POV: Beth
The bells of Saint Arlen’s toll so loud it feels as if the sound is pressing on my chest.
The governor’s carriage halts before the cathedral, small and dull beside the glossy royal coaches. When Father opens the door, cold air and color rush in at once—blue and gold banners snapping, stone steps crowded with silk and fur, faces turning to look.
I take his hand and step down. My gown whispers around my ankles, borrowed finery over a body that has spent more time hauling water than wearing satin. The gloves he gave me that morning hug my fingers, smooth and white, hiding the old scar beneath.
Whispers fall like snow as we climb the steps.
“That’s her.”
“Marrying above herself, by all accounts.”
“Debt-ridden Hawthorne. Clever of him.”
I force my chin up. After today, none of them will dare say such things aloud. After today, they will call me “Your Highness” and bow.
Inside, the cathedral is cold and vast. Candles burn in high brackets, painting the stone in soft gold. Rows of nobles fill the pews, jewels winking, fans stirring. White roses cling in small clusters to each pillar, their scent fighting the chill.
At the far end of the long aisle, beneath the tall window of Saint Arlen blessing a painted sea, stands the altar. Before it, straight-backed and immaculate, stands Prince Adrian Lancaster.
He is not the blurred scribble from broadsheets; he is solid and careful and composed. Dark blond hair combed back, trimmed beard, blue doublet stitched with gold. A sword hangs at his hip more as ornament than need. His eyes fix on us as we approach. They reveal nothing.
My heart climbs into my throat. I cling to the rhythm of my steps, to the soft rasp of my skirts over the red runner. Father’s arm is tight beneath my hand, his shoulder more rigid than I have ever felt it, but he walks with the measured pace of a man who has marched under guns.
At the head of the aisle he stops. His hand squeezes mine once, hard, then releases.
“Your Highness,” he says, bowing as best he can.
“Governor Hawthorne.” Adrian’s voice is smooth and level. He extends his hand to me with practiced grace. “Lady Elizabeth.”
I lay my gloved fingers in his. His skin is warm, his grip firm. His eyes meet mine briefly. There is curiosity there, perhaps, but no warmth.
The priest begins his blessings. Words about union and duty roll over me in a blur. I hear phrases—“honor,” “sacred bond,” “for the good of the realm”—but my thoughts are full of smaller, selfish things. A roof without leaks. A pantry that is never empty. Father with color in his cheeks again instead of the gray strain of sleepless nights.
When it is time for the vows, Adrian speaks first. His answers are steady, his tone unchanged, as if he is agreeing to a treaty. When the priest turns to me, my lips feel dry, but the yes comes anyway. My voice shakes, but no one moves to stop the ceremony, and relief loosens something in my ribs.
Then the priest blesses the ring and places it on a white cushion. Adrian takes it and reaches for my left hand.
The leather of my glove creaks softly.
He pauses. His gaze drops to my wrapped fingers, then returns to my face. “May I?” he asks quietly. “It is custom to place the ring on bare skin.”
Father’s warning from that morning flashes through my mind so sharply I almost flinch. Do not take the gloves off. Promise me. He never told me why. I never pressed.
A hundred eyes burn into my back. The King’s son waits, hand holding my own. I imagine refusing and feel the world teeter; I imagine Father’s face.
“It is only a glove,” I tell myself. The scar underneath has been there for as long as I remember. Ugly, yes. Dangerous, no. No one has ever cared.
I nod.
Adrian’s fingers find the edge of the glove at my wrist. The leather clings; my palm is damp. He tugs gently. The glove peels away, turning inside out, and my sleeve rides back with it.
Air hits skin that has not felt it in months.
For a heartbeat nothing happens. Then the nearest noblewoman gasps. The sound spreads, sharp and shocked, until even the candles seem to flicker in response.
My wrist is bare. The mark is there, as it has always been: a burned circle, three jagged lines slashing downward through it like claws. The skin around it is rough and shiny. Children get hurt, Beth, my father used to tell me. It’s nothing.
“That’s no accident,” a man mutters from the first row. “That’s a pirate brand.”
“Saints preserve us,” someone breathes. “She’s marked.”
