Korian

The wedding feast roared as if the devil were celebrating the purchase of a new soul. Lord Corian II sat at the head of the table, idly playing with his knife and glancing at the door. He was waiting for the frightened mouse—the fragile maiden who would blush and squeak with gratitude. He even prepared a cold speech about her now belonging to him.

The door swung open. Instead of timid steps, there was a confident gait; instead of a downcast gaze, there was the inquisitive gaze of a merchant. Her dress was the latest fashion, but she looked as if she wore trousers and commanded an army.

"Thank you for the warm welcome," she said, sitting down without permission and taking his glass. "I like the castle. I'll take the tower for myself, and your weapons collection for the guest room. I don't need any junk in my bedroom."

He choked. She snapped her fingers at the servants:
— The meat is overcooked. Tell the cook that tomorrow is the last day.
She turned to Corian:
"And don't look like that. Take off the crown. The collar suits you better. I said, take it off."

Corian, who had been planning to show his temper, instinctively removed his crown and handed it to her. She grinned.
— That's better. Listen, hubby. This house will only be quiet when I say so. You're my little hysteric, and I'll train you. Any questions?

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. For the first time in twenty-five years, he realized he had met the one who would bite off his hand, crown and all.