"Rex. How many times must I tell you not to run off without sending word of your whereabouts? Corrine and I have been beside ourselves with worry."

After the stress of the day, Azurda's appearance seemed too good to be true. How had the Titan even found them? And yet there he was, back in his mature form, and judging by his expression, very angry at the young Aegis Driver.

"Gramps!" Rex dashed forward and hugged the great Titan's forefoot. "How'd you find us?"

"I've only been trying to track you down for weeks, you bonehead. Corrine never heard from you, so she worried that you'd been ambushed on the way home from the gala. It wasn't until I visited Mor Ardain to speak with the Emperor that I learned your whereabouts. And unsurprisingly, I found you in a heap of trouble. Again. How do you manage it, child?"

"Sorry, Gramps. I meant to send Auntie Corrine a letter, I just got caught up in it all and forgot. I"m sorry. I didn't mean to worry her."

"It's been two months since you left home, Rex! You can't leave us without warning for so long. When will you learn to think before you act?"

"I think I am partly to blame for his unexplained absence, Azurda," Mòrag spoke up. "Rex has been kind enough to help me with a case. It's my fault he got caught up in this. My apologies."

The Titan turned to her and gave a kind smile—or at least it looked like a smile. It was always so hard to read emotions on Titans, now matter their size.

"Flamebringer, you needn't apologize. Knowing Rex, he probably insisted on helping. By the way, His Majesty personally asked me to lend you my assistance if I found you in my travels. I take it you all could use a ride?"

"Your assistance would be most welcome, yes."

"Thanks, old man. We've got a wedding to catch, so you couldn't have showed up at a better time," Zeke added.

"Old man? Be careful with your words, or this wedding might find itself without a groom," Azurda replied. It was difficult to discern if he was serious or sarcastic.

The old Titan lowered a wing, forming a ramp for them to climb on. Mòrag ignored her Blade's protests and helped Brighid up onto the Titan's grassy back. It was a good thing, too: despite Nia's healing, the ordeal had drained much of her strength. Brighid fought hard to stay awake, but within a few minutes of Azurda's takeoff, she fell asleep on Mòrag's shoulder.

"...Not to criticize," Mythra began, "but why didn't you guys just ask Azurda to help with this rescue mission to begin with? Would have been a lot easier. And more reliable."

"Oi, we just rescued you, didn't we? Don't judge," Zeke retorted.

"...Everything went wrong, and I am mostly to blame," Mòrag admitted. "Uraya will probably retaliate, too. If they declare war within a week, it will come as no surprise."

"Someone's in a sour mood."

"Relax, Mòrag. The important part is that you got us out, right?" Rex pointed out. Leave it to the Aegis's Driver to put a positive spin on anything. "And we got more information on that Cor creep and the Aramach, too."

Mòrag visibly brightened at Rex's last statement. "What? Tell me everything!"

The Aegis Driver hesitated, looking from Morag to her unconscious Blade and back again. "Look, it's probably not something we should talk about while we're still in enemy territory. But we've got something to show for all of this, okay?"

"...Good. I hope it was worth all the trouble."

The opportunity to act on Rex's information never came, however. As soon as they landed in the Empire, Mòrag was summoned to report to the Emperor (and reassure him of her safety, as news of the Nopon's crashed airship arrived before they did). As a result, Rex ended up giving his report to Brighid; the Blade, against her best instincts, chose to withhold the information from Mòrag—temporarily. Not that it mattered much, though: the upcoming ceremony overshadowed absolutely everything.

The few remaining days passed in an absolute whirlwind; Mòrag felt like she had barely unpacked her belongings before the eve of the ceremony arrived. She intended to spend her last evening as a single woman in complete solitude, reading and soaking in the last few hours of silence she might ever have.

Her friends had other plans.

Mòrag had never attended a bachelorette party in her life. Even if her occupation afforded her the time to, she tended to avoid parties—especially the wilder ones. They didn't suit her. So when the Aegis, Kora, and Nia all ordered her to "put on something cute that's not a uniform" and join them for her own party, Mòrag feared she was doomed to a tedious evening. Fortunately for her, the girls had not had sufficient time to plan anything incredibly annoying or disastrous. It was less of a "party" and more of a trip into town for dessert at a local cafe and pleasant conversation—a welcome alternative.

