Waste

by Hirvitank

The transience of all things worldly and other had been a constant given during my life and long reign after that, it shouldn't have been a surprise when my debt was due.

23. Epilogue

The late, afternoon sun came streaming in through panelled windows. Its warmth soaked into Emily's skin, its light filling her room with bright rays. She had sorely come to realise—after spending several months in utter darkness—how badly she'd taken it for granted before. The heat of summer was embracing her, kissing her alive with its balmy touch. Every breath revealed a new scent permeating the air; most noticeably was the rich smell of a freshly cut garden. Her gaze was drawn to the large mirror before her, taking in her olive skin, highlighted by the lowering sun. When she looked at herself now, she could almost forget the image that had been stuck in her mind's eye for the past six months; dark hair tangled and stuck to her skin, eyes rimmed red and swollen from tears, cheek covered in his blood... The sight had haunted her—the aftermath of watching yet another of her loved ones fall before her eyes.

She frowned, forcing herself to banish such thoughts. Instead, she reminded herself that things had turned out alright, that they were fine.

"I just worry, what if she doesn't want to commit in such a way?" Callista spoke from behind her. Her former teacher's brow was furrowed, hands working on Emily's hair, soon finishing another loose curl.

Emily raised a sceptical brow, amused smile creeping up on her. Subtly tipping her head as to not interfere with the woman's work, she parted her lips, tongue flicking out to wet them before speaking. "I'm sure she'd be thrilled to move in with you."

Callista let out a weary sigh, hands briefly halting their task. "You truly believe so?"

Emily chuckled, a deep fondness resonating within her chest. "I'm absolutely certain," she assured the other woman, smile widening. "Besides," she continued, fumbling with the sheer slip she was wearing and feeling a fresh wave of excitement fill her at the thought of changing into her dress later, "Billie is smitten with you."

There was a beat of silence before Callista nudged her. "Speaking of absolutely smitten," she spoke with a teasing glint in her blue eyes. "I'm surprised your soon-to-be-husband hasn't barged in yet—I don't recall him being this able at staying away."

Emily bit her lip, suppressing a laugh as her toes curled against the hardwood floor. She had to admit, even the mere thought of him brought her heart to race. A long time ago she had written it off as nothing but lust, a silly infatuation with an unreachable man. It was hard to forget how he had driven her insane, the way he would dance around expressing anything even remotely direct, or the maddening unassuming look in his eyes whenever their gazes had met. Even with both feet firmly planted in this world, he had at times been as distant and untouchable as in the Void. Her mind often returned to the moment she'd found him, bleeding out in an abandoned street. His composure had been as cracked as the dirty cobbles beneath. He had lost his perfect control, and with it, he had slowly started to lose more and more of his dissuasions—sucking her into the inescapable vortex that was his own undoing.

She sighed, then, feeling the familiar ache she'd come to associate with the thought of missing him. "I can't believe it'll be 1854 tomorrow..." she lamented, a sad frown on her lips. "I just wish he could stay." He had been one, big, incomprehensible mess of unending contradictions—but the more she had gotten to glimpse his soul, feel his humanity beneath the tips of her fingers, the more she had realised she had fallen completely, and irrevocably in love with him.

Callista placed a hand on her shoulder. "I know, dear." She tried to comfort her, but Emily had found nothing ever seemed to lessen the breaking of her heart for what was to come. There was a knock on the door, and she had to resist the urge to turn, knowing she might ruin Callista's hard work. "It's okay," her former teacher assured, sensing her unrest. "I just finished."

Emily sent her a smile through the mirror, taking Callista's hand in hers. "Thank you." She squeezed the limb, letting go before turning, catching a familiar figure in the door. "Wyman!" she exclaimed, unable to stay seated at the welcome sight of the blonde. She didn't miss the distinctly feminine clothing they were wearing, but her mind hadn't any time to linger, overwhelmed at seeing her former lover safe.

"You're looking amazing, Em." They smiled, walking up to her and opening their arms in welcome.

Emily didn't hesitate, melting into their embrace and feeling her heart pound in her throat. Taking a deep, shuddery breath, she pulled back, resting her hands on their shoulders. "Callista helped with the hair." Her voice revealed the slightest of cracks as she grinned, turning her head to show off her look. Callista had created an intricate chignon, with various parts braided into each other. To finish it off, loose curls framed her face.

Said woman used the opportunity to make her leave, slowly rising from her chair. "It's nice seeing you again, Wyman," she spoke, bowing her head respectfully. "I'll leave you two to catch up."

Emily mouthed a quick 'thank you', and Callista sent her a final parting smile before closing the door. Turning back to her former lover, Emily allowed her eyes to roam them. "You look beautiful—what happened?"

They—or she—chuckled. "A while ago someone told me a few things… I didn't understand their words- not at first, I mean. However, during my imprisonment… I had some time to think on their meaning." She paused, licking her lips nervously. "I realised a lot of things about myself- about who I really wanted to be."

Emily grinned, embracing her again, feeling her own heart swell at Wyman's bravery. "I'm truly happy for you."

"Thank you," Wyman spoke softly, a vulnerable edge to her voice. There was a moment of silence before the blonde pulled back, cocking her head and raising an inquisitive brow. "So," Wyman's bright eyes bore into hers, "the Outsider, huh?"

Emily flushed at the question. "I-"

"It's okay," Wyman assured, touching Emily's arm. "I have seen the way you look at him…" There was a soothing warmth in her eyes, and she raised a suggestive brow before continuing. "And he at you." The blonde's lips briefly pulled into a knowing smile, before thinning into something more serious. In a matter of seconds, the Wyman she had known for years appeared older. Emily could tell there was something on her mind, something she'd been considering for a long time. The blonde hesitated, mouth opening and closing, bright eyes searching Emily's. After a while, it seemed she'd gathered her courage, lips parting a final time to speak. "Do you remember that fight we had, all those years ago?"

Emily nodded hesitantly, swallowing her nerves. 'All cutting words like the knives you so desperately obsess about', she knew the words by heart, and felt her guts twist at the memory.

Wyman allowed her hand to travel down Emily's arm, fingers wrapping around hers. "I was so… so angry at you for pushing me away again." She shook her head slightly as she spoke. "For shutting me out and making me feel like the loneliest person in the world." Her gaze was distant, clouded by memories.

Emily swallowed against the stinging of her throat, allowing her lips to repeat old words of hurt. "I told you to save your tears, because I had already met the loneliest person in the world, and he would deride you for your self-pity"

Wyman smiled a wistful smile, eyes flitting back up to meet Emily's. "I had always wondered who you'd meant by that, but you never told me." She glanced down at their hands, a subtle frown pulling at her brow. "It was him, wasn't it? He's been there all along..."

Emily let out a sigh, turning her gaze to the hardwood floor, gathering her thoughts. There were words heavy as stones at the back of her throat, aching to be expelled. "Come," she said, pulling Wyman towards the bed, "let's sit for a moment."

Wyman nodded, following, carefully allowing herself to sink into its soft mattress. Emily joined her, feeling a pang of nostalgia at the familiar image they made: the two of them, perched on opposite sides of her bed, about to share their innermost secrets.

She took in a deep breath, preparing herself for the things she was about to share—words she had never spoken to another soul. Wyman was patient, allowing her all the space she needed. Clearing her throat, Emily's mind returned to a darker, lonelier time. "I was only ten when I found a strange object washed up on the shore of the Hound Pitts pub. Just a carved bit of bone, nothing too strange," she started, trying her best to exhume the foggy memories. "I remember thinking the markings pretty, so I hid it beneath my pillow. That night when I went to sleep…" She paused, teeth worrying her lip and gaze darting down to her neatly folded hands, placed perfectly in her lap. "I woke up in a strange place; vast like the ocean, filled with shining stones creating floating islands." She distinctly remembered how the air had felt like breathing water, yet had tasted of smoke and lingered in her throat like swallowed ash. "I was lost, and I ended up wandering around. There was an overwhelming sense of emptiness, of sorrow... of death.

"I found him there, perched on one of the floating islands, back turned to me. I still remember my relief at encountering another person—I remember getting close enough to notice the state of his coat, damaged and worn, pants equally old and threadbare. He just sat there, unmoving, gazing off into nothing. I recall reaching out, intending to pull his sleeve to get his attention. Before I could touch him, however, he turned on his own. I-" She hesitated, a deep frown settling between her brows. "I was absolutely horrified. Set within sickly features sat the most haunting eyes I had ever seen, a terrifying black on black.

