Page 28 of Rise of the Gods: Vardor's Destiny
Men groaned on the ground, some clutching broken limbs, all with bruised egos and shattered pride. My father cowered behind the tipped altar as the priest and one other man struggled to rise, their expressions a mix of rage and disbelief.
The doors stood wide open, and rain whipped in through the threshold. The Watch was coming. I could hear their shouts, their boots pounding against the cobblestone, the sharp clatterof steel as they drew weapons meant for criminals—not for wedding crashers.
I should have run toward them.
Instead, I stood frozen, my chest heaving, my mind a maelstrom of terror and confusion. Then the stranger turned to me. For a moment, time stretched and bent, like candle wax softening under a flame.
His eyes burned through my undisturbed veil, pinning me in place. I had never seen this man before, yet something inside me clenched in recognition.
It was a mistake. It had to be. I took a step back, my throat dry. "Who are you?"
He didn't answer but moved forward. Faster than thought. Faster than instinct. I cried out when his arm locked around my waist and the floor disappeared beneath me. The world tilted, everything upended in a rush of silk, lace, and storm-chilled air.
I barely had time to suck in a breath before I was thrown over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Unhand me!" I yelled, kicking wildly, my fists hammering uselessly against his back. He might as well have been carved from solid stone.
"Stop!" The priest's voice rang out behind us. "The Watch is here!"
The Watch. The police. I twisted, craning my neck just as uniformed men stormed through the doors, their truncheons ready.
"There!" one of them bellowed, pointing at us. Before they had a chance to surround my abductor and me, he was already moving. Fast. So fast. Too fast. He rushed by the men as if they were straw puppets, toppling them like skittle pins. Then we were out in the open. The street blurred past us in a rush of lamplight and rain, and the cold bit through my ruined weddinggown. He wasn't running like a man fleeing capture—he was running like a beast who knew no cage could hold him.
"This is madness!" I gasped, squirming, twisting. "You—you barbarian! You absolute?—!"
A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep within his chest. Not quite a word. More like a growl. Was he even human? He was the epitome of everything I had ever feared in a man. Tall, wide, muscular. Like a warrior come back to life from a time long past.
"You're mine." He grunted.
The words struck something deep and primal, a note of finality that made my breath hitch. His words weren't a mark of ownership. They were something older. Darker. Fear tied my throat, which was a good thing, because beneath the pounding of the rain, beneath the thunder and the furious shouts still ringing from the church, a whisper of something stirred inside me.
Not fear.
Not rage.
Something far more dangerous.
Something that should not have been given voice.
Yours.
Every good battle commander knows you always have a plan before going into battle, and I did not have one. I wanted to blame it on the long sleep and having been out of practice for so long, but the truth was, I acted purely on instinct.
My Vaelora was getting soaked through her flimsy dress, but that couldn't be helped. I was on an unfamiliar street in an unfamiliar city, probably even on an unfamiliar continent, and I had no idea where to take her. I needed time to think, to process what had just happened.
Vaelora hadn't recognized me, that much was clear.
But I recognized her.
She looked just like she had the first day I ever saw her, when she stepped out of the mountain. A vision. Only her dress was different.
Her hair was still black as coal. Not as long as it had been, but it cascaded down her back in beautiful contrast to the ridiculous white dress she wore.
I tried to orient myself to get an idea of where I could take her. I needed time. Time alone with her to help her remember who she was.
Everything about this place was wrong.
It stank of wet stone and filth, of metal and smoke, but not of blood, sweat, or fire—the scent of warriors, of battles fought andwon. No, this place was hollow, filled with men who hid from the elements beneath layers of cloth and cowardice.