The cafe closed long before her companions were "partied out," as they called it; since the public regarded the wedding ceremony as a national holiday, most locations closed very early in the evening. So before Mòrag quite knew what was happening, she found her apartments overtaken by her friends. Pyra insisted on making tea while the others quite literally made themselves at home.

"Whoa, Mòrag," Nia whistled as she toured the room. "Your room's just plain gorgeous. And it's huge!"

"Mòrag royalty. It not all that surprising."

"It wasn't always this large," Mòrag explained. The opulence wasn't something she really took any pride in; it was just another tradition that accompanied her station. To her, inns and hotels were just as pleasant at the end of a hard day on the road. "We did some remodeling in preparation for the wedding."

"Ah, wedded bliss," Nia giggled. "So you and Shellhead will be living here? Not Tantal?"

Mòrag nodded. Moving away from Mor Ardain had been her greatest concern about the alliance, but Niall had aggressively argued for this arrangement. Her gratitude over not moving had made the hassle of the renovations tolerable.

Pyra's call of "Tea's ready!" came at just the right moment—Kora had grown bored of a hands-off tour and was about to start rifling through her things (or more accurately, their things; the last of Zeke's belongings were brought in that morning). The last thing that Blade needed to find was the prince's underwear drawer. Thus distracted, the group congregated on the floor. As large as the apartments were, the seating area had only been designed with four adults in mind—Zeke, Mòrag, and their Blades. No one minded, though. Something about the informality of it filled them all with nostalgia, as if they were all seated around a campfire during their travels about Alrest.

"I still think we should pop open a bottle of champagne or something," Nia pointed out. "It's not every day a friend gets married."

"After what happened at the gala, every staff member at the palace is under strict orders to keep every last one of you away from bottles," Brighid replied. "So you'd be hard-pressed to get one."

"Besides, tea's better for the nerves. We're supposed to be helping Mòrag relax, not give her a hangover." Pyra took a long sip of tea, apparently quite pleased with her brew.

"Does Mòrag even get nervous?"

"I'm still a human being, Kora. Of course I get nervous."

"I'll tell you one thing she's not nervous about, though," Pandoria chimed in. "Smooching Zeke. We caught them kissing in Uraya. And let me tell you, she definitely wasn't nervous."

Mòrag and Brighid rolled their eyes in unison as the others gave a collective gasp. For the first time, Mòrag managed to keep her cool. She'd been expecting the teasing to start since her friends dragged her to town, so she had braced herself for the comments. It was a wonder it had taken them so long to begin.

That was all it took for Nia to start singing. "Zeke and Mòrag, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G."

Pandoria and Kora inevitably joined in, quite loudly and off-key. By the time they'd reached the end of the rhyme, they were all in stitches.

"If memory serves, it was more like 'falling from a tree,' but no matter," Brighid added.

"Oh, don't encourage them."

Inevitably, the song's "baby carriage" line sparked a long, animated conversation about Zeke and Mòrag's future children. Mòrag breathed a sigh of relief when it turned out to be pretty harmless—cute baby names, whether their first child would be a boy or a girl, which friend would be a good godparent, and of course, what the children would look like. That topic alone kept them entertained for what seemed like hours. Granted, Kora, Mythra, Pandoria, and Nia were the main contributors. Poppi appeared clueless about human child rearing customs and basic biology, and much of the conversation was beyond her. Brighid secretly wanted to share her opinions about how cute a child with Zeke's hair and Mòrag's little turned-up nose would be, but out of deference for her Driver, she kept quiet.

And Mòrag kept silent for fear saying a word would spark an irrevocable blush.

Eventually, the excitement and gossip began to wane—with the exception of Mythra and Kora, who were still going strong. Brighid began cleaning up the cups and plates, sending a clear signal that the girls should now make themselves scarce. Only Pandoria got the message at first; the others required more explicit dismissals.

"Mòrag is too polite to kick you all out, so I will," Brighid said. A good-natured smirk could be heard in her tone.

