Chapter 1: The Maiden’s Sorrow

The Welsh Marches, August 1085

The swords of her people lined the parted path like a funeral procession, and Seren walked it like a lamb to slaughter. Peace, her mother had told her, came at a price—and today, that price wore a wedding veil.

Her father, the Welsh chief of Madoc Keep, had kissed her brow and pressed the cross necklace into her palm, locking eyes with her, over the passed-down pendant that protected the pure of heart.

“Depend on the Lord if He wills a righteous hand,” he whispered, nodding to the hidden purpose of her holy relic. He draped the ornate wreath around her neck, letting the pendant cross rest firmly over her heart. Within its secret chamber, poison was filled to the brim. One drop for a child, two for a woman, and three for a man. Her grandmother had used it in her role as healer, showing mercy to the dying.

For Seren, it would be a weapon, should righteousness fail.

Her mother had crowned her in white flowers, which would likely wilt by the time she reached Castel Thornwyck in Mortlande—the dead lands, not for the soil, but for the many buried beneath it.

Trust no one there, her mother had warned. Four wives have vanished from Marcher Lord Henry’s bed.

Her mother’s whisper had brushed her ear in memory: “We will honor you. Trust in the Lord, your God.”

Seren’s slippers stepped through the mud after the hard rain, as if the Lord himself mourned her sacrifice. She had prayed to let another be wed to the ruthless Lord Henry—a king only in his mind—but the cup did not pass. So, Seren found herself walking to a certain doom, to a place where wives were property, beaten for control, punishment, or correction, to a Marcher Lord who had every authority to do what he wished.

The man who lifted the canopied wagon’s flap was not what she expected. Commander Payen de Montfort, they had said. Lord Henry’s most trusted hand. His butcher. His blade. His shadow.

Mortlande feared Commander de Montfort for his cunning tactics and brutal efficiency. But the man who extended his arm had the build of a warrior and the eyes of a man who had seen too much blood. Blue—unnaturally blue—against a face too fair, hair too light, and a stature too tall to be born of Castel Thornwyck’s twisted stone.

His grip was steady, and unlike the Thornwyck knights—rank with sweat and steel—he carried no stench as they faced the Welsh warriors of the Marches. His scent was cool, clean, like cedar bark after a storm.

She hesitated only a moment before taking his hand. If he noticed her trembling, he said nothing. She peered back at her parents standing at the other end of the processional. If Lord Henry invaded, they’d be ready. And if they failed, then she knew she would die with her people, but in the meantime, the northern chiefdoms of the Welsh Marches would be at peace.

The white flower crown wilted in the drizzle. One petal dropped to the mud just as she stepped into the wagon. In some parts of the Marches, that meant death was watching.

Her father gave her a nod, though a glisten overcame his eyes. Her mother and her three brothers were behind her father, grim-faced.

It was likely the last time she’d see her family.

She sealed their image in her mind before stepping into the noble’s wagon transport.

There were only strangers to guide her into a land she had never seen and to a lord who likely wanted her not as a bride, but as a peace treaty, until he was ready to strike the Welsh-held lands resisting his rule. She peeked out the canopy’s leather flaps at Commander de Montfort, who stared at her with eyes as sorrowful as her mother’s. But it wasn’t just pity, hunger, or cruelty. There was recognition in his gaze, as if he had once walked to a future he could not escape.

Rumors had said he was a monster. But he did not look at her like a knight claiming a prize for his lord. He looked like a man remembering a ghost. It made her wary, for it was easier to fear monsters than mourners.

Perhaps he knew what her future held. He’d clearly seen it play out four times before.

But she would not die quietly.

She spread her fingers over her linen overdress and let out a slow breath to calm her nerves. It was her seventeenth birthday, and when the wagon lurched forward, the drapes flapped closed. Her face turned from the knights riding behind, and the soon-to-be Lady de Thornwyck wept in silence for the child she was no longer allowed to be.