"Though, honestly, it wasn't their colour that frightened me most; it was the lifeless look he regarded me with. Vacant... like my mother's eyes after-" She shook her head, unable to finish that particular thought. "I remember cowering back in fear, and he just stared at me, unblinking and unexpressive. I blurted the first thing that came to mind, asking him about those eyes…" Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and for a brief moment she swore she could still taste the question. "He didn't reply. Instead, he stood, towering over me, stepping closer. I remember feeling frozen to the spot when he knelt before me, those dead pits still staring, constantly watching. When he spoke, his voice rattled like rats gnawing bare bones, but the thing that actually shocked me was that he somehow knew my name.

"He told me I should not be caught wandering places an Empress did not belong, suggesting I return the bit of bone to the sea, and never search for anything similar again. After that, I somehow startled awake, and didn't hesitate to do as he told. After a while I reckoned it had all been a bad dream, just another nightmare. I didn't see or hear from him again—not until Delilah."

Wyman frowned in confusion, inquiring eyes staring into hers. "The aunt that usurped you?"

Emily nodded, hands fidgeting in her lap. "He pulled me into what I then realised was the Void, revealing he'd marked my father over a decade ago, admitting he'd never expected the two of us to meet… It struck me as unusual, him being as surprised as I was."

Wyman nodded thoughtfully, brow puckered. "So, what made him reach out?" She cocked her head, laying down to rest on her side, propping her elbow on the mattress.

"He offered me his mark as a means to take down Delilah," Emily admitted. "I accepted."

If Emily's secret had surprised Wyman, she didn't show it. The blonde appeared to be mulling over what had been said, gaze distant as she absorbed it all. "So, after years of ignoring you, he decides to offer you his magic, after explicitly telling you to avoid such things?" she asked.

"Honestly, it was a bit more complicated than that, but yes, pretty much." She sighed, rubbing her palms together. Somehow sharing her story had left her feeling a bit lighter. She was well-aware there would no longer be a taboo to most things Outsider related, but speaking so openly about it helped cement it to reality. "Would you care to know the weirdest part?" she asked, tipping her head.

Of course, the blonde nodded expectantly, she'd always had a penchant for gossip.

"Meeting him again, it was like everything about him was different." She moved to mirror Wyman's position, continuing on in a conspiratorial whisper. "I mean," she couldn't keep the smirk off her lips, "I couldn't help but notice his hair had been brushed after what might have been centuries of neglect."

Wyman sent her a meaningful look that had Emily chuckling to herself, fingers moving to trace circles atop her covers. "How unusual," the blonde remarked, bringing Emily's smile to widen.

She recalled her strange encounters with the otherworldly man, the memories feeling surreal in hindsight. "Of course, whenever he chose to speak to me, it was mostly to berate me. For a while I wondered if such things got him off: belittling mortals," she snickered, enjoying the scandalised look on Wyman's face. "Then, after everything was over, he left again. I didn't see him for months, not until I found him dying in the streets. I think you know what happened after that."

Wyman winced, gaze darting away from Emily's. "I believe I do," she admitted softly.

Emily reached out across the bed, wrapping her hand around Wyman's. "I'm sorry I never told you. You deserved my trust."

Wyman shook her head, offering her a heartfelt smile. "I don't fault you. There was a lot at stake: I'd have done the same."

Emily returned the smile, relief settling in her stomach now that she'd gotten most of it off her chest. Together or not, Wyman would always be precious to her. She loved the Morley noble, deep in her heart, and she was convinced she always would. The moment was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and Emily's gaze immediately shot to her open door. The subject of their conversation entered, much later than she'd expected him, face obscured from view by a newspaper.

"Emily, I can't believe this," he spoke, seemingly unaware of the two of them lounging on their bed. "They misspelled my name—again." He lowered the piece of print, eyes catching Wyman and her. He stopped in his tracks, staring at the both of them with a distinct lack of surprise. "Did I…" he raised a single brow, straightening his shoulders, "interrupt?"

"Speak of the devil," Emily laughed while Wyman let out an amused huff of breath. Matvey's pale gaze narrowed, eyeing the both of them curiously. "Join us, would you?" she beckoned him over with a playful smile, patting the remaining space of the bed. He didn't need to be told twice, settling between them with a nonchalance she envied, allowing himself to drop down on his back and folding his hands across his chest—the newspaper mysteriously discarded somewhere along the way. "You are aware the groom isn't allowed to see the bride prior to the wedding?" Emily asked, raising a sceptical brow. She noticed the slight dampness of his hair, indicating he'd showered not too long ago, his natural scent mixed with fresh soap reaching her nose—she could relate to his tirade about her perfume, struggling against the urge to press her nose to the exposed skin of his throat.

His eyes darted to nowhere in particular, glancing up at both her and Wyman several times. "Oh?" He casually raised his dark eyebrows, and Emily had a creeping suspicion he was perfectly aware of said tradition. He turned his head, briefly, looking over at Wyman. "It's generous of you to come," he remarked, an unspoken approval in his eyes that had Emily realising who Wyman had meant before.

"I couldn't imagine missing Em's wedding," Wyman admitted, shrugging as she looked away. "I'm happy for her, after all." an earnest smile curved her rosy lips, eyes flitting between the two of them, and Emily noticed a mischievous look shining in their depths. "Besides," Wyman continued, "who else can claim the Outsider stole their lover and have it be true for once?"

As if Wyman's words hadn't been enough to make her burst out in laughter, then Matvey's look of absolute mortification sure was. His lips had parted in protest, an offended frown knitting his brows together.

"So besides the misspelling of your name, and your incorrigible habit of intentionally breaking all possible traditions, why else did you come here?" Emily smirked, watching him tense at her observation.

"Intentional? That's quite the assumption on your part, Your Majesty." He frowned, tone taking on a note of mock-offence.

"You're deflecting," she deadpanned.

He inclined his head towards her, eyes traveling to her freshly styled hair. "Did I mention you are looking absolutely beautiful?"

She raised her eyebrows a bit further, pinning him with a pressing stare, ignoring the way her heart pounded beneath his gaze.

Matvey appeared to consider what to do, frown deepening. "Fine," he rumbled, turning his eyes back to the ceiling, voice hitting that low note that never failed to make her insides flutter. "I'm avoiding your father."

This took Emily by surprise. "My father? Why?" She had not missed her father's constant doting over him. Ever since that night at the bonfire, his attitude towards 'that damned Outsider' had shifted significantly—not to mention the staggering impact left by the trial against Matvey's own father.

"Because," Matvey hissed, gaze darting towards the door as if expecting Corvo to enter at any moment. "Your unhinged Royal Protector has been threatening me with a brush all morning—he continues to compare my hair to a 'rat's nest', and not in the 'appetising' sense."

Emily frowned, wondering whatever would inspire such a thought.

Wyman cleared her throat, drawing their attention as she rose from the bed. "I can help," she offered, gesturing towards the chair Emily had just been in. "I mean, I would love to—I've always wanted to style someone for an important event."

Matvey opened his mouth to speak again, but no words came out as his gaze traveled from Wyman to Emily, appearing at an obvious loss for what to do. Emily sent him a reassuring smile, motioning for him to take a seat, knowing Wyman had always been good with hair—Emily had been saved by her practiced hands many times before.

He complied, sitting down in silence. Emily joined them, retrieving a nearby chair and moving it closer. She draped her legs across one of its armrests, subsequently making a mockery of her tutelage. Wyman gathered the tools she needed, fishing a pair of scissors from a nearby drawer. The blonde's familiarity with Emily's room felt strange, even though she knew it shouldn't. Then again, so much had changed in a relatively short amount of time, it was no wonder Emily almost couldn't believe her eyes as she watched her former lover tackle the unruly mess that was the former Outsider's hair.

"I should thank you, for saving our lives," Matvey spoke, surprising Emily, his eyes meeting Wyman's through the mirror.

"It was the right thing to do." Wyman averted her gaze, focusing on her hands as she carefully combed his hair. "I didn't want anyone to die."

"What you did was incredibly brave," Emily supplied, placing a hand on the blonde's elbow.