"Brighid. You are such a spoilsport."

"You're welcome to continue talking about how cute the children will be as long as you like. But do it elsewhere. Tomorrow is going to be a long day, and Lady Mòrag needs her rest."

"Fine. But we're gonna be here first thing to watch Mòrag get ready."

"Anything but that. Please." Mòrag said. Kora of all people would show up and pester her last few moments' peace.

Kora gave her "we'll-see-about-that" wink and left, with Mythra and the others following. Once they were alone, Mòrag sighed and tossed herself on the bed, not bothering to remove her shoes. Brighid gave an amused huff.

"They're going to cause more trouble tomorrow than they did at the gala. Aren't they?" she asked, talking more to the air than to Brighid.

Her Blade answered anyway. "Most likely. Although I've already made arrangements for Turters to be, well, let's just say he'll be well guarded tomorrow. And not by Pandoria or Zeke. So at least we'll avoid offending the Von Reagan household again."

It was Mòrag's turn to laugh. "We could do worse things. While you're at it, see to it that Senator Carrow is kept as far from me as possible tomorrow."

"Already accounted for. Now you see to it that you get some sleep," Brighid ordered, dismissing herself once the room was clean.

Even if Mòrag had bothered to change into sleepwear, sleep would have still evaded her. Hours ticked past as she stared at the ceiling. How was she supposed to relax tonight? Too many thoughts ran wild throughout her head. Had Uraya given up on preventing the alliance? Why hadn't they retaliated for the attack on their base? Why was Rex being odd about telling her his news about Cor and the Aramach? Come to think of it, why had she spotted him talking with Brighid two days ago?

Then, of course, there was the distinctly powerful thought that tomorrow night, this wouldn't just be her room. It would be Zeke's, too. And that knowledge carried with it many connotations, some almost pleasant to consider, some not so much. She hated the mixed emotions it gave her; her feelings had been easier to deal with when they had been simple indifference. Tonight's combination of guilt and curiosity, however, baffled her.

And then there were the nightmares, always threatening to ruin everything.

Maybe a walk will help clear my head. No one would be up at this time of night, so she chose not to change back into her uniform. She'd just take a quick stroll to the gardens, sit on a bench to let the night air soothe her a bit, and then return. Anything to avoid brooding over tomorrow.

When she arrived, however, she found the intended bench occupied.

"I take it I'm not the only one who can't sleep."

Zeke nodded, patting the spot on the bench beside him. "I haven't even tried. Been here since dear old dad dragged me here to talk...I heard the girls threw you a little bachelorette party. Have fun?"

"I don't know if I'd call it much of a party. But it was sweet of them to try," Mòrag said, taking a seat.

"Rex offered me one. I turned him down. There was no way I was going to a party that Tora helped set up. Even I didn't really want to hit the hot springs with that pervy furball."

Mòrag laughed, trying not to think about what other awkward ideas the Nopon might suggest for such an event. "Probably a wise decision. What did your father want to talk about?"

Zeke shook his head. "Just Dad being, well, Dad. Had a 'present' and plenty of unsolicited advice."

Only then did Mòrag notice that Zeke twirled a small glass bottle absentmindedly on the bench beside him. "Is that the gift he gave you?"

"You do not want to know," Zeke said, irritation clear in his voice. "He overstepped his bounds big-time."

"Something that even you find out of line? Now I'm curious."

She moved to pick up the bottle. Surely it was more interesting than guarded small-talk.

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

The moonlight was just bright enough to illuminate the label: DeAlego Trading, Est. 4015. Lovesource Ultimate Blend. Boost your libido & your stamina for complete gratification, all night long. Supports fertility & reproductive health.

It took all of Mòrag's self-control not to drop the bottle on the paving stones. She set it down as quickly as she could. So much for avoiding the complicated thoughts with a peaceful garden stroll.

"H-he gave you a-a—"

"Yeah. Along with plenty of so-called advice that I hope I can burn from my memory."

"Architect, that's incredibly...awkward." Mòrag shuddered.

"I chewed him out for it. Like, I know both countries need an heir, but there are some lines you just don't cross. Betcha Niall didn't do anything like that, eh?"

