The preparations for the grand marriage had begun, and the chosen location was none other than the Water Gate City of Priestella.
Priestella's luxury shopping district glittered under the midday sun, its marbled arcades draped in silks for the occasion. The five royal candidates walked in uneasy formation—Priscilla at the front, her stride a declaration of ownership; Felt lagging behind, kicking pebbles at flower pots; Anastasia weaving between stalls like a merchant shark; Crusch surveying the crowd with a general's vigilance; and Emilia hovering near the group's center, fingers nervously tracing the edge of her cloak.
"Must we endure this farce together?" Priscilla drawled, pausing before a boutique named Celestial Veils. "I'd prefer to avoid the stench of mediocrity clinging to your choices."
"Then go shop alone," Felt shot back, already eyeing an alleyway. "Nobody's chainin' you here."
Anastasia chuckled, her fox-fur scarf twitching as she herded Felt toward the entrance. "Now, now—teamwork makes the dream work, darlin'. 'Sides, this'll be fun! Think of it as… competitor research."
Crusch held the door open, her tone clipped. "Efficiency demands collaboration. We'll finish faster as a group."
Emilia lingered on the threshold, her gaze darting to a mannequin in a silver gown. Would Subaru like that? She bit her lip, phantom whispers of "half-elf" nipping at her heels.
Inside Celestial Veils
The boutique was a cathedral of excess—chandeliers dripping crystal, mirrors framed in gold leaf, and gowns displayed like holy relics. Priscilla beelined to a dress woven with threads of actual stardust, its train pooling like liquid night. "This," she declared, "is what divinity looks like."
Felt snorted, flopping onto a velvet divan. "Looks like a fancy tablecloth. Bet it costs more than a village."
"It does," the shopkeeper squeaked, then paled as Priscilla's gaze sharpened.
Anastasia circled the rack beside it, fingering a gown embroidered with Kararagi silk. "Practical and symbolic. Wearin' this'd send a nice message to my trade partners."
"Messages are for couriers," Priscilla said, snapping her fingers at a seamstress. "Alter this to expose my left shoulder. The world deserves to see perfection unobstructed."
Crusch ignored them, examining a tailored ivory pantsuit with reinforced seams. "This will suffice. Mobility is essential."
"For a wedding?" Emilia blinked.
"For any scenario." Crusch's hand brushed the hidden dagger sheath sewn into the jacket lining. "Celebrations are targets."
Emilia drifted to a simpler gown—snow-white satin with ice-blue accents. She touched a sleeve, imagining Subaru's face. Would he think I'm… pretty?
"Ugh, enough with the brooding," Felt groaned, springing up to yank open a trunk of accessories. She unearthed a leather cuff studded with onyx. "Now this is cool. How much?"
The shopkeeper stammered. "T-That's a man's piece, my lady—"
"So?" Felt slapped it onto her wrist. "Rules are for nobles."
The Jewelry Counter
Anastasia commandeered the gem display, haggling over a sapphire diadem. "I'll take it at half price if I endorse your shop in Kararagi."
The jeweler sweated. "B-But Lady Hoshin, this is a historic heirloom—"
"Exactly! Imagine the prestige when the future queen wears it." She winked. "Your name in every paper from here to Vollachia."
Priscilla materialized beside her, plucking a diamond collar from velvet. "A dog's trinket. Fitting for a merchant playing regent."
Anastasia's smile didn't waver. "Aw, sweet of ya to notice! I do have a knack for fetchin' deals." She turned to Emilia, holding up emerald earrings. "These'd look darling on you, Emilia. Match your eyes and your… heritage."
Emilia stiffened. "I don't… I'm not sure this is my color."
"Nonsense."Crusch slid a ruby pendant against Emilia's throat, her touch icy. "Red would mask that pallid complexion. Unless you wish to resemble a ghost?"
"Back off," Felt growled, inserting herself between them, her stolen leather cuff gleaming. "She doesn't need your creepy 'advice.'"
Crusch then placed a jade hairpin beside Emilia's chosen gown. "This is understated. It won't distract during negotiations."
"Negotiations?" Emilia whispered.
"The wedding is a political summit. Every glance, every gesture will be dissected." Crusch paused. "But the pin… suits you."
Priscilla emerged first, her stardust gown slicing light into prismatic shards. She smirked at her reflection. "A masterpiece. The rest of you may as well surrender now."
Anastasia stepped out next in her silk gown, the hem subtly patterned with Hoshin coins. "Oh, honey—you look like a chandelier. Very… sparkly."
Felt burst from her curtain in the ivory tunic and pantsuit, the leather cuff clashing gloriously. "Check it—I can actually breathe! Suck it, corsets!"
Crusch followed, her outfit crisp and dagger-friendly. "Functional."
All eyes turned to Emilia's curtain. Seconds ticked by before she shuffled out, her gown's ice-blue accents shimmering under chandelier light. She'd pinned up her hair with Crusch's jade pin, leaving frost lilies braided through loose strands.
"Well?" she whispered, fingers trembling.
Felt grinned. "You look like a snow queen. In a good way!"
Anastasia hummed. "Needs a pop of color." She tossed Emilia the emerald earrings. "Try these. Free of charge~"
Crusch nodded once. "You'll command respect."
Emilia clasped the earrings, her reflection wavering. Respect. Not fear.
Sunset painted Priestella in gold as the women exited, their attendants trailing with armfuls of silk and jewels. Priscilla's gown drew gasps from the crowd; Felt flipped a coin to a street urchin winking at her boots; Anastasia jotted notes for her next trade deal; Crusch analyzed guard rotations along the route.
Emilia lingered, watching children chase bubbles blown by a street performer. One bubble drifted to her, freezing midair into a delicate orb of ice. She smiled, flicking it upward, where it burst into glittering dust.
"See somethin' pretty?" Felt asked, falling into step beside her.
"Just… wondering what Subaru's doing right now," Emilia admitted.
Felt snorted. "Prob'ly panicking. Or tripping over his fancy shoes."
Anastasia smirked. "Chaos is just opportunity in a party dress."
Crusch said tailor's shop in Priestella's merchant quarter was a refuge from the city's clamor, its oak-paneled walls muffling the distant bustle of wedding preparations. Bolts of fabric—