Wyman nodded, not meeting her gaze, but Emily didn't miss the quiver of her lips or the shudder in her breath. "Your hair is very soft," she spoke instead, fingers trailing through Matvey's dark strands.

He shifted in his chair, weaving his fingers together. "Thank you," he spoke, gaze directed elsewhere.

Wyman had started cutting away at the ends, the scissors filling the room with their metallic snaps. "Did you ever have to maintain it in the Void?"

Emily's eyes shot up to meet Wyman's, but the mischievous blonde didn't look away from her work.

"No," Matvey answered reluctantly, "my appearance was unchangeable."

"Really?" Emily couldn't stop herself from butting in. "Because I seem to recall you changi-" She paused, taking in the beet-red colour of Matvey's face.

"I didn't do that," he spoke stiffly.

Frowning, Emily's mind raced to connect the dots, trying to imagine who could possibly... "Delilah?"

He nodded, and she attempted to picture Delilah playing magical dress up with the Outsider, slicking down his hair and picking out what pants to wear. The mental image was funnier than it should have been, and she had to cough into her hand to hide her snort of amusement.

"You're not running sick, are you?" Matvey immediately asked, returning his attention to her.

"No, no, I'm fine." She smiled innocently, throwing up her hands.

Matvey's eyes narrowed before turning away again, watching as Wyman continued her work. "It wouldn't surprise me, considering the obscene amount of time you've been trapping yourself behind that desk of yours, sacrifing sleep."

Emily felt an offended frown tug at her brow, one of her hands rising to rub the stiffness from her neck. It was true—she had been drowning in paperwork. But that was to be expected when she was trying to maintain the delicate balance that was her Empire. Though she couldn't deny her subsequent exhaustion already weighed her down on what should be one of the most beautiful days of her life. "I've had a lot to catch up on, and economical problems don't solve themselves."

"Forceful hands have never nourished growth as much as they've smothered it," he countered, frowning. "You've never obsessed over hyper-managing it like you're doing now—I don't want to be hearing any news of you crumbling from the stress while I'm away.

"I just worry..."

"Your worries aren't going to keep people from having their opinions." Of course he knew the Empire itself had little to do with her actual anxieties, he'd always been good at poking holes into her excuses.

"I know, you're absolutely right." She shook her head, rubbing her temple. "It's just hard not to mind them."

"You forget: you are not alone in this. Let them have their gossip, I'll provide the truth." There was a certainty in his voice that put her at ease, and it never ceased to puzzle her how he always knew exactly what to say.

"Speaking of gossip," Wyman joined in, "Em, I sure hope you didn't invite that insufferable Lady Highmore."

Emily released another weary sigh, wishing she hadn't spent most of her night's rest on ensuring the preparations were all in order. "I really didn't have much of a choice, we desperately need funding."

Wyman turned to scowl down at her hands as they finished up their work. "I simply cannot stand that woman," she admitted sourly.

"You wouldn't mean Emma Highmore?" Matvey inquired, eyes now staring off into the distance, hands neatly folded in his lap. Emily couldn't stop her own gaze from roaming his stoic features. How she found herself wishing she had gotten to spend more time with him. He'd been working so hard to recover, to regain his health. He'd somehow managed to beat every single odd, reaching milestones in half the usual time—for her, he'd said. Emily's teeth dug into her lip, warmth flooding her chest at the memory. He didn't know it, but she'd remained awake many a night, if only to count his every heartbeat, if only to get to have him to herself a little longer.

"Do you- do you know her?" Wyman's hands paused.

Matvey's eyes flicked over to meet Emily's through the mirror, catching her off-guard and causing her skin to flush beneath his gaze. "I happen to know a great deal of people," he offered without elaborating.

Emily adjusted her seat, straightening her back, eyes never leaving his. She recognised that excited glint, the slight twitch of his fingers. He'd caught her staring again, and he rarely passed up an opportunity to gloat over her painfully stubborn habit. Raising her chin, she silently dared him to follow through. A slight arch to one of his eyebrows was all the response she would get, his gaze returning to whatever he'd been watching previously.

"I suppose that makes sense," Wyman mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.

"It's the only relief I'll be granted tonight: not being forced to explain who everyone is," Emily sighed, resting her chin against one of her hands, elbow digging into her other armrest.

"Are you entirely sure of that?" Matvey sounded wholly too innocent to fit the obvious implications of his words, and he most likely knew it. His face remained as frustratingly stoic as ever, the only indication of his purposeful innuendo being the subtle crinkle of his eyes.

Emily felt her skin sizzle witch anticipation, gaze trailing pale, chiseled features, landing on his soft lips—lips that, this morning, had left her writhing. Gathering herself, she threw him her sweetest smile. "My apologies, I had forgotten I was to marry the Empire's most notorious ruiner of women's stucco." She teased, causing him to snort loudly. "Will you be apologising to all those poor ladies tonight?"

He clicked his tongue, glancing down at his hands. "That would be an active show of morality, I can't have that during my first public appearance."

Wyman, who appeared to be at a complete loss as to what was going on, cleared her throat before stepping back. "I'm done." She smiled, large, uncertain eyes observing their reactions.

Emily leaned forward to get a better look, angling her head. As she'd expected, Wyman had done a beautiful job. Matvey's dark hair had been trimmed neatly, the front part swept loosely to the side. It reminded her of how he'd appeared to her at the Dreadful Wale, poised and sophisticated—like royalty. "You have such a talent," she praised, eyes continuing to roam her fine work. "You should definitely do this more often."

"Thank you, Wyman," Matvey turned to face the blonde, awarding her a genuine smile.

Wyman continued to beam, cheeks flushing. "It's nothing." She waved a slender hand, wrapping the other around herself. "I'm happy to be of help."

Emily sat a little straighter, an idea popping in her head. "Remind me to reward you with our best lamb's wool tonight." She grinned cheekily.

Wyman snickered, shaking her head. "Please, you'll have me drunk off my ass in no-time—it won't be a good look."

Matvey snorted, moving to brush off his shirt. "It's Fugue Feast, everyone will be drunk off their asses."

"Fine, fine," Wyman appeared eager to surrender, "everyone knows I don't possess the restraint to reject a good glass of lamb's wool."

"Excellent, find me," Emily pressed, before taking on a more serious tone. "But for now, I need to get changed." She removed her legs from the armrest, directing a pointed look towards her fiancé. "As do you, and I don't want to see you around here again, stealing glances before the ceremony."

A disappointed scowl twisted Matvey's brow, turning into more of a pout than anything else. "It's your grandmother's dress, I know exactly what it looks like."

Emily shook her head, raising her chin. "I'm serious, you are banned from this room," she insisted, lifting herself to her feet.

He had the audacity to roll his eyes, rising from his own chair in one smooth motion. "As you wish, Your Majesty," he rumbled, performing a formal curtsey. "I'll remain… outside."

"And stop that." She snorted, poking a finger into his chest.

His lips split into a mischievous grin, hand wrapping around hers, pulling her closer. She barely managed to raise her other arm in time, pressing a stern finger against his lips, stopping him from leaning in. The action earned her an offended huff.

"Don't disappoint me by being late," she hissed in warning, unable to keep from grinning. He hummed against her finger, pale eyes darting to her mouth in a show of impatience. She let out an exasperated sigh, biting her lip in an attempt to hide her amusement. Her skin buzzed from their proximity, and she made him wait a bit longer, if only to breathe in his scent for as long as she could. Closing her eyes, she retrieved her hand, allowing him to bridge the distance—except he didn't. Instead, all she felt was his hot breath, fanning across her lips, face remaining inches away.

"When have I ever disappointed you?" His voice hummed through her, an audible smirk heating her blood. She moved to protest, opening her eyes, but he was already retreating. She wanted to stop him, to pull him by his shirt and force him to finish what he started. But she was also feeling particularly self-conscious, Wyman's presence leaving her more reluctant to chase after her lover—something she was fairly certain he was aware of. Matvey reached the door, followed by Wyman, the both of them still looking her way. She decided to let him win, just this once. Raising a hand, she made for an awkward wave, mind still rattled by what just had—or rather, hadn't—happened.

And Emily knew then, tonight was going to be painfully interesting.