"Elysium, no. I'd probably smack him if he did."

"Heh. So would Brighid."

A very stiff silence passed between them.

"So, I have to ask, while we're on the subject. Um...a-are we really going to try to have a kid right away? Like, starting tomorrow?"

Mòrag stared at her toes. There was that odd churning in her stomach again, the heated twist in her chest. For all the thought she'd given the issue, it was not one they'd discussed at length, especially regarding the timing. It was just one of many expectations set on them—the entire premise of tomorrow's wedding, in fact. What use was there talking about it?

"We need to," she murmured. "An heir is the whole point of this marriage, after all."

"Yeah. I just, you know, sex is—"

"Please, be mature about it."

"I am being mature. That's why I'm asking, not just assuming. I don't want you to feel like I'm pressuring you into anything."

"My country is pressuring us. And apparently your father is, too. Which makes this more than a little awkward."

"...It might not be so bad," Zeke admitted, the usual confidence gone from his voice. "Kissing you is a lot better than I expected, honestly. So who knows?"

"D-did you think I'd be bad at it? Kissing, I mean."

Zeke laughed nervously. "Honestly, I kinda did. Glad I was wrong, though."

So he was somewhat attracted to her. She suspected as much, maybe even hoped for it; after all, he had been the one to make the first move—weeks ago now. It seemed...adolescent to be concerned that he liked something as simple as her kiss, but knowing he did filled her with a strange sense of relief.

I almost feel badly for the poor bastard. He has no idea what he's falling for.

There was a long silence as both royals debated what to say next, or if they should speak at all. Was there even anything worth saying after such a thing? Zeke considered just saying goodnight—his sleepiness was finally catching up with him—but he also wanted to end the conversation on something, anything besides his father's "gift" and its intended side effects.

"Say, what's your favorite color?"

"What?" She looked at him quizzically.

"It just occurred to me that we're getting married tomorrow and I don't know what your favorite color is. Kinda basic info, right?"

To his relief, the tension from the previous topic melted as she gave a small smile. "Blue. For obvious reasons."

"It'd be ironic if you hated the look of Brighid's flames," Zeke laughed.

"It's Niall's eye color, too. And the sky at Gormott was always so beautiful, so unlike Mor Ardain's. I guess I can't help but favor blue. What about you?"

Without her hat, Mòrag's face was far easier to read. His question, as innocent as it was, had caught her off-guard, but now her expression displayed genuine interest. Until now, he never noticed how much her eyebrows alone communicated her thoughts. Her eyes, too. What need did she have for words when a simple furrowed forehead or raised eyebrow said so much? And the way her eyes gleamed or widened, always rich like dark honey...a shame her visor always hid them.

"Do you want the easy answer or the honest one?"

Was that a twinkle in her eye?

"The honest one."

"I never really had a favorite color, not until recently. White was pretty much all I ever saw growing up. Now, though, my favorite is...it's the color of your eyes."

Her eyebrows shot up, and her eyes darted about, like bees buzzing about searching for pollen, for an appropriate response. Red bloomed across her entire face.

He brought a hand to her chin, pulling her gaze back up. "Please don't look away. They say eyes are the window to the soul. A-and I want to understand yours better."

Don't look too long, Zeke. It's too dark for you, Mòrag thought.

She leaned forward and kissed him—not for the pleasure of the act, but for an excuse to close her eyes. She feared that, if he looked long enough, he'd see the secrets she fought so hard to keep buried underneath a gaze of professional indifference. And there was so much light in his gaze, so much hope. It seemed wrong to quench that with the truth.

He's going to find out tomorrow if you go through with this.

If Zeke interpreted her embrace as an evasion, he certainly didn't act like it. Any shyness or reservations he displayed with previous kisses had, without a doubt, vanished. His hands cupped her face, then one mingled in her hair as the other traced down her neck to the small of her back. Despite the fabric of her blouse preventing direct contact, his fingers set her spine on fire. This was wrong; it had to be. And yet the touch made her gasp—even more so when his lips trailed down her chin, finding the skin on her neck left exposed by her unbuttoned collar.

