Several hundred years ago

The ribbon binding their wrists together was red as a wound.

It was late Sólmánuður and a fine day for a wedding. Scant clouds wisped across the pale sky. The sea lapped at the pebble beach, afternoon sun splicing its surface with fractal shards of gold. Rounded rocks rose through the shallow foam, sprayed with salt and the vague echo of siren song—if one believed in such a thing, which the bride did not.

But she believed in love, and in the man who stood before her.

The groom’s long chestnut hair was threaded with copper. His beard—impressively thick for a man not yet eighteen—was braided with metal rings and porcelain beads, scented with the pine resin and sage of his best oil. He wore a neat dark tunic and trousers, a gold arm ring, and a leather belt fastened at his waist. From the belt hung a glorious longsword, its hilt studded with rubies. A family heirloom.

A smile pulled the groom’s crooked mouth wide, his eyes glistening with joy. He had known the bride since the day he was born, and had dreamed of this day for over a decade. She was the golden strand running through his life, tying his past and future together in a harmonious bow.

The bride, however, was coiled like a spring. Dressed in a long linen dress of palest cream and beaded silver, she cut a tall, lithe figure.

Every taut line of her body lay in wait.

Half huntress, half hunted.