---

"Thank you, Eliza." Emily smiled at the servant helping straighten out her dress, nimble hands reorganising the midnight-blue fabric. A thin stream of light escaped a crack between double doors, sharp against her skin. Beyond those doors, she knew, a crowd made up of the rich and important awaited. It had been over half a century since the last royal wedding, and she was painfully aware of the importance high society awarded such an event. Every figurehead and grand house of the Empire would be present, ready to condemn her for her controversial spouse. She took a deep breath, feeling her breast push against the restrictive corset, heart slamming against her chest. To say she was nervous would be grotesquely understating the obvious—Emily felt ready to faint.

"You look stunning, Your Highness." The servant complimented once finished, performing a timid bow.

Emily smiled, though she felt closer to weeping. "Thank you," she spoke, softly, before turning stony faced, readying herself. She had always loathed formal dresses—a trait surely passed down from her mother—but now the tight corset kept her standing straight and tall, its wide skirt giving her the appearance of being larger. Her grandmother's dress felt like armour, and she would wear it with pride. The double doors opened, Dunwall's setting sun washing over her. Billie, serving as her Protector, kept a respectful distance, visible crack of her blade gleaming. Emily raised her chin, the pearls that decorated her ears and tiara rattling, the irony of such trinkets warding off bad spirits wasn't lost on her. A sea of people greeted her, all watching from the sidelines, their expensive jewellery flashing with every movement. The courtyard before her laid heavily decorated, from the string of lanterns criss-crossing the grounds, to the hundreds of royal bouquets that had been hung from every post.

"Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin the first." The voice of the serving functionary, Horatio Edwards she knew, announced through his microphone. With the end of the Abbey of the Everyman, Emily had purposefully reverted back to older traditions, discarding those imposed on the people by the Overseers.

Her feet carried her across the carefully placed carpet, its blue path guiding her. She had vowed to keep her gaze from wandering, but even from the corner of her eye she could discern the disapproving looks. She felt her jaw clench, palms sweating within silken gloves. Though she had avoided the news—unlike her fiancé—she was more than aware of the nobility's opposition to their union, the only thing keeping her on her throne being Tyvia's support. There was a quiet murmur all around, interrupted by the rhythmic click of her pearl jewellery and the distant tune of the orchestra's violin. Before her loomed the gazebo, the last place she had embraced her late mother. To her it represented a site of endings, and now, beginnings too. Lifting her skirt to ascend the stairs, she was proud to reveal said mother's favourite laced heels, polished to shine. The functionary awaited her, the buttons that decorated his suit glinting nearly as brightly as his balding head. Behind him, an intricately carved lectern had been placed, dark wood gleaming under a thick layer of veneer. Her gaze caught the documents that had been laid out on top, elegant letters written in dark ink. Next to it was a small desk, containing several items.

Her heart continued to race, adrenaline leaving her lightheaded, the glimmer of the Wrenhaven beyond filling her vision. She had been both anticipating and dreading this moment—marrying in the public eye would have been less stressful had her fiancé not been a former God. The microphone that stood in the very center seemed to mock her, reminding her that, in the end, none of these people would hear her. Hands clenched to fists, her fingers dug into her gown before releasing it. A breath, and she turned, facing the crowd at last—the action had her upset stomach lurch uncomfortably. Hundreds of guests filled the courtyard, the flashing of silvergraph camera's reminding her of the unwelcome, but mandatory presence of the press. Her eyes didn't know where to focus, the constant movement of lips unsettling her: already they were talking. Her gaze caught Wyman's next, placed at the front amongst friends and family, lips quirked into an encouraging smile. The sight stuck with Emily, strengthening her resolve.

"People of the Isles, we are gathered together on this day to witness and celebrate the marriage of our Imperial Majesty the Empress," the functionary continued, voice as dry as Tyvian air. There was a soft applaus, though it was much louder in Wyman's direct area—something that had her heart lifting warmly. He cleared his throat, glassy eyes reading words off small papers cards. "We come together as a united peoples to acknowledge and strengthen a bond between two individuals. This ceremony is a public affirmation of that bond and as their dearest family, friends, and subjects, it is our honour and privilege to stand witness to this event in our history." The functionary paused, wiping his brow before retrieving an item from the desk. "Before the ceremony commences, I present to her Imperial Majesty; the royal chalice, from which she is to drink as her ancestors before her, signifying the union of souls."

Meaty fingers handed her the silver cup, decorated with her family's royal sapphires. Emily stared at its contents, thinking it almost paradoxical that the wine inside should be Tyvian. Raising the heavy item to her lips, she carefully sipped the drink, feeling its rich taste spread across her tongue. She swallowed, closing her eyes, mind taking her back to a place of bonfires and hearty laughter. But all too soon, the pleasant memories faded, replaced by the sounds of flashing cameras and hushed whispers. Her eyes fluttered open, and as she returned her gaze to the aged functionary, she passed the chalice back to him.

He accepted it without looking from his cards, and Emily caught him mumbling beneath his breath. He was testing words on his tongue, frowning to himself before returning his attention to the microphone. "We now welcome the groom," he started, hesitantly licking his lips before finishing, "Matvey...

Absolute silence fell.

Emerging from the same set of doors came a tall figure, accompanied by her father. A sheer piece of blue fabric covered his eyes, leaving them barely visible. Still, their gazes met, and his pale stare filled Emily with an acute sense of relief. At his approach, the orchestra picked up their instruments again, filling the air with their tune. There was a collective holding of breaths, everyone desperate to get a look at the notorious individual in their midst. Aside from their march to the High Overseer's office, Matvey had not made any public appearances in Dunwall—his only priority being his recovery. The mysterious presence of 'the Outsider' had, of course, sparked plenty of rumours, the press overeager to be the first to capture his likeness. Though none of them had been successful, it hadn't been for a lack of trying —Emily had already managed to spot several that had, more than once, been caught on her grounds.

She did not direct her eyes away from Matvey's, finding console within those pale depths. The simplicity of his attire made him stand out, his very presence akin to the gentle patter of rain after a roaring storm. No jewellery or other fancy trinkets decorated the sharp cut of his suit, tailored to fit his sleek build. As per usual, he'd already found a way to rid himself of the traditional jacket—Emily had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at his persistent dissent for all things conventional, she knew her father would have been none to pleased at his insubordination. She took a deep breath, his gaze never leaving hers, the corners of his pale lips curved into the subtlest of smirks. With every step he took in her direction, she swore she felt a little bolder than before. With him there, the crowd's penetrative stares seemed far less daunting.

He reached the stairs, lips spreading into a lop-sided simper, eyes glittering brightly through dark fabric. She mirrored his expression, not quite able to keep her face neutral in his presence, heart swelling with fondness. Corvo walked over to join Billie, keeping a close watch from the periphery. With her father gone from his side, the surrounding nobility appeared bolder, their murmurs growing louder. Emily ignored the increasing bustle, reaching out a tentative hand. Pale fingers wrapped around it eagerly, almost completely engulfing her smaller limb. His touch still hadn't ceased to leave her weak-kneed, the warmth of his skin seeping through her glove. He joined her on the platform, taller stature forcing her to crane her neck. Lifting her arms, she reached out over his shoulders, untying the knot at the back of his head. It gave way, and slowly she lowered the blindfold, exposing herself to the full intensity of his seafoam stare. Already she felt her heart teetering.

Meanwhile, the functionary continued his allocution. "The Empress regnant shall now anoint the groom, absolving his person before he is to be named Emperor consort…"

Once she'd handed the cloth to the aged man, she started to remove one of her blue gloves. She pulled at its fingertips, loosening the skin-tight silk, Matvey's watchful gaze observing her every move. He reached out then, taking her by surprise. One gentle hand wrapped around her wrist, the other carefully grasping the fabric. Her lips parted, gaze darting between his hold and his smouldering stare. He didn't speak, slowly pulling at the glove, its shiny fabric billowing like miniature waves. The friction created left a trail of scintillating static, and within her she felt the stirring of a familiar yearning, a desire to feel the texture of his palms run down her skin. His lips quirked into a satisfied smile once her hand was revealed, and she found herself still getting used to the absence of his mark. He turned away, handing the glove over to Corvo.