"What happened to toning it down for the wedding?" Mòrag asked, a choked laugh threatening to interrupt her question.

"That doesn't really apply tonight." He gave the base of her throat another gentle peck, then pulled away, an anxious smile on his face.

"There's not much of 'tonight' left. We should try to get some rest," she said, trying to fake a yawn. She stood. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

He nodded and rose, too. "...I guess I'll see you at the altar, then. Goodnight."

After a simple kiss on her cheek, Zeke sauntered down the path towards the palace.

Just how long are you going to lead him on like this?

If not for you, I wouldn't have to. Just leave me be.

Ha! You know you need me, so deal with it.

Can't I have a moment's peace? Please—just let me have tomorrow, without any of this. Without you.

...Fine. Enjoy your little fairy tale wedding, princess. But remember that all fairy tales end at midnight. No matter how much you lie to yourself, to him, the spell will break. And he'll be face to face with the disgusting, ugly truth of your existence. Then his favorite color will be the least of your worries.


"It's almost time," Brighid whispered. "Let's get those finishing touches done and make our way to the cathedral."

If not for the weightless sensation in her stomach, Mòrag might have found the morning peaceful—just herself and her Blade, preparing for the day. No distractions, no visitors, and no real need for conversation, either. In fact, Brighid was so uncharacteristically taciturn that Mòrag found herself reaching through the ether to read her Blade's emotions, not the other way around. The gold mark of their affinity sparkled between them, and Mòrag felt her chest tighten as Brighid's feelings enveloped her.

Pride. Indignation. Awe. Fear. Love. Shame. A touch of hope. And encompassing it all, a sensation of resigned acceptance.

That mess of feelings rolled through their bond like a strong current when Brighid picked up the final piece of her ensemble: a small golden circlet. It was not unlike Niall's crown for court, simply more delicate and feminine. Mòrag first wore it at her coming-of-age ceremony; today would be the second time.

Brighid held the circlet as if it weighed a ton, eyes downcast. "I always get emotional when I see this. Seeing you in a wedding gown is one thing. But this…"

"Brighid—"

"All those years ago, if I had done my job as your Blade, if I'd protected you like I should have, you'd be Empress today. Then none of this would be happening."

"Brighid, we've discussed this. You saved me. More than once, in fact. And if I'd been Empress, we never would have travelled with Rex and the Aegis. They might not have found Elysium without us. In the end, it was the best possible outcome for everyone. Please stop blaming yourself. I certainly don't."

Brighid smiled weakly and set the circlet on her Driver's head, adjusting a few stray curls. "...We've been through so much together. The day I resonated with you, you were such a lanky, tenacious little girl with eyes like fire. I had no idea what a powerful, brave, beautiful, and selfless woman you'd become. You might not wear the crown, but to me, you're still a queen."

"Please don't start crying, Brighid. If you do, I will, too." Mòrag laughed. "And then you'd have to redo all this ghastly makeup. You know I would forget it's on and rub my eyes."

That drew a sniffly chuckle from Brighid. "We can't have that. We'd be late."

"Shall we go, then?"

Brighid took a deep breath and nodded. Neither Driver nor Blade released the affinity connection coursing between them until they arrived at the site: Mor Ardain's newest cathedral. As a country, Mor Ardain had previously deferred all official religious functions to Indol. Many citizens adhered to the Architect's faith but saw no reason to clutter their already battered, overcrowded Titan with an excessive church when Indol was so easy to reach. Today, however, the leadership of Praetor Amalthus had all but crippled the Indoline Church. Not one country wanted to associate with it, nor did they intend to renounce the Architect entirely. Flawed though he was, they still owed him their lives and their future posterity. As a result, each nation had established its own branch of the faith. Churches and cathedrals popped up as a natural extension of that new independence. Unsurprisingly, the Ardainian church leaders jumped at the opportunity to host the ceremony.

When they entered the vestibule, a very flustered coordinator pulled Brighid aside and whispered something to her. Judging by the woman's expression, it was not good news. But once she had delivered her message, the coordinator hissed "Places, everyone!" and acted as if nothing had happened.

Mòrag felt a lump form in her throat as she was ordered to stand near the great doors, just behind Brighid, who'd be entering the hall first. This was it.

