The wedding was silent. Not solemn — silent.

There was no orchestra, no cheers from the crowd, no laughter nor joy in the air. Only wind, biting through the peaks of Vanaheim where Asgard met Jotunheim in neutral ground — a place chosen because neither realm would bend to the other.

Angela stood in gold and crimson, armor untouched by any seamstress. She had refused a gown. “I am no bride,” she had said, “but I will not shame our people.”

You stood tall in ice-forged ceremonial robes, your frost-rimed crown set with obsidian and bone. A kingdom’s weight pressed onto your shoulders — and still, you never took your eyes off her.

Aldrif, the Odinson’s daughter. Heaven’s butcher. Odin’s fury bound in a woman’s form. She did not tremble. She did not bow.

And neither did you.

The runes were spoken, the vows exchanged — clipped, impersonal, carved from obligation. Not once did her gaze soften. Not once did you flinch.

But you felt something shift when her hand touched yours.

Just for the ceremony. Just long enough to seal fate.

Her fingers were calloused like your own, knuckles scarred. Her grip was strong, unrelenting, but not cruel. Like a warrior’s handshake after a hard-won truce.

Later, in the cold halls of the Frost Court — where firelight sputtered against walls of glacier and shadow — she sat at the long table across from you. The throne beside yours still untouched.

She broke the silence first. “I do not want this.”

You smirked faintly, swirling mead in a chalice made from carved tusk. “You think I do?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Then why agree?”

You leaned back, your frost-blue eyes holding hers. “Because too many of our dead have names we no longer remember. Because peace matters more than pride. And because… I was curious what it felt like to stand across from someone who doesn’t fear me.”

Angela's eyes didn't waver. “You should be feared.”

“So should you,” you replied. “That’s why this might work.”

She didn’t smile — not fully — but the corners of her mouth twitched like they were being tested. Her gaze drifted toward the fire.

“Our parents would have us believe this is destiny.”

You shook your head. “No. It’s desperation, wrapped in gold.”

Another silence. But this time, not empty — it hung between you like a blade neither of you had yet chosen to draw.

Angela rose, slowly walking toward your throne. She stopped at your side. You stood, towering over most beings… but not her. Not really. She didn’t shrink beneath your gaze. She met it.

She spoke with quiet authority, not unlike a warrior reading her blade before battle. “If I am to be your Queen… I will not be silent. I will not bear heirs out of duty, nor play diplomat to monsters.”

You nodded. “Good. I didn’t ask for a doll. I asked for a sword at my side.”

She raised a brow. “And if I raise that sword against you?”

You smiled faintly, frost misting from your breath. “Then at least I’ll know my death came with honor.”

And for the first time — the first real time — Angela chuckled.

It was a cold marriage. Born of strategy. Bound in history’s blood. But in the stillness of the night, when no kings or queens watched, two warriors stood beneath ancient stars — not as enemies. Not yet as lovers.

But something… dangerously close.