Page 106 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

The carriage rumbled to a halt, cutting off his morbid thoughts, and the door swung open. Light poured into the coach from the bright temple before him. Smooth, shiny obsidian stone walls stretched overhead with lanterns dangling from the overhang. Steps leading to a pair of open doors squat wide and shallow at his feet as he leapt from the carriage.

The Temple of Keon.

While apt to hold a wedding in the temple of their patron god, Keon’s position as God of the Underworld made it feel strange.

Nonetheless, Azriel climbed the stairs and entered the temple with sure steps. Nothing would keep him from this wedding. No dhemons, no god… no one.

No windows lined the stone walls of the long hall and, instead, bore shelves stacked with candles all the way to the ceiling. Three massive, wrought iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling at equivalent intervals and lit the space brilliantly. Two rows of benches lined the outer edge of the hall, all facing the center altar rising from the floor on three steps.

No wedding decorations were present. They never were in the gods’ temples. Instead, the traditional decor of Keon broke up the monotony of the candles and shelves. Skulls hung from the stone—bears and deer and cougars and—

Azriel paused to inspect the dhemon skull close to the door. On one hand, the dhemons were crafted by Keon himself to protect the god’s mortal wife. On the other, for vampires to possess a skull to display in such a crude manner churned his stomach. Sure, he’d killed his fair share of dhemons, but he’d never imagined hanging one up like a trophy.

Rather than linger on it, Azriel refocused on the task at hand. Guests began to arrive, eager to witness the union of their newest member of the Society to their Golden Rose. He moved to the foot of the center dais and greeted the families upon their entrance. Given their comfort with the location, he gathered that the Temple of Keon was a regular place for weddings amongst Caersan.

He wouldn’t have chosen it.

Madan joined him not long after, his short hair slicked back from his face and boots shining as always. He stood beside Azriel, hands clasped behind his back, and said, “A strange place for nuptials.”

“According to their ease at being here,” Azriel murmured back, nodding to the vampires claiming seats on the benches, “I’d wager this is normal.”

“I don’t recall this from the wedding we attended,” Madan huffed. “It was outside.”

Azriel glanced at him. “It was still a Priestess of Keon.”

“Do these vampires even realize how similar their customs are to—“

“No,” Azriel cut in, “they don’t.”

His brother said nothing else as the wave of arrivals slowed. Instead, Madan gave him a quick hug, then found himself a seat. His absence only made Azriel’s mind race more.

Azriel looked around the room. The Fletchers and Teaglows sat nearby. Lord Moone and Lord Governor Nightingale whispered between themselves. Every member of the Society in Laeton had come, filling the seats to capacity and requiring others to stand. Even Lord Governor Gard and his wife and son.

He didn’t give Loren a second look.

Outside the temple, a final carriage trundled to a stop at the foot of the steps. Sul, his arm in a sling but otherwise spry, opened the door. First, Markus stepped out in his cobalt and brown suit, then Emillie, her curls piled high on her head and wearing a blue gown with tulle and silver stars. The younger Harlow stared up at the temple with wide eyes but waited patiently for the final addition to their party.

Breath didn’t come easily as Azriel waited, rooted to the spot near the altar. This would be the last time he saw Ariadne arrive anywhere without his family name—without him if he could help it.

When they left here tonight, they’d finally be bound to one another.

Behind him, a door he hadn’t noticed opened with a bang. Azriel’s heart skipped a beat, and he glanced back to see the High Priestess striding into the hall. She wore long, grey robes cinched at the waist by a belt of leather with satchels dangling from it. Her deep, brown skin, weathered by age and wisdom, seemed to glow in the candlelight. Atop her head was a grey veil covering her hair and held in place by a crown of foliage dotted with antlers. Resting above it all was a crescent moon on its side, points facing up like wicked horns.

She moved with grace and agility uncommon for a vampire her age. If Azriel had to guess, she was old enough to rival the late Lord Governor Caldwell. Yet her spirit and body kept pace.

By the time he refocused on the doors, Ariadne had exited the carriage and stood, hidden, behind her father and sister. He could see only the white lace veil held in place on her head by a circlet of golden roses.

They entered the temple, and the din of voices lowered to a low hum. Gasps and excited chatter erupted when the Harlow family passed the onlookers, only heightening his own anticipation.

Ariadne. She’d arrived. Even though he’d told himself again and again that she would, that terrible voice in his head still whispered in his ear: she would never truly love him.

I’m doing you a favor, really.

The High Priestess spoke, her voice strong and filled with ethereal power that silenced the hall and slammed Ehrun’s words from his mind. “Whose blood do you present?”

Azriel’s heart skipped a beat. Thanks to Alek Nightingale the previous evening, he’d been warned how the ceremony would proceed. Much different than the few informal Rusan weddings he’d attended in recent years.

“The blood of Ariadne Harlow,” Markus replied before stepping aside in unison with Emillie.

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