The word pirate hisses through the air. I feel it hit my spine like cold water. I try to cover the scar with my other hand, but it is too late. Faces tilt away as if I have suddenly begun to stink. A woman lifts her skirts to keep them from brushing mine.
Adrian lets go of my hand as if he has been burned. The glove falls to the floor between us.
“What is this?” he asks.
“It’s just a scar,” I whisper. My tongue feels thick. “From when I was a child. My father—”
“A claiming mark,” the same man insists. “They burn it into their spawn so they know what belongs to them.”
Eyes dart between my wrist and Father’s face. I can feel him go very still behind me.
“I am not a pirate,” I say. The words sound ridiculous the moment they leave my mouth, like a thief protesting in a counting house. “I’ve never been on a pirate ship. I don’t even know—”
“Silence.” Adrian’s voice slices cleanly through mine. All the practiced charm is gone from it now. He turns his head slightly toward Father. “You told me your daughter’s blood was clean.”
Father steps forward, hands open as if he can push the words away. “Your Highness, she is my daughter. Whatever happened before, she has been raised in my house, in loyalty to the crown. She has never had contact with pirates. She is innocent.”
“Innocent?” Adrian repeats. His gaze returns to me. The disgust there makes my stomach twist. “You expect me to overlook a pirate mark on the bride’s wrist and call her innocent?”
“I didn’t know what it meant,” I whisper. “I swear to you, I didn’t. It was only pain and then it was there and—”
Whispers swell into a low, ugly murmur.
“Tainted.”
“Sea filth.”
“Curse the royal line with her, you’ll see.”
I feel myself shrinking and harden my spine at the same time, a contradiction that nearly splits me. My breath comes too fast. The stained glass window of Saint Arlen wavers.
Adrian lifts his chin. “You all see it,” he says to the watching church. “You know what it signifies. I will not bind the king’s house to pirate blood.”
He looks back at me and speaks plainly, each word landing like a stone dropped in water. “I, Prince Adrian Lancaster, reject this union.”
The air leaves the room.
The priest stares, mouth open. Someone sobs. Someone laughs once, sharply, before being shushed. My knees buckle; my hand catches the altar rail. The roses blur.
“Your Highness,” the priest begins weakly. “Perhaps if we retired to a private—”
“There is nothing private about treachery,” Adrian says. His voice is iron now. “Guards. Take them.”
I barely have time to understand before heavy hands seize my arms from behind. Fingers dig into my upper arms through silk. A choked sound somewhere between a cry and a protest escapes me.
Father lunges. “You will not touch my daughter,” he snarls, old officer’s steel in his tone. “She has done nothing—”
A guard drives a fist into his stomach. He folds, air punched from his lungs.
“Papa!” My scream tears at my throat. I twist, skirts tangling, shoes sliding on the stone. The grip on me tightens like iron bands. “Stop! Please—”
“She’s innocent, I told you,” Father gasps, trying to straighten. A second blow catches him in the ribs. He stumbles to one knee.
“Governor Rowan Hawthorne,” Adrian says, ignoring me. “You concealed this corruption from the crown. You will answer in the crypt dungeons. The girl can join the rest of her kind in the lower cells.”
Two more guards drag Father up by the arms. Blood glistens at the corner of his mouth. His hat falls, rolling forgotten under a pew.
“Beth,” he manages, eyes locking with mine as they haul him backward. “Do not be afraid. I will—”
A jerk on his arm cuts him off.
“Papa!” I cry again, voice breaking. I fight so hard my shoulders burn. The nobles watch, horrified or satisfied or simply curious. No one steps into the aisle. No one tells the prince no.
The guards haul me down the steps from the altar toward the tall doors. Every stride tears me farther from Father. I crane my neck, searching. He struggles once more, then disappears behind a column and a wall of blue uniforms.
“Papa!” The word echoes off stone and saints and painted glass, thin and useless. “Papa!”
The great doors swing open ahead, letting in a slice of harsh winter light. For a heartbeat, as they drag me through, I see Father again, half-turned, still fighting, one hand reaching for me though there is no way he can touch me now.
Then the doors slam shut between us, and the world that was supposed to begin today shatters like glass under a boot.