Free Web NovelChapter 377: Chapter 377
It served as a symbolic substitute for the sacred Fire of Marzen that burned within the palace. Only royals were permitted to wed before Marzen’s eternal flame, but nobles and commoners alike honored the tradition by lighting their own ceremonial fire, replicating the sacred rite as faithfully as they could.
The warmth of the flames flickered across their faces as the ceremony proceeded.
Apart from her own wedding, this was the only other Lamorian ceremony Circe had ever attended. The previous afternoon, a rider had arrived at the cottage bearing an invitation addressed to Ragnar. A relative of one of his old comrades from the army was to be wed, and their presence had been requested. That was how Circe now found herself seated beside her husband, observing quietly as the ceremony unfolded before her.
She watched with attentive eyes, taking in every detail—the cadence of the priest’s voice, the subtle shifts of emotion across the couple’s faces, the reverent silence of the gathered guests.
Lamorian customs were still foreign to her, no matter how much time had passed.
When she tried to recall her own wedding, the memories felt fragmented and blurred. So much had transpired in the days leading up to it, like the way her entire kingdom had been taken away from her and the way she had been brought forcefully to a strange land that she knew next to nothing about. She had been forced into a situation she had not agreed to, and though she had stood before the sacred fire, her mind had been distant, wrapped tightly around the anger, hatred and confusion she had felt in that situation.
She had been physically present that day, but mentally absent. Watching this ceremony now, clear-headed and observant, she realized just how much she had missed before. The solemn beauty of it. The quiet significance of each ritual gesture. The way the fire’s glow seemed to bind two lives together in the eyes of their people.
Beside her, Ragnar sat in silence as he watched the ceremony attentively. freeωebnovēl.c૦m
Circe had been little more than a bystander at her own wedding, a silent figure draped in finery, moved from one ritual to the next as though she were merely another ornament in the hall. Now, standing among the gathered guests and watching this ceremony unfold before her, she found herself noticing every small detail she had once missed before.
The priest spoke entirely in another language, the soft cadence of it flowing smoothly through the entire hall. It was a language she had heard many times before, spoken by Lamorians during her time in the kingdom. It was unlike anything she had ever heard before, the sound of it was sharp in some places, and almost melodic in others but she had never learned to understand it. Around her, every guest listened with rapt attention. Even Ragnar stood still beside her, his expression composed and focused, his gaze fixed on the dais.
Circe felt acutely aware that she was the only one present who could not comprehend a single word being spoken. The realization made her feel strangely removed, as though she stood just outside the ceremony rather than within it.
When the priest finally finished, the groom stepped forward slightly. He took his bride’s hands in his own and began to speak, his voice steady but thick with emotion. He looked deeply into her eyes, as though no one else existed in that grand hall. The bride gazed back at him with the same tenderness, her expression soft and affectionate. It was obvious to anyone watching that this was not a political arrangement or a marriage meant to serve as an alliance between two families. This was a love match.
"What is he saying?" Circe asked quietly, leaning slightly toward Ragnar. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
Ragnar turned his head toward her, and for a fleeting moment their eyes met. He lowered his voice in response, careful not to disturb the ceremony.
"I am Godric Nicanot, son of Lord and Lady Nicanot of Sacár, and to you I swear the protection of my body and my House, from this day to my last, and even unto our dwelling in the heavens," Ragnar murmured, translating the groom’s vow as precisely as he could.
The words settled heavily in Circe’s chest.
When the groom finished, the bride began to speak. Her voice trembled at first, but it rang with sincerity, filled by conviction. She looked at him as though he were the one that hung the stars.
Ragnar did not wait to be asked this time.
"I am Valori, daughter of Waylon and Eliza of Jireh, and to you I swear devotion and love to you and your House, from this day until my very last, and even unto our dwelling in the heavens."
Circe’s heart softened as she watched them. Now that she understood the meaning behind the foreign words, a gentle smile curved her lips as admiration bloomed quietly within her. They were young and yet so certain about their future and the love they had for one another.
There was something profoundly beautiful about witnessing two people who were so clearly in love, who chose one another without hesitation.
As she observed them, her thoughts drifted unwillingly to her own wedding day. She searched her memory for something similar, for any vows spoken softly between herself and Ragnar, for words of promise or devotion exchanged beneath watchful eyes. But no matter how deeply she reached into that haze of memories, she found nothing.
Most of her wedding remained a blur, clouded by the storm of emotions that had consumed her at the time, anger, resentment, hatred burning so fiercely it had left no room for anything else. She remembered the tension in the air that day and the brittle politeness of their brief greeting at the start of the ceremony. But she could not recall him telling her anything more than that.