Emily took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders in an attempt to compose herself. She broke away from his gaze, turning to the functionary who already held the oil for her. She accepted the small flask with slightly unsteady hands, pouring a single drop onto her bared thumb. Returning her attention, she didn't miss the mirth on Matvey's features, the subtle crinkle of his eyes telling enough. She bit her own lip, his amusement with the particular ritual rubbing off on her. Puckering her brow in concentration, she raised her hand, running her thumb across his forehead. He remained perfectly still, which made her too aware of the shiver that ran through her; courtesy of his warm breath blossoming across her arm. She swallowed, retrieving her hand and returning the oil to the functionary.

"The groom shall now drink from the same chalice, binding him to the Royal family as well as the Empire."

Emily watched as he too was offered the silver cup. His movements were controlled, and dare she say graceful, executed with an otherworldly patience. He returned her stare as he sipped the fruity beverage, sending a ripple down her spine. Slowly, he lowered the item from his lips, swallowing the liquor without flinching. To her right she caught Callista's approaching form, hands carefully balancing a pillow, two small rings resting on its velvet surface. No one but them would know or recognise the mysterious black shards decorating them.

The functionary retrieved the cup with slightly trembling fingers, storing it away before moving on, motioning for them to move closer. "With the signing of the documents, we shall also go through the vows—if you could please join hands?" He nodded towards the both of them, moving the microphone so their voices could be heard. Matvey was the first to reach out, holding out his hands for her to take. Emily swallowed, feeling her heart gallop, a shiver running through her as she accepted the offered limbs. Callista joined them on the platform, dress a sparkling charcoal, hair swooped up in a graceful bun. She held out the rings for them, and with her arrival the functionary shuffled his cards, swiftly moving to speak the vows they were to repeat.

Emily listened intently, though most of her attention was swallowed by Matvey's hands around hers, the crowd completely forgotten. She licked her lips, feeling an elated smile pull at the corners as she started to recite the words. "I, Empress Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin the first, take you, Matvey, to be my lawfully wedded husband, and these things I promise: I solemnly promise and swear to continue to govern the People of the Isles; Gristol, Serkonos, Tyvia, and Morley, according to their respective laws and customs, sharing my rule with you as my consort; I will be faithful to you and the Empire; I will respect, trust, help, and care for you; through the best and worst of what is to come, and as long as we live." The world had faded out of existence, her vision narrowed down to only the glint of his eyes, the quirk of his lips, the polished silver of the ring she gingerly slid down his slender finger. Then came the signing, and she sorrowfully removed herself from his hold, turning towards the lectern. There was a small needle, which she used to prick her finger, accumulating a single drop of blood. She quickly scanned the document, making sure nothing had been altered before pressing her finger to the appropriate spot. Leaving a small, red mark, she returned to her place, eyes locking with Matvey's.

She watched his tongue dart out as he prepared to speak next, warm hands firmly wrapping around hers again. "I, Matvey, take you, Empress Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin the first, to be my lawfully wedded wife, and these things I promise," he started, the microphone adding an echo to his voice reminiscent of when he'd spoken to her as the Outsider. "I solemnly promise and swear to govern the People of the Isles; Gristol, Serkonos, Tyvia, and Morley, according to their respective laws and customs, accepting the share of your rule as your consort; I will be faithful to you and the Empire; I will respect, trust, help, and care for you; through the best and worst of what is to come, and as long as we live." He carefully placed the small ring on her finger, its cold silver a sharp contrast to his intoxicating warmth. He then turned to Corvo, who silently handed over her glove. Matvey smoothly slipped the soft material over her waiting hand, fingers running down her arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He then went on to go through the same motions as her; pricking his finger, his blood red and vibrant against his pale skin. Carefully pressing his digit against the paper, Emily felt her pulse quicken at what was to come next. He returned to her, appraising her with a meaningful stare, a sly smile on his lips.

As the functionary spoke, Emily felt her heart throb a lop-sided rhythm, skipping several beats in anticipation, a thousand different thoughts overwhelming her. "You may now ki-"

"Oh," Matvey interrupted him, glancing between her and the functionary, his voice echoing across the courtyard. "Hold on."

Emily froze, thrown by his unexpected disruption. Raising her brows in question, she sent him a demanding look, lips pressed into a thin line. He released her, raising his hands in the air, smiling apologetically before turning to Corvo, whispering to her father. Emily's eyes narrowed, a wave of commotion spreading over the crowd as they, like her, wondered whatever was going on. Glancing between Matvey and her father, she watched as Corvo retrieved a small package from one of his pockets, handing it to her conspiring groom. Said groom nodded in thanks, turning back to her, fingers unwrapping the mysterious object. From the paper he revealed a delicate necklace, a thin cord made of silver decorated by a row of white, triang-

"Are those teeth?" She held her breath.

"Whale teeth," he corrected. "Juvenile whales, to be exact—I figured those of adult whales would hardly-" He shook his head. "I digress." He motioned for her to turn around, and she obeyed, though not without glancing over her shoulder. "It's a Pandyssian tradition," he continued, carefully circling the necklace around her, fingers brushing the nape of her neck as he worked the clasp. "Don't ask me how I managed to find them—sometimes I still wake to the smell of river mud."

"That seems fairly self-explanatory, does it not?" She felt winded, his fingers teasing her exposed skin, running down her back before leaving her.

He merely hummed in response, adding a barely audible 'hardly'.

Emily turned to face him, glancing down at the heavy jewellery. "What does it mean?" she asked, only half-noticing his hands wrapping around hers.

Half-lidded eyes flitted down to her lips, thumbs tracing circles along her gloves. "It means 'I love you'," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

There was a fluttering inside of her that easily matched the eruption of camera shutters, their bright flashes washing over Matvey's skin, illuminating his eyes in a way that made them glow again. Emily felt a delighted grin split across her cheeks, pulse racing at dizzying speeds as she closed the distance, smashing her lips against his in a rush of affection. He stumbled back a step, quick to catch her, steadying arms wrapping around her waist. She barely paid attention to the Functionary's voice, declaring them husband and wife—too occupied by the sensation of his heart beating against her palms, his proximity leaving her lightheaded. Their kiss tasted of a million things at once, promises and assurances alike, and Emily was certain that, no matter where in the world they would be, their hearts would remember them. He pulled back first, clearly the more sensible of the two, and Emily had to remind herself not to pout. Albeit a bit hesitant, the people applauded, and she noticed some even cheered—her few friends, she assumed.

"I believe you still have a speech to make," Matvey reminded her in a hoarse whisper, hands running down her sides before letting go.

"Right, yes." She swallowed, nodding, glancing towards her father who sent her an encouraging smile. The functionary had already moved the microphone to the front, understandably eager to retreat. Emily released a breath, willing herself to be brave—she had fought witches and seen the Void with her own eyes, surely some disagreeing nobles would not matter. Straightening her shoulders, she stepped forward. Her dress flowed with the movement, its dark blue fabric curling like a tailored piece of ocean. Raising her chin, she allowed her gaze to roam for the first time. Hundreds of faces stared back at her, some she recognised, most she didn't. Many of them were talking, general unrest brewing within their midst. Emily cleared her throat, swallowing, hands wrapping around the microphone just to find something to do.

"Dear people of the Isles," she started, relieved her voice revealed none of her nerves. "Firstly, I'd like to thank all of you for coming today." The whispering didn't stop, and she caught several disparaging looks. "The start of this year's Fugue Feast introduces a time of change for our Empire." Their voices grew louder, their gazes chastising her every move. With every passing second, it grew increasingly clear to her that she had been right; she would not be heard by these people. They had come with a singular purpose in mind, and that purpose stood right behind her. All these figureheads of the aristocracy cared for, these people of high birth and wealth, was the enigmatic figure that had mystified the Empire for centuries. They had come to gawk, and nothing more. They would return to their beds tonight, pleased to know that they had been there, they had seen him and lived to tell the tale.

She hadn't realised she'd fallen into silence until she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. The many voices of the aristocracy continued to ring across the courtyard, drowning out the agitated beat of her heart. She turned her head, eyes locking with Matvey's cool gaze. He sent her a smile, easing part of her inner conflict. There was an unspoken plea in his gaze, an inquiring for her to trust him. She glanced back at her people, eyes traveling along downturned mouths and puckered brows. Then, she released a sigh, allowing some of her ire to leave her, a sense of defeat settling in the pit of her stomach. There were gentle fingers tucking stray hairs behind her ear, followed by a whisper.

