“I, Odessa Cross, make this vow.” It came out in a rush. A whisper. “Zavier Wolfe,” the High Priest continued. “Do you vow to uphold the Shield of Sparrows with your union to Odessa Cross, princess of Quentis and future queen of Turah?” Zavier waved a hand to the Guardian. “Will you speak on his behalf?” the High Priest asked. “Yes. I speak on the prince’s behalf.” The Guardian’s baritone timbre filled the sanctuary. It was deeper than it had been in the throne room. It held an edge sharper than any of Mae’s blades. “Zavier Wolfe makes this vow.”
Not a fan of him not speaking for himself
