her stubborn brother atop his right lap and Adrian grumbling insults under his breath the entire process.
Throughout the entire evening, Thoris made a loud, deliberate, and public show of honoring his brides. He poured Elyria the sweet fermented wine himself, picked out the finest, tenderest cuts of roasted meat for her plate, and frequently turned to ask for her opinion on the upcoming tribal festival in front of the entire elder council. Whenever an elder brought up a complex political question regarding the foreign guests, Thoris deliberately motioned to Elyria, his loud voice booming across the tables.
The elders looked on in silence at first, but as Elyria answered their questions with graceful poise, deep knowledge of Madurai customs, and sharp intelligence, their stern expressions melted into nods of approval.
The quiet, public respect Thoris offered her in front of the entire tribe effectively strangled the ugly rumors about her being neglected and sidelined in their sleep. By the time the massive bonfire in the center of the courtyard began to burn down into glowing red embers, the council members were no longer whispering about a scandal—they were loudly drinking to the wisdom and grace of Thoris's second bride.
Across the courtyard, standing high up on the palace's stone balcony, Vikra watched the feast in total silence, a quiet cup of wine held loosely in his hand.
From his vantage point, he saw Thoris laughing boisterously with his captains, wrapping a heavy arm around a thoroughly annoyed Adrian while carefully refilling Elyria's cup with surprising gentleness.
A faint, subtle smirk touched the edge of Vikra's lips.
"You see, brother?"
Vikra murmured softly to the quiet night air, taking a slow, calm sip of his wine. "You can be a proper leader when your pride is forced into a corner."
He lowered his cup, turning his dark, sharp eyes toward the ocean horizon to the west, where the dark sea met the starry sky.
The rumors were dead. The tribe was unified once more behind its prince.
Now, there was only one storm left to face.
"Two days until Cassian Valemont arrives."
In Vikra's wake, he sounded almost excited and anticipating Cassian's arrival.
*****
The heavy oak doors of the private bedchamber slammed shut, cutting off the distant, roaring din of the Vakt'ra Night banquet.
The room was bathed in the amber glow of the dying hearth. The air felt charged, thick with the lingering scent of sweet berry wine, woodsmoke, and the cold night air clinging to Thoris's skin.
He didn't carry Elyria in like a delicate porcelain doll. He hauled her through the doorway with a firm, unyielding arm locked around her waist, his heavy boots sounding like iron against the stone floor. The moment the doors locked, he turned and pressed her back against the solid wood. Elyria gasped, her breath catching sharply in her throat. The liquid courage of the wine still burned hot in her veins, but face-to-face with the sheer, unbridled size of the barbarian prince in the privacy of his room, her heart hammered frantically against her ribs.
Thoris loomed over her, broad shoulders blocking out the light, his golden eyes burning with a dark, dangerous intensity. He looked down at her flushed face, her parting lips, and the fierce, stubborn pride still lingering in her blue eyes.
"You had a lot to say down in the hall, Princess," Thoris rumbled, his deep voice gravelly and low. He reached up, his rough, calloused hand gripping her jaw—not painfully, but with a heavy, possessive firmness that forced her to look straight at him.
"You told me to touch you. You told me to command you."
"I... I meant every word," Elyria breathed out, her small hands coming up to grip his wrists. Her fingers were trembling, her soft nature warring with her iron resolve, but she did not pull away.
"I am your bride, Thoris. I am not a guest to be pitied."
"Good," Thoris growled softly against her skin. "Because I am done holding my breath around you."
Where he had been infinitely cautious, slow, and mindful of Adrian's delicate, pregnant frame—checking every shift of his weight and holding back his raw strength—Thoris held nothing back with Elyria. She was not carrying his child; she was his wedded partner of the steppes, and he intended to mark her as such.
He pulled her toward the massive, fur-draped bed, tossing her onto the plush mattress with a blunt, unceremonious force that sent the air rushing from her lungs. Before she could scramble back, Thoris surged over her, his broad frame crowding her entirely.
His hands were rough and impatient. He didn't gently unpick the intricate silk ribbons of her imperial gown; instead he pulled at the fabric, his sharp teeth nipping at the exposed curve of her throat, her collarbone, and her trembling shoulders, leaving hot, dark red marks in his wake.
Elyria let out a sharp, breathless gasp, her back arching off the mattress. Every touch was intense, almost overwhelming. He felt like a thunderstorm collapsing over her small frame—demanding, heavy, and unapologetically dominant.
"Thoris..." she choked out, her hands digging into the hard muscles of his arms.
"You wanted the warrior," Thoris grunted into the crook of her neck, his large palm sliding down her ribcage, pressing her flat against the mattress as his heavy thigh pinned hers in place.
"This is how we claim what's ours in the steppes. No soft poetry. No waiting."
He captured her mouth in a deep, bruising kiss that tasted of wild wine and copper. Elyria's head spun. She felt small, fragile, and utterly consumed beneath him, but as the heat coiled tight in her stomach, her fear gave way to a strange, exhilarating rush. She wasn't being sidelined. She wasn't being protected like a broken glass ornament.
Finally she was being taken seriously.
And when Thoris finally entered her, he did so with a single, firm drive that drew a high, breathless cry from her lips. Tears of sharp sensation pricked the corners of her eyes, her small hands clutching wildly at his scarred back, her nails dragging across his skin. Thoris paused for a fraction of a second, his muscles locked tight, his breathing heavy as a furnace. He looked down into her tear-stained, flushed face, his golden eyes blazing.
"Still want to run back to the Empire?" he rasped, his jaw set. And Elyria swallowed hard, her chest heaving as she forced her eyes open, locking her gaze with his. She lifted her trembling arms, wrapping them tightly around his broad neck, pulling his heavy chest down against hers.
"No..." she whispered, her voice sweet, raw, and defiant. "Take what is yours, My Lord."
A fierce, dark chuckle vibrated in Thoris's chest. He didn't slow down. He set a hard, rhythmic pace that shook the massive wooden bed frame, his heavy weight pressing her deep into the furs as he was demanding, fierce, and relentless, taking her breath away with every sharp thrust, leaving her breathless, crying out his name into the quiet shadows of the room.
By the time the storm finally broke, the room was silent save for the harsh, ragged sound of their shared breathing.
Elyria lay thoroughly spent, her brunette hair spread wildly across the dark fur blankets, her pale skin covered in a flush of pink and marked with the clear impressions of his heavy hands and sharp teeth. She was thoroughly exhausted, her body aching in ways she had never known, yet a quiet, profound sense of victory settled in her chest.
Thoris lay beside her, propped up on one elbow. He was breathing heavily, his chest glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. He looked down at the soft, exhausted princess lying flushed and unraveled in his bed.
His hand came up—no longer rough, but still heavy—and stroked a sweaty lock of hair away from her damp forehead.
"You're tougher than you look, Princess," Thoris rumbled softly, a faint, genuine smirk touching his lips.
Elyria let out a tiny, breathless laugh, her eyelids heavy with sleep and wine as she weakly rested her hand over his massive knuckles.
"I told you..." she murmured, her voice trailing off into a tired whisper, "...I am not going anywhere."
"In that case, we are doing it for the whole night. No backing away now princess,"
Elyria gasped.
"Whole–... whole night?" She choked on her words as Thoris was already adjusting her on top of him. Suddenly, Elyria regretted her brazen outbursts.
*****