"I won't have you be a scapegoat in my absence." His hot breath caressed her cheek, the tips of his dark eyelashes brushing along her temple.

There was another, unspoken promise in his words, and as Emily raised her chin to meet his gaze, she caught that same promise simpering within pastel depths. Hesitantly, she nodded, gloved hands releasing the cool metal of the stand. She retreated a single step, allowing Matvey to take her place, and that was all it took for the entire courtyard to still. Pale eyes swept across a sea of faces, pupils moving with unsettling purposefulness. His hands sat joined at his back, fingers turning his ring. It was as if the very air had been taken away by his presence, the nobility left reluctant to breathe lest they miss a single sound.

"It would seem," Matvey started, voice wrapped in echoes as words trickled off his tongue like honey, "our courteous assembly here suddenly considers to listen a most arduous endeavour." He looked down at his feet, sharp features void of any triviality. There was a beat of silence before his eyes shot back up, and even Emily felt her mouth run dry, pulse thrumming in her ears. "I do not intend to bring your competence into question, as I am eminently aware of my own liability in your current discontent." His eyes narrowed. "I recognise most of you must have felt reasonably unheard throughout the years, but allow me to assure you; I have always listened. So, before we return to one of the finest Empresses this ignoble Empire has been gifted with, I'll first try and make up for my own inconsideration—and then, I expect listening should come effortlessly to you…

"Before I say anything." Matvey looked towards one of the nearby reporters. "Can I call you Tobias?" he asked, earning a wide-eyed nod from the terrified man in question. "Good. Tobias, I've taken notice of your consistent blundering in regards to my name: it's spelled e-y, not e-i." He raised his brows, causing the man to cower back even further, quickly nodding his understanding. Matvey dipped his chin in acceptance, swiftly turning back to the crowd before him. "Now, without further ado." He cleared his throat, wrapping a single hand around the stand and bringing the microphone closer. "Lady Highmore, I would like to apologise to you first."

Emily's eyes shot over to Emma, who she had known since childhood, the elegant blonde going pale-faced at the mention of her name.

"I know I have failed to acknowledge your numerous pleas for my affection, but it is with a heavy heart I must confess: things would have never worked out between us—after all, wasn't it you who so daringly admitted only praying to me in hopes of gaining my favour? I certainly appreciate the shrines you erected in my honour, but you should be aware there is none to be found in the liturgical butcher of your mother's birds, done only so your purported friend Lady Williams might be stricken by the plague and you be deemed more comely than her." He tilted his head, eyes staring straight at the now horrified Emma, the high-born lady looking ready to faint then and there. "I hope you'll be able to accept my apology, it was rather neglectful of me not to grant you the gifts you so desperately begged for—but I'll admit, I much prefer seeing you fully clothed." There was a thump as he turned away, gaze already focusing on another figure, but Emily paused to watch Emma's friends, taking note of their half-hearted attempts at waking the noblewoman.

"Lord Carter," he addressed a pompous looking man whose eyes doubled in size at the mention of his name. "I'm sure it won't be necessary for me to explain the technicalities, but conceiving children was not amongst my capabilities as the Outsider—despite your wife claiming otherwise. I'm fairly certain Lord Edwards would prove more capable at explaining where her bastard son came from."

There was a stirring within the crowd, a woman's distressed pleas interrupting the silence, and Emily scarcely caught a man slipping away.

"Then, there is Lord Bennett."

"No, please!" A voice rang out, a meaty man raising his hands in defeat. "I'll give you anything, my riches, my estates—have some mercy!"

A deep, almost bitter chuckle rose from Matvey's throat, jaw set with suppressed enmity. "Mercy?" He lowered his head. "I don't believe you showed your Empress any mercy when she was marched through the streets. What was it you said… 'It's that foreign blood of hers'?" His gaze darkened. "I recall you have said much worse in regards to our Empress, but I'm sure you're most inclined to atone for your numerous indiscretions. First, allow me to apologise. I understand that, when I did not respond to your callings, you were forced to take matters into your own hands. It was most inconsiderate of me to not curse your late wife's family business as you so requested. In fact, I believe I left you to do all the work of cramming the building with heretical matter by yourself. I hope you can forgive my failure to aid in the bankrupting of the biggest competitor to your business, thus leaving her remaining relatives without income and eventually evicted to the streets. I'm sure they would still hate me for it too, had they not all died from the sickness. It truly was a shame your wife passed before you were able to surreptitiously acquire their company… Things might have been so different, then."

There was a surge of indignance at Matvey's words, several people turning on the accused Lord Bennett, who—and Emily couldn't be more unsurprised—claimed it all to be nothing but lies.

"As some of you might slowly start to realise; I know a great deal of things, about a great deal of people. I have been an unwilling witness to the depravity that is the lot of you. And though this has been interesting so far, it would serve me no purpose to spoil all in a single night," Matvey continued, effectively ignoring the contained turmoil that had followed each revelation. "So I'll instead allow my lovely wife to finish her speech—as I'm certain you're all eager to hear it now… And if not, well, I have yet to touch upon the truly morally deprived feigning immaculateness—though, do not fret, I'm sure her Majesty would prove to be most forgiving to those supporting her cause." A forged smile twisted his lips, gaze alight with derision. Then, he turned to Emily, demeanour taking a turn. Cold eyes warmed at the sight of her, an elegant hand gesturing for her to return to the microphone.

"Did you just blackmail the entire aristocracy?" Emily hissed, feeling a surge of pride at her lover's complete abandon of impartiality.

"Did I?" His eyes crinkled in delight. He placed a hand on the small of her back, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple. "I believe I merely negotiated in the only language these people appear to understand," he whispered against her skin, slowly making his retreat to the background.

Emily bit her lip in an attempt to keep from grinning, stomach brimming with an excited flutter. Returning her attention to the crowd before her, she noticed how they all kept utterly silent, any trace of disapproval or objection gone from their countenance. "Thank you, Matvey, for your unique contribution." She nodded towards her lover, earning another reluctant applause from the people. She took a readying breath, gathering her thoughts before returning to her speech. "As I was attempting to say… 1853 has been a most turbulent year." She licked her lips, steadily growing more confident as she spoke. "We've seen many of our customs brought to an end—we have seen an energy crisis, resulting in a momentary dwindling of the economy; we have seen the end of the Abbey of the Everyman, an institution established solely in a grapple for power through its misguided dogma; we have even seen the end of the Outsider, as well as the disappearance of whales and magic.

"But, along the way I've learned all ends give way to new beginnings—the energy crisis has led us to investigate new sources of electricity, introducing alternative, bloodless ways of production; the end of the Abbey has led us to more accepting times, where innocents shall no longer be persecuted in pretence of a devout purpose; the end of the Outsider, whales and magic, allows us to start afresh, free of cults, ritualistic killings, and other supernatural corruption." She found herself glancing towards the few figures Matvey had addressed, all retreated to the background in varying states. "I believe all of us are capable of building a world where poverty is a thing of the past, where suffering is at most a broken heart or a mere consequence of arbitrary misfortune." She paused, preparing for what she was about to say next. "But, if we wish to achieve such a world, we must first band together. Research requires funding. Progress requires investments. More than ever, the Empire needs us; all of us...

"Let this year's Fugue Feast be a turning point in the history of the Isles, where for the first time, the rich are to be looked upon for sacrifice instead of the poor." She glanced in Matvey's direction, who still hadn't stopped smiling at her, gaze shining with pride. "Let this marriage between two individuals who, by any logical standpoint, were never supposed to meet, be an example; that no matter where you come from—or when—we are all made from the same fiber. All I ask of you today, is that we embrace the outsiders of our society, that we care for each and every human being, to the best of our capabilities. And in turn I promise, as your Empress, that not a single of your sacrifices go to waste."

Emily finished, hands sliding down the stand before falling to her sides. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for whatever might come her way. The eruption of applause caught her by surprise, its sound reverberating through her bones. Opening her eyes, she felt her lips part. The entire courtyard danced with movement, thousands of hands joining in. There was a familiar warmth on her back again, long fingers spreading across her dress. Matvey's touch was featherlight, yet still managed to charge her spirit. For the first time in three months, his coming absence did not frighten her as much as it once had.

