The ride back from his new land with the island tree was filled with a different kind of silence than the one that had come before. Jeremiah’s mind was no longer occupied with soil quality or beaver dams; it was fixed on the weight of the Captain’s question. Thomas Bridgewater sat tall in his saddle, the leather creaking beneath him, his eyes fixed on the distant spires of Oaken Meadow.

  “My boy,” Thomas said, breaking the quiet as they reached the lowland approach. “You keep talking about Chloé as if she is already the mistress of that cabin. You speak of her as if she is your wife in all but name.” He paused, his grizzled face softening. “What I mean to say to ya, lad... when exactly are you going to marry the poor girl?”

  Jeremiah felt the heat of a blush beneath his tan, his gaze dropping to the horse’s mane. “Captain... I was hoping to talk to you about that very thing. I love Chloé more than anything. I want to spend every minute with her as it is. I cannot imagine waking up in that cabin without her there to share the first light.”

  He hesitated, collecting his thoughts as the city gates drew closer. “I was wondering, Captain. With your rank... does that grant you the authority to perform ceremonies of the heart? Do you have the power to bind a man and a woman before the King and the Land?”

  “Why yes, my boy,” Thomas answered, a slow, proud smile spreading beneath his mustache. “But I’ve never had a chance to use it before. Most men in this town prefer the temple elders and their long-winded prayers. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, Captain... would you honor me? Would you officiate so that Chloé and I can be married? I don't wish to wait for the next harvest or the turning of the year. I was hoping you could do it today. At sunset. That is, if she is willing, Sir.”

  Thomas let out a short, bark-like laugh and spurred his horse forward. “Well, my boy, let’s make haste and find out. The sun waits for no man, not even a newly commissioned officer.”

  They arrived back at the Peacekeepers’ Center to find Chloé and Mrs. Clary waiting by the heavy iron gate. Chloé’s face was a mask of anxious hope, her fingers twisting the fabric of her apron. Before Jeremiah even dismounted, he leaned over his saddle, his eyes fixed solely on her.

  “My dearest,” he began, his voice ringing out with a certainty that silenced the bustle of the street. “Today I have signed my life to a piece of land so that I may start a family. But I cannot fathom a life without you there with me. Before this day ends, I would like to make you my bride. I do not wish to close my eyes at night without you sleeping by my side, and I do not wish to wake even one more day without you next to me. Will you marry me this very evening, Chloé? At sunset?”

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  Chloé’s face transformed, her smile beaming brighter than the afternoon sun. “Yes!” she cried out, the word a joyous chime that drew cheers from the passing townsfolk.

  The afternoon became a whirlwind of frantic, happy labor. Jeremiah galloped back to his family’s farm to bring his kin, while Chloé and Mrs. Clary turned the riverside bend into a sanctuary. They worked with a haste born of love, setting out lanterns and preparing a modest altar of stone and wildflowers. By the time the sky began to bruise with the purples and oranges of twilight, the two families had gathered at the water's edge.

  The ceremony was short, stripped of the tedious finery of the city, focusing instead on the heavy, honest oaths exchanged between the two. The longest part of the affair was the kiss. They held each other as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, silvering the Kilgor River and officially ending their lives as solitary souls.

  The celebration moved back to the Squirrel’s Nest, which erupted into a riot of music, singing, and dancing. The tavern was filled with the smell of roasting meat and the golden glow of too many candles. Chloé felt light, her auburn hair coming loose from its braid as Jeremiah spun her across the floor. They were finally married. They were finally home.

  The music was at its peak when their world shattered.

  A single, sharp bell-toll cut through the fiddles. Then another. The music died instantly, replaced by a suffocating silence that made the hair on Chloé’s neck stand up. Thomas Bridgewater stepped to the doorway just as a rider, his horse lathered in white foam and blood, skidded to a halt in the street.

  “Captain!” the rider gasped, his voice thin with terror. “Two hundred soldiers. Riding from the north. They wear armor the color of dried blood, and they move with the discipline of a nightmare.”

  “Are they friendly?” Thomas barked, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. “Did they offer a parley?”

  “We sent a rider to greet them, Sir,” the man choked out, his eyes wide and vacant. “They sent his head back. Tethered to his own horse's mane.”

  The tavern erupted into a different kind of chaos.

  “Sound the alarm!” Thomas shouted, his voice a thunderclap that shook the rafters. “Gather the men! Close the gates and get the archers to the towers! Tonight we fight for Oaken Meadow!”

  Jeremiah’s face went pale, the joy of the night stripped away in a single heartbeat. He grabbed Chloé, pulling her into a hard, desperate embrace. He pressed a final, bruising kiss to her lips before shoving a set of reins into her hand.

  “You need to leave,” he whispered, his voice urgent and cracking. “Take Mrs. Clary. Take my horse and ride as fast as the beast allows. Go to our spot, Chloé. Hide in the hollow of the tree. I will find you in the morning.”

  “Jeremiah, no!” she cried, reaching for his tunic.

  “Go now!” he commanded, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective light. “Warn my folks on your way south. I will be with you as soon as the walls are secure. I love you, Chloé. Now ride!”

  He didn't wait for her to answer. With one last look, the man who had been a farmer and a groom only hours before turned and ran into the street, his sword singing as it left the scabbard.