"Just so you're aware before you head inside," Brighid whispered, "it seems that Zeke has Pandoria standing with him. As his best man."

Mòrag shook her head. "He explicitly told me Rex was going to fill that role."

"Apparently Rex didn't like the idea of being in front of a crowd. Or Zeke let you believe it so you couldn't say no to Pandoria."

Even without Turters in hand, Zeke could always find a way to cause a commotion. Entertaining to the last. "I guess there's nothing to be done about it now, though."

"He could have at least—Oh, Your Majesty!" Brighid bowed low.

Mòrag turned to face the young Emperor, beginning a bow of her own. Niall stopped her.

"Today, you bow to no one, Mòrag," he whispered.

Niall looked on the verge of tears. He had deferred most of the decisions about the ceremony to Brighid and Mòrag, and as a result, this was the first time he had seen the gown, much less the final ensemble. And counting the gala, it was only one of three occasions he had witnessed her in a dress.

"Architect's Elysium," he gasped. "Mòrag, I—you...I don't know what to say."

"Do you like it?"

Niall nodded, but the furrow in his brow betrayed more complicated feelings. "You're an absolute vision, Mòrag. I'm so proud to call you my sister. But...but I can't help feeling that this should be my wedding, not yours. You shouldn't have to sacrifice your whole future on my account. If you don't want to do this, if you'd rather those doors stay closed, I won't escort you down that aisle. I can still call the whole thing off. I wouldn't think any less of you if you chose to do so."

"You know I can't do that."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both. And I don't think I'm 'sacrificing my future' entirely, you know. I'm simply choosing a different future than the one I originally anticipated."

"I don't think I'll be able to live with myself if this makes you miserable. Not when I could have stopped it."

"I won't be miserable," Mòrag insisted. She paused as Brighid entered the auditorium, leaving them alone in the vestibule for a moment. "May I speak freely? Not as your subject or Inquisitor, but as your sister."

Niall nodded. "I wish you would always do so."

"Fine. As your older sister, I forbid you to mention this again. You're not allowed to feel guilty over it, either. I made the choice to marry, for your sake. And for that reason, I will never regret doing it. So please don't torture yourself over it. Promise me you won't."

"Just...just answer one question for me first. Do you care for Zeke at all?"

"I do. Perhaps not as deeply as a bride ought to on her wedding day, but he does mean...something to me."

Niall sighed heavily. "All right. That's good enough for me. I won't mention it again. You have my word."

The Emperor extended his arm. Mòrag slipped hers into it. From a traditional standpoint, it was all wrong to have Niall escort her, and yet, she could not fathom giving the job to anyone else.

"Ready?"

She nodded, and the doors to the auditorium swung open noiselessly. A hush washed over the audience, only for the silence to be broken by the bright tones of the Ardainian national anthem.

"Don't forget to smile," Niall whispered. "Brighid's orders."

If presented the option to climb the World Tree or to walk down the cathedral's massive aisle, Mòrag would have chosen the former. Even the relentless battles until the top would have been a welcome change from all the faces peering back at her. Was the entire citizenship or Mor Ardain and Tantal here? Or was the aisle growing longer with each step? As always, Niall appeared completely at ease, the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a perfectly rehearsed smile. Even she couldn't tell if it was a genuine grin or not.

One sight did manage to coax a real smile from the Inquisitor: a colorfully adorned group amidst the sea of black, navy, and earth-toned formals. Nia had chosen a striking yellow dress. Dromarch sported an immaculate, freshly-groomed coat. Poppi, shockingly, was wearing something other than a maid costume. Her masterpon stood next to her in what Mòrag could only assume was the Nopon version of a tuxedo. It did not suit him. His wings kept getting tangled in the coattails for a rather comical mixture of fabric and feathers. Meanwhile, Pyra had traded out her normal attire for a full-length gown of red, white, and gold that might also serve as Mythra's outfit when they switched; it probably looked good on either of them. Next to the Aegis was Rex, looking both very sharp and very uncomfortable in a bold blue suit. Pyra kept smacking his hand away whenever he fussed with his tie. Several other Blades had joined the entourage, too: Kora, Azami, Crossette, and Dagas—who clearly believed the whole event was beneath him but that his "kingly duty" demanded his so-called royal presence.