Though the worst had been dealt with, Emily still eagerly accepted the wine she was offered. Wrapping her fingers around the glass, she begrudgingly reminded herself not to down the entire drink at once. So far, she had been able to navigate the crowd without issue—but such things were to be expected when two armed guards closely followed your every step. Matvey's arm in hers offered a welcome support, his straight posture and smooth movements guiding her own through waves of dizzying ambivalence. Sipping her drink, she welcomed its burn, feet growing progressively lighter. Her heart thrummed high within her chest, and she felt her insides coil in anticipation. She had not seen her friends in months, too wary of what they might think following all that had happened. She had attempted many letters, but none had ever left the safety of her desk. She took another swig of her drink, its strong taste washing most grievances off her tongue. She wasn't alone, most of the nobility they passed were either drunk or on the verge on it. Somewhere along the way, Matvey had managed to unbutton his vest without Corvo scolding him. With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he drew a sharp contrast to the blue-nosed men of the aristocracy—and Emily's heart fluttered adoringly for it.

"Your Majesty." An older noblewoman stepped into their path, lips twisted into a tight smile.

It took Emily several beats to recognise her, but once she did she found herself glancing in Matvey's direction. "Lady Highmore, it has been some time," she spoke stiffly, fingers tightening their hold on her lover's arm.

"It certainly has," Lady Highmore replied, eyes flitting over to stare at Matvey. Emily nodded, unsure what to make of Emma's mother and her sudden approach. "If you don't mind, I'd much like to have a word with your husband."

"I'm all ears, your Ladyship," Matvey interjected, tipping his head in interest.

The woman swallowed, lips thinning even further as she raised her chin. "You'll have to excuse my forthrightness, but you must think yourself very clever, spreading such nonsense about my daughter as if to pardon your own wickedness," the noblewoman bristled, gloved hands tight around her drink. "I'll have you know those birds were stolen for their value."

Matvey raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You don't frequent your own music room, do you, your Ladyship?" he inquired innocently, and Emily noticed the increasing tension around Lady Highmore's eyes. "If you had, you would have known the piano has stood neglected in favour of your daughter's audiograph—obviously she has had little time to spare for playing instruments. I would advise you look for loose floorboards beneath the tapestry you had imported from Serkonos—you know, the exact one your friend Lady Williams had been dying to acquire. Perhaps those birds' bones will have retained some of their supposed value."

Emily hadn't thought it possible, but the woman's skin turned several shades paler than it already had been, lips pulling into a disturbed frown. Without saying another word, she turned away, a haunted look in her eyes. "You are ruthless," Emily breathed, watching Emma's mother weave through the mass.

"There's a fine line between ruthlessness and recklessness, but maintaining a proper balance separates respect from disdain." He sent her a meaningful look that had her turn away, gaze instead sweeping the crowd for her friends. They had discussed the topic plenty of times, but Emily hardly thought herself capable enough to handle such intricacies. "If you want these people's unwavering support, you'll have to study them; familiarise yourself with their pecking-order, and you'll know who to nudge and who to spare."

"Your memory is inhuman, I could scarcely equal your proficiency."

"You don't need to." He grasped her hand, holding it where it rested in the crook of his arm, long fingers wrapping around her palm. "Efficiency means focusing on the strictly necessary."

Emily downed the last of her drink, knowing full-well he was right, as he so often was. She swallowed, returning the glass to a passing waiter. "Don't you know it's considered a crime to be sober during Fugue Feast?" she mumbled, happily accepting another glass of wine.

"Technically, there are no crimes during Fugue Feast," he corrected her, pale eyes observing her as she took another sip.

"Then how would you describe Lord Hudson's choice of dress?" She nodded her head towards an older man, sideburns drowned in grease, suit best described as an appalling clash of colours.

Matvey dipped his head, breathing through his nose—Emily had learned to recognise this particular habit meant he had been about to laugh.

"Your Majesty!" Another voice interrupted them, a shorter man stepping in their path this time, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jacket.

"Duke Morris," Emily replied, returning his formal bow with one of her own.

"I must congratulate you on such an unexampled marriage—truly you ought to feel quite the privilege at garnering the affection of the Outsider himself! Considering your unlikely courtship, however, I can imagine times must have been difficult for the both of you," the man rambled, breath steeped in the smell of liquor and face flushed a deep red. Leaning forward as if to prevent anyone else from hearing his boisterous voice, he continued. "I have closely followed your trials in Tyvia, Your Majesty, truly ghastly figures, both those men—they have been given what justice they deserve, I says!"

"Thank you… Duke Morris." Emily smiled politely, slowly inching away.

"You're very welcome, Your Majesty, and it is my honour to be speaking to the both of you, I-"

Emily caught a familiar head of blonde curls only a small distance away, and she quickly cut off the obviously drunk noble. "You'll have to excuse us, Duke Morris, I believe we're expected elsewhere." She gave the man a respectful bow, hastily pulling Matvey with her as she made her retreat.

"I predict he'll be a prominent investor into the academy's research," Matvey whispered in her ear, allowing her to steer him towards their destination. "After all, he wouldn't want anyone to hear of his nearly being caught masturbating amid his grandmother's funeral."

Emily choked on her drink, eyes widening at the impromptu reveal. She glanced at her lover, but his own expression was as neutral as ever.

"If it isn't Dunwall's most illustrious pair of newlyweds!" Wyman cheered, blue eyes landing on the both of them. Emily's lips spread into a happy grin, the tipsy flush of her cheeks matching Wyman's. The inebriated blonde enveloped her in a warm hug, squeezing her firmly enough to spill some of her wine. "You looked absolutely stunning up there, Em." She pulled back, grinning merrily. Then, she turned to Matvey. "And you!" She poked a finger at his chest, earning a crooked smile from him. "You surpassed all of my expectations—never in my wildest dreams had I imagined to see the day where a single man puts the entire aristocracy in their place!"

"Emily!" The voice of Lucinda Mayhew called, the slender redhead moving to greet her. She passed Wyman, who had launched into a fervid discussion, continuing to shower Matvey in praise. "Congratulations!" She beamed, placing an easy hand on Emily's arm. "We're all happy for you."

Lucinda's words put most of Emily's worries to rest, tense muscles uncoiling. Her long-time friend appeared just as welcoming as she'd always been, but Emily's experiences had undeniably changed her. Having everything taken away from her—twice—had left its marks, and she found herself still adjusting to her old life. "Thank you," she breathed, the dull ache that had settled between her ribs subsiding.

Lucinda nodded, a serious frown puckering her brow before she pulled Emily into her embrace. "My sister would have wanted you to be happy, you know that," the redhead murmured, tightening her hold.

Emily released a shaky breath at the mention of one of her closest and most intimate friends, the words delivering a long-buried anguish. "Not a day goes by that I don't think of Alexi," she admitted, a vulnerable stinging in her throat. "She was a remarkable woman."

Lucinda nodded as she drew back, a wistful smile on her lips, dark gaze roaming Emily's features. "We're all relieved to see you safe, Emily—truly."

Emily's lips had parted to speak, but her mind lagged behind with the actual words. Her other friends came before she managed to make full sense of her thoughts, all of them hugging and congratulating her as eagerly as Lucinda. She almost couldn't believe their easy acceptance—but then again, they weren't her friends without reason. They had always supported her through the most difficult of times. When the public had reacted with outrage to her whale oil sanctioning, her friends had been there to defend her choices. Now that she saw them again, she felt overcome by how much she had missed them. Peels of laughter bubbled from her chest as she watched them interact with her now-husband, heart swelling at his easy humour. Somehow he managed to fit right into her life, his indisputable charm turning her friends into a captivated audience. They all watched, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as he answered their numerous questions—though many of his answers could hardly be considered as such at all.

Half-way through a story about her father's adventures during the rat-plague—so far Corvo had already interrupted several times to 'correct' Matvey's tale, fiercely denying ever having eaten live rats—a familiar group drew near. Emily gripped Matvey's sleeve in excitement, drawing his attention.

"Nadia!" she exclaimed, launching herself at the Tyvian woman. The elder let out a hearty chuckle, warmly returning the embrace. "Thank you for coming all this way."

"I couldn't miss the wedding of my two favourite customers, now could I?" Nadia beamed, her expression soon taking on a mischievous edge. "You must be very happy to be married at last, dear Matvey—I recall you-"

"Thank you, I'm very happy indeed," Matvey interrupted the elder, the tips of his ears reddening.

