Leaving Oyo-Moba was like walking out of my own skin.
The scent of roasted plantain and incense faded behind me. The rhythm of talking drums was replaced by the unsettling silence of foreign terrain. The heat I had always known—the sticky, sun-kissed kind that made your skin glow—was gone by the second week of our journey.
Instead, there was wind.
Mean, disrespectful wind that sliced through layers of silk and honor like it had a personal vendetta.
---
The Journey: Across Worlds
We traveled by litter, then by river barge, then finally by horse-drawn carriages that smelled like damp leather and old politics. Each change in transport came with a new rule, a new set of silent stares, and a new insult disguised as "diplomatic courtesy."
At every border, I was looked at—not like royalty, but like a curiosity.
"The exotic bride," one whisper said.
"She's darker than I thought," said another.
"Do you think she understands Lioran customs?"
"Does she even speak properly?"
"Will she try to hex him?"
I pretended not to hear. My spine stayed straight. My earrings swayed like they had their own pride.
Let them stare. Let them wonder.
The gods who walk with me don't need translation.
---
Arrival: Saint Liora
By the time we reached Saint Liora, my lips had cracked, my nose had frozen, and I was ready to fight the next person who offered me cold cheese as a snack.
"We've arrived," the carriage driver announced in a bored tone, as if I hadn't just left behind an entire life.
The city rose ahead—tall spires piercing a grey sky, streets slick with ice, people wrapped in more fur than dignity. Everything was… muted. As if color itself had decided this land wasn't worth the effort.
Even the palace was pale. Ivory stone. Silver gates. No music, no welcome drums. Just silence and snowflakes.
I missed the sun immediately.
---
The First Fall (Literally)
They told me Saint Liora was "temperate."
A gentle climate. Mild, they said.
Liars. All of them.
The moment we crossed into Lioran territory, I stopped feeling my nose. And by the time we reached the capital, my bones were negotiating a labor strike.
"This isn't weather," I muttered. "This is witchcraft."
Wrapped in ten layers of fur and irritation.
The moment I stepped out of the carriage, I slipped.
Gracefully, I should add. Like a queen toppling in slow motion.
Before I hit the ground, a hand caught me—gloved, firm, and colder than the wind.
"Careful, Princess," came the voice.
"We don't want you broken before the wedding."
I looked up into blue-gray eyes. Cold, unreadable. The kind of eyes that had seen too much—or just didn't care to see anything anymore.
This was him.
Lord Marcus Valerian.
My husband-to-be.
He looked exactly like the brooding male lead in a tragic romance novel. Tall. Pale. Handsome. Perfectly sculpted frown. The kind of face that could command armies… or ruin brunch.
"You're taller than I expected," I said.
"You're… smaller," he replied.
He looked like a man carved out of winter. Tall, pale, with sharp cheekbones and a face built for disapproval. His cloak was lined with black fur, and his boots were polished enough to see my future (which, at the moment, looked icy and joyless).
"You're… steadier than you look," I managed.
"You're lighter than expected," he said.
"That's a strange way to call someone small."
"Is it?"
"We're going to get along so well," I said, deadpan.
---
The Ceremony of Welcoming (A.K.A. The Awkward Parade)
The people of Saint Liora lined the palace gates, throwing flower petals and muttering prayers in a language I didn't understand.
"Are they blessing me or cursing me?" I asked my him.
"A bit of both," he said.
There were no drummers, no dancers. Just a short priest in too many rings, reading from a scroll with all the passion of a man reading soup ingredients.
"By royal decree, Lady Yetunde of Oyo-Moba shall enter this house as bride to His Grace…"
Blah blah blah.
I kept my face neutral. But inside? I was screaming.
There were no blessings. No kolanut. No chants of welcome. No one sprinkled me with water to cleanse my spirit. The people bowed out of obligation, not celebration.
And Marcus? He didn't even look at me once during the ceremony.
"This is the least romantic kidnapping I've ever experienced," I muttered to myself.
---
Meeting Him Properly
Inside the marble halls of Valerian Castle, everything gleamed. Cold floors. Cold faces. Cold food. Even the tea tasted like regret.
"Do you have pepper soup?" I asked a servant.
He blinked. "Is that a spice or… a threat?"
I was given "spiced wine" instead. It tasted like sadness with a hint of cinnamon.
That night, a servant told me Marcus "requested" my presence in the study.
"Requested," I repeated. "How noble of him."
The study was warm—surprisingly. A fire crackled, shadows dancing across shelves full of old tomes and grim secrets.
He didn't rise when I entered. Just nodded toward the chair opposite him, as if I were a visiting ambassador instead of his betrothed.
"Princess," he said.
"Ice King," I replied.
He blinked. "Pardon?"
"Nothing. Just admiring the room. So warm. Almost like emotions live here."
He smirked. A rare expression. Brief, like the sun on a rainy day.
"You have a sharp tongue."
"And you have sharp cheekbones. We're both dangerous."
A pause.
Then:
"This marriage isn't my choice," he said.
"You think I voted for it?" I asked. "I had plans, you know. Learn how to walk barefoot. Eat amala at a roadside stall. Maybe find someone whose ears don't point like disappointment."
He exhaled—half sigh, half laugh. Progress.
Then the chill returned to his face.
"You're not what I expected," he said finally.
"Good. Expectations are a trap."
He raised a brow. "You're… different from the other women they tried to send me."
"Let me guess. Quiet. Pale. And agreeable?"
"Pretty much."
"Well, I'm none of those. Except pretty. I'm very pretty."
He chuckled—barely—but it happened. A win.
Then, he grew serious. That distant, haunted look settling over him like a cloud."They say you've been… kept. Untouched. Pure."
"Do I look like palm wine to you?"
That got a real smile. Brief. But real.
And in that moment, something shifted between us.
Not warmth. Not yet.
But curiosity.
"There are things about me you don't understand. Things… you may not want to be near."
"You mean your personality?" I tilted my head. "Too late."
He stood, looming like storm clouds.
"This house holds secrets. My family is cursed. You are not safe here."
I stood too.
"My people say the child who was born during an eclipse was touched by both gods and ghosts."
"If curses are your burden…" I stepped closer, "then maybe I'm not just here to be your wife."
He looked at me—really looked, for the first time.
And I saw it.
Recognition.
Like he'd seen me before… in another life. Or another death.
---
Later That Night
Alone in my grand, freezing bedchamber, I stared at the ceiling and tried not to shiver. The blankets smelled like lavender and foreign magic.
A cold wind brushed my cheek.
"You've returned," a voice whispered—one that came not from the room, but from inside me.
My skin prickled. My heart thudded.
And in the mirror across the room, for just a second, I saw a flash of someone else's face.
Someone older. Fiercer. Powerful.
She smiled at me.
And I smiled back.
"You've come back, daughter of thunder."
"Wake up, Yetunde. The past is not done with you yet."