19. Kathleen

Pandemonium explodes in the chapel as Draknir, his eyes blazing with fury, challenges Morta to a duel. The soldiers, who moments ago were quietly standing guard, now leap into action with weapons drawn and faces contorted in rage.

The air crackles with the sound of angry shouts and threats of violence.

Draknir"s voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. "Enough! This matter will be settled honorably in single combat outside."

The crowd roars with excitement, eager for bloodshed to ensue. I am caught up in the frenzy, my emotions swirling as I struggle to process how this sacred wedding has devolved into such chaos at lightning speed.

Before I can orient myself, we are gathered in the courtyard. Draknir stands tall and focused, sword glinting, as Morta snarls curses across from him. This deadly contest will dictate everything – our future balances on a knife"s edge.

My palms sweat and my heart hammers madly. Yet strangely, I feel sure Draknir will prevail. He must, or all is lost. As the duel begins in earnest, the crowd"s roar fades to a murmur. Time seems to slow, all my senses focused only on the fierce dance unfolding before me.

As Draknir strides confidently into the garden arena, his jaw set with determination, I feel a knot tighten in my stomach. "Please, don"t do this," I cry out, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart races as I frantically try to come up with a way to save him from the impending danger.

"I-I will acquiesce to their demands, if it spares you." I plead, tears streaming down my cheeks. The thought of giving in fills me with shame and despair, but I cannot bear the thought of losing Draknir.

His expression softens at my words, but he shakes his head resolutely. "No, my love. I cannot let you sacrifice your dignity for my sake." He gazes at me with a mix of love and concern. "What kind of mate would I be if I didn"t protect you?" His words pierce my heart, reminding me once again why I fell in love with him in the first place.

Across his blooming garden, Morta"s sneer turns to a scoff. "The lady has some sense at least! Yield, and this beastly affair can end."

But Draknir remains steadfast and unyielding before him. His broad shoulders square off against Morta"s smaller frame as he declares firmly, "I will never yield when her honor is at stake." The tension in the air is thick and palpable as the two men stand locked in a battle of wills, each one fighting for what they believe is right.

Their duel begins before I can protest further. All I can do is watch helplessly, praying with every fiber of my being for Draknir"s victory. Swords clash and feet move in a fluid, almost hypnotic rhythm. My voice catches in my throat, unable to protest or intervene as I watch helplessly. Every fiber of my being is consumed with the desperate prayer for Draknir"s victory. He must prevail, for the consequences of defeat are too dire to even imagine.

My fingers clench tightly around the soft, silk fabric of my wedding dress, the tension radiating through my body like electricity.

The clash of steel rings out violently as the duel commences, the harsh sound piercing the hushed crowd like a blade slicing through flesh. Draknir and Morta circle each other like two predators, their eyes unblinking, muscles coiled in anticipation of the first move. The air is heavy with the smell of sweat and adrenaline as the two warriors prepare for what could be their last fight.

With a guttural cry, Morta charges, his sword slashing ruthlessly. Draknir parries the savage blows, skirting away. They trade thrusts and feints, sinewy bodies twisting and lunging with brutal speed.

Sweat flies off Draknir"s straining arms as he wields his blade desperately to counter Morta"s frenzied attack. His face twists into a ferocious snarl, all concentration bent on surviving the next lethal strike.

Morta fights like a beast, never relenting. He seeks to overwhelm Draknir through sheer merciless aggression. My heart lurches as inch by inch, he forces Draknir back, teeth bared in anticipation of the killing stroke.

With a well-timed feint, Morta breaks through Draknir"s defense, landing a vicious cut to his shoulder. Draknir staggers, blood spraying, barely keeping his grip on the sword. The crowd gasps. Morta swoops in for the finish.

"No!" The anguished cry is torn from my throat. This cannot be the end!

Morta laughs, toying with him, stepping forward with his guard down and opening a deep gash across Draknir's thigh. He sinks to his knees with a grunt, momentarily stunned to see his own blood pooling beneath him.

For an instant, his eyes seem to gaze far beyond the garden feasting on his blood, glimpsing the clearing beyond the path all warriors must walk sooner or later. I can almost make out the darkness hovering at the edge of his vision, beckoning him toward oblivion.

No! It cannot end like this.

But Morta, smelling triumph, circles closer for the killing strike.

My desperate cry echoes through the air, but Hayes only shakes his head with a sad expression. "The duel must run its course now, no matter what happens." The crowd, all adorned in their finest clothes, watches on as if this is just another event in high society.

As I see Draknir waver under Morta's skilled attacks, I rush to the edge of the temporary killing grounds. My heart pounds in my chest as I plead with him, "Please yield! I will do anything they ask!" Tears threaten to spill from my eyes as I struggle to keep my voice steady. The scene before me feels like a nightmare, a twisted and cruel game being played out for the entertainment of others.

Let him live, even if my dignity is forfeit.

At my words, lucidity returns to Draknir"s eyes. With sudden clarity, he smiles gently and shakes his head.

Some inner fire reignites within him.

Slowly, agonizingly, he drags himself up, bloody but unbowed.

Awe and hope surge wildly within me at the sight. "Never… for your honor I will always fight." He gets up and once more resumes his guard. At first, he fights desperately, bleeding and giving ground before Morta"s ruthless onslaught.

But as Morta arrogantly presses his advantage, seeking a fatal strike, something shifts within Draknir. A dark and dangerous calm descends upon his features, his eyes narrowing with intense focus. With a calculated movement, he adjusts his stance and raises his sword in front of him. His lip curls.

Every action is deliberate, every ounce of energy carefully conserved. Morta charges forward with reckless abandon, but Draknir"s sword deflects each blow with ease. The sound of metal on metal echoes through the air.

Draknir"s expression remains composed, focused only on his opponent"s next move. He parries Morta"s increasingly frustrated strikes with an eerie, fluid grace.

I watch spellbound at this transformation – it is as though some otherworldly force guides Draknir"s steps now. Morta"s rage makes him careless. Sensing this, Draknir waits with coiled patience for the perfect opening.

At last the chance presents itself – a wild horizontal slash leaving Morta"s torso exposed. With surgical precision, Draknir drives his sword home, then wrenches it free in a spray of crimson.

I quickly cover my eyes, trying to block out the gruesome scene before me. But despite the violence and chaos, I can"t help but feel a surge of elation and pride as the crowd erupts into cheers around me. Ignoring the rules of tradition and propriety, I run towards Draknir with reckless abandon. I reach him just as he collapses from exhaustion, his body covered in blood and sweat. Without hesitation, I wrap my arms tightly around him, feeling the warmth of his body against mine.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice trembling with emotion. In that moment, all of my relief, gratitude, and budding love for this brave warrior pour out in that embrace. The smell of iron and sweat fills my nostrils, but it only adds to the intensity of the moment.

At first, Draknir holds his shoulders stiff, unaccustomed to such unabashed displays of affection. But as the warmth of my embrace seeps into his skin, he gradually relaxes, tilting his head to press his bearded cheek against mine. His arms encircle my waist tentatively, as if unsure of how to respond to this sudden surge of emotion. I feel his heart racing and his breaths coming in ragged bursts, mirroring my own tumultuous feelings. In this raw, vulnerable moment, we are simply two souls stripped of any pretense or facade. Without thought, I turn my face towards his, yearning for more connection with this man who has captured my heart.

Sensing my need, Draknir meets my lips in a gentle kiss. Every fiber of my being seems to awaken. I melt into him, all my doubt burning away like morning mist.

This feels right – no artifice or coercion, but a pure connection.

We stay lost in the kiss until cheers penetrate our haze.