"Your Majesty." The reluctant voice of Artur came from her right, and Emily spotted the remainder of their Tyvian acquaintances behind him. Arthur greeted her with a customary bow, russet hair slicked back and shining.

"Please Artur," she grinned, "you're perfectly allowed to call me Emily."

"You look breathtaking in that dress, Emily," Zima stepped closer, the Tyvian's eyes sweeping her with a glint of admiration. "It suits you: all this." She gestured at the courtyard, and indirectly, the tower.

"I see you put some colour on those cheeks, huh?" Luka slapped a hand against Matvey's shoulder, smiling brightly.

"Thank you, Zima," Emily tipped her head, gazing warmly at the brunette. "I'm truly sorry we couldn't be honest about who we are."

"You had perfectly good reasons." Filip shrugged, wrapping an arm around his girlfriend. The familiarity of them all had her feeling nostalgic, the only thing missing being the comforting crackle of a bonfire.

"I doubt anyone would have believed you anyway," Luka added, accepting two glasses of wine from a passing waiter. In the background, Emily spotted Callista as she approached Billie, the two of them caught in their own little bubble.

"I can't believe I told the Outsider he doesn't exist," Alena winced, taking a long swig from her own drink. The others chuckled at her admission, and Emily still couldn't quite wrap her head around their easy acceptance.

"I've been told worse," Matvey offered, his words doing little to console the embarrassed woman.

"Oh!" Sabina perked up. "We brought you guys a present!"

Artur reached into his jacket, presenting them with both a single stone and a bottle of Samaran wine, both decorated in organic patterns reflecting their culture. Matvey curiously eyed the rock, glancing between the gift and Emily. She allowed her father to accept the wine, safely storing it away for them. She herself took the stone, its smooth surface warm to the touch, most likely from sitting in Artur's pocket.

"It's from the spa," he explained. "It's not much, but we figured it might remind you of us—and you know, how you'll always be welcome…" He stuffed his hands in his pockets, seemingly relieved, until his gaze found her father. "You, too, of course, Corvo, sir," he quickly added, earning a gruff nod from her Royal Protector.

"Thank you." Emily felt a warmth settle in her stomach that had little to do with the drinks she'd had. "For everything."

"That's what friends are for." Luka shrugged, pushing one of his drinks into Matvey's hands. "To Her Majesty the Empress and her Emperor consort!" He offered a toast, and all of Emily's friends turned to join, their voices filling the air as they repeated after Luka. Through the noise, Emily's gaze found Matvey's, and she couldn't stop the giddy smile that spread across her cheeks. His hand wrapped around hers, thumb tracing circles along the skin of her palm. He smiled, the merry expression crinkling his eyes, gaze filled to the brink with life.

"To my Empress, and wife," he drawled, pulling her closer, until her back sat pressed against his chest. He slipped his arms around her, and within his hold she felt—thrumming within the rush of his pulse—a sense of unending devotion wash over her. She rested her head against his shoulder, feeling his breath tickle the shell of her ear. "For never giving up on me."

---

The music had died down to a distant harmony, carried to them on a soft, nighttime breeze. Sometime during the feast, Emily's hair had fallen from her chignon, thick curls unraveled to wavy strands. There were pieces of grass tickling the skin of her neck, and to her right, she felt the warm press of Matvey's body, arm looped around her shoulders. She rested her ear against his chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart, counting along in her mind. With each breath she took, his gentle scent nestled itself deeper within her, invading her every capillary. She twisted her fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling it taut across his form, revealing the rise and fall of his chest.

She was aching, a million different desires settling within her gut, bringing her to long for everything at once. She longed for his skin against hers, for his kisses to line the sensitive expanse of her throat, for his lips to devour her own. She longed to hear his voice, to listen to him speak without end, describing countless tales steeped in history. But above all else, she longed for him to stay, for the touch of his body and the scent of his skin to remain as tangible as they were in that moment. She was at complete odds with herself, torn over how to feel; Emily had no doubt in her mind that, right then and there, she was the happiest she had ever been, wrapped in his hold, their lives forever joined—but, she was also aware that, for every shred of happiness, there was an equal shred of heartbreak, the reality of his imminent departure drawing ever closer.

She lifted her head, dark hair spilling across his chest, tickling the exposed skin of his throat. Their gazes found each other, and Emily felt certain she could drown within those seafoam eyes, clear and unguarded, their glossy surface reflecting the starry sky above. His lips quirked into a faint smile, lifting a single corner like he so often did. He raised a hand, gently tucking several strands behind her ear, fingers lingering against her skin in a way that was uniquely his; as if he was still trying to see if she was there—if all this was real. Emily leaned in, pressing her cheek into the warmth of his palm, a budding smile on her lips. In the background, the waves of the Wrenhaven broke against the cliffs, bringing back a vast array of memories, all containing him.

"Did you know you were the first person to enter the Void in the way you did?" he asked, his thumb tracing along the edges of her mouth.

She shook her head, eyes traveling his features, taking in the serene set of his brow. He looked peaceful, long limbs intertwined with hers, the both of them stretched out in a secluded part of the garden. His pale skin was bathed in moonlight, adding an ethereal quality—he'd always appeared timeless to her, his very features synonymous to the esoteric nature of the Void.

"It unsettled me, to see you there without me willing it so."

She licked her lips, tasting traces of wine, its alcohol still warming her. "It felt like an accident," she recalled, eyes flitting between his, watching the depths of his mind reflect in those endless pools.

"The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced it wasn't."

She thought about the implications, ears picking up the distant sounds of the feast; bubbling laughter and elevated voices. "You think it might have been fate?" she asked, an amused twinkle in her eyes, one of her hands sweeping aside the dark strands that rested against his forehead, marvelling at their softness.

He shook his head, dark eyebrows pinched together in thought. "I'm not inclined to believe in fate, but even so, there's much about the universe we don't understand," he breathed, running his fingers through her own hair, gaze following the movement. "It'd be nothing short of arrogant to presume we are in complete control of our lives, or the world around us." There was a vulnerability to his expression that made an ache in her chest, fingers slowly trailing down the back of her neck. His lips parted, but he didn't speak right away, instead his gaze continued to roam her. His eyes narrowed, then, frown deepening as he appeared to consider something. "I've never felt this happy," he finally croaked, the innocence of his voice hitting her full-force.

She allowed for a wistful smile, feeling both bereaved and elated. Cupping his cheek, she raised herself a bit further, gently pressing her lips to his. "Neither have I," she breathed against them, knowing in her heart she fully meant it. He answered her with a kiss of his own, coveted hands running down her back, settling on her waist. She felt herself brim with delight, skin set aflame by his touch. She knew anyone might stumble upon them, their current spot not exactly a private location. Raising a leg and hooking it around his hips, Emily settled herself into his lap, gown spread across the grass. If she was being honest, she couldn't bring herself to care, the thought of separating for five years leaving her loathe to waste any time. He deepened the kiss, pulling her closer, long fingers digging into the fabric of her dress. She felt herself teeter, blood racing through her veins and bringing her skin to tingle.

She undulated on top of him, earning a low growl, his arousal pressing against her and electrifying her every nerve. Raising herself, she looked at him through half-lidded eyes, the both of them breathing heavily. Emily revelled in the way his gaze had darkened, hair a rightful mess and lips already swollen; the sight excited her. He raised a hand to her neck, fingers tracing along the necklace he'd given her. Glancing down, she allowed her gaze to follow his wandering touch, examining the unique piece of jewellery.

"I love you, Emily Kaldwin," he rasped, the sound humming through her. An ecstatic smile spread across her cheeks, heart jumping rapturously. Recapturing his lips, she allowed him to overthrow her, his weight settling between her legs, the heat of his body sending ripples of pleasure through her. In the distance, there were cheers as fireworks lit up the sky, their deafening eruptions drowning out the thundering beat of her heart.

They broke apart to breathe, and Emily allowed her heady gaze to drink him in, the sky above alight with a plethora of colours, painting him in a dozen breathtaking shades. She committed the sight to memory, vowing to hold on to this moment for the years to come, reminding herself that he would always be hers, and she his—fated or not.

"And I you," she declared without hesitation. "Matvey Kaldwin."