With the exception of the haughty Blade, they all waved and grinned as she approached. Rex winked and gave her a thumbs-up. Little did he know, his Blade did the same behind him.

Other friendly faces waited at the front of the auditorium. Brighid, of course, gleamed so brightly that she looked like Radiance come alive. Opposite her was Pandoria, dressed in an unusually ruffly outfit. She seemed to be on her best behaviour, despite the confused glances the Ardainians threw at the "best man."

Most striking, however, was Zeke. For once, he looked like a crown prince. Or at least, she assumed he did. Tantalese ceremonial garb was something of a mystery until now. She'd half expected stuffy, bulky furs, like the clothes Eulogimenos wore at court. But Zeke's attire was sleeker, bright white, almost as though a tailor had taken the Tantalese royal guard's white uniform and turned it into a suit. A crimson half-cape slung over his shoulder. The prince's eyepatch had been given new stitching and a fresh polish, too. Even his hair was neatly combed and slicked back. A carved ivory circlet topped off the ensemble—nothing as flashy as his father's crown, but still ornate enough to suit the occasion. If not for the cheeky grin, Mòrag might not have recognized him.

Finally, they reached the front of the auditorium. The anthem went silent. For a moment, the notes lingered, echoing through the cathedral. And in that moment, while the audience was distracted by the celestial reverberations, Niall abandoned his public propriety and pulled her into a hug.

"I love you, Mòrag," he whispered. "And I'm so proud of you."

She returned the embrace. "I love you too, Niall."

The young Emperor gave her one last smile before turning to take his seat. It was all so carefully rehearsed: when the Emperor sat, so did the audience, unprompted. Meanwhile, Mòrag ascended the steps to join Zeke, with an ever-watchful Brighid ensuring that her dress did not get caught up behind her.

"Ladies and gentlemen, fellow children of the Architect, on behalf of His Majesty, King Eulogimenos Aethelwulf Tantal, and His Majesty, Emperor Niall Hugo Ardanach, it is my esteemed honor to welcome you to the wedding ceremony of Tantal's crown prince, Ozychlyrus Brounev Tantal, to Mor Ardain's Special Inquisitor and princess, Lady Mòrag Ladair." The priest finally paused his recitation to take a breath. "Today we join together not only two people but two great and noble houses, two proud nations, two glorious histories. May the Architect bless us on this momentous occasion as we celebrate this union and…"

The audience listened respectfully as the man of the cloth prattled on, reminding the guests of each country's proud heritage and how compatible those proud national identities would be within a strategic alliance. This was followed by a verbal rehearsal of the quest for Elysium and the role each royal had played in that journey. The tale did exaggerate some of their feats, but the bride and groom weren't listening closely enough to process the details. The nerves had set in for both of them.

After what seemed like an eternity, the man ended his loquacious speech, signalling the more traditional portion of the ceremony.

"Since the days of our ancestors, it has been customary for a man and a woman to signify their union through three ancient rites: the exchange of tokens, handfasting, and the recitation of vows. It is to these rites that we now turn. Prince Ozychlyrus, what token will you present to the Lady Mòrag to demonstrate your commitment to this union?"

No verbal response was necessary—just the presentation of his mother's ring. This time, Mòrag accepted it, wondering what kind of woman Queen Eugenie must have been to make such a deep impression on Zeke. She would have liked to meet her.

Mòrag's own turn came next. Choosing a token to give had been the hardest decision she made throughout the entire process. While it was most traditional to give rings, almost any meaningful gift could serve as a token. In the more stressful moments, she'd almost considered giving him a second turtle; maybe Turters would get into less mischief with a companion. And yet, after the incredibly meaningful token Zeke gave, what could she give that would possibly compare?

A quick sort through her own dusty jewelry box had presented her the answer: a ring of her own. Compared to the ruby now glimmering on her own finger, the band was plain—just a simple, unornamented circle of gold. She had almost forgotten it was there. Emperor Nealon pulled it from the body before the burial and gave it to her; in her grief, she hid it in the box and ignored it. After all, the ring belonged to the only man she ever truly trusted.

When she slid it onto Zeke's finger, she expected the voice to surface again, to taunt and mock her for betraying that trust. But for once, it kept silent.

"This was my father's," Mòrag whispered.

Zeke smiled gratefully.

With the exchange complete, the priest turned to Brighid, who had been entrusted with the handfasting cord. In both Mor Ardain and Tantal, the exchange of rings was nothing more than a symbol; the actual binding, the irrevocable point of the ceremony, occurred when the officiant bound the couple's hands together. Handfasting was a ritual steeped in tradition, and when it was used to bind two nations together, it took on a special significance. Even the handfasting cord itself would become something of a national artefact; Niall and Eulogimenos had braided it themselves the day they finalized the alliance and publicized the engagement. By using materials from their respective countries, each sovereign signified his intention to create a tight-knit, strong union between their nations.

"And now for the second rite of handfasting," the priest announced. "Your Highnesses, if you are resolved to be bound together thus in this sacred union, please join hands."

Both royals hesitated. This was the point of no return.

Are we both sincere about this? The question lingered in both their eyes. Zeke nodded, gave a half-smile, and extended his right hand. Sweat glistened on his outstretched palm. For Niall, she thought. Her hand slipped into his. With deliberate, practiced movements, the minister wound the cord around their hands and wrists.

"Now, Your Highness Ozychlyrus Brounev Tantal, and Your Highness and Special Inquisitor Mòrag Ladair, your vows."

As a young girl, Mòrag had not attended many wedding ceremonies; attendance was considered an activity for the adults. But they featured prevalently in both Ardainian fairy tales and history books. She'd read them all. So she knew most of the recitation by heart, along with the additions to pay respects to Tantal's traditions:

You cannot possess me for I belong to myself, my country, and my king.

You cannot command me, for I am a free person.

But while the ether wills it, I give you that which is mine to give:

My hand, my heart, and my home.

I shall take your people as my own, and you mine;

I promise you my partnership for good or ill.

I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care;

I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine.

This is my solemn vow to you.

This is the marriage of equals.

"It is done. By the authority vested in me by the Architect and the crowns of Mor Ardain and Tantal, as demonstrated by the recitation of vows and the ancient rite of handfasting, and hereby confirmed in the presence of these witnesses, I pronounce you husband and wife."

Several rows back, an unruly Nopon and his companion unleashed premature cheers. A single glare from the priest quieted them.

"What the Architect has joined together, let no man put asunder," the priest continued, removing the handfasting cord as he spoke. "Prince Ozychlyrus, you may kiss the bride."

Zeke drew close, trying to mask the nervous twitching in his face with a smile. "Shall we then, Mrs. Zekenator?" he whispered.

She rolled her eyes, stifling a laugh. "Dramatic as ever."

Anyone in attendance that day would have said that "dramatic" was the only apt description for that first public display of affection. Had Mòrag taken an Ardainian husband, the kiss would have been something of a scandal—Mor Ardain put such high regard on physical propriety in public situations. But since Zeke had already established a reputation as a showman, the crowd tolerated it, perhaps even welcomed it. The prince pulled his new wife close to initiate the kiss, tender and reserved. But just when she was about to pull away—sticking to his advice to "tone it down" for the wedding—he swooped her down into a dramatic dip, lips never leaving hers.

The auditorium erupted with applause, cheers, laughter, squeals (the last from Kora). Other things erupted, too. Crossette, who had apparently gotten quite adept at smuggling, ignited a few of her smaller firecrackers. Poppi followed suit, thanks to Tora, who had swapped out her standard ammunition for harmless bottle rockets. Pyra unleashed clouds of glittering embers high in the air. Rex whooped loudly, and Nia gave a shrill, cat-call whistle. Brighid shook her head. Then, to everyone's surprise, she indulged her impulse to trace a cascade of flaming blue hearts for the entire duration of the kiss.

Mòrag, for her part, did not protest the dramatic embrace. Deep down, she enjoyed it. At least life with Zeke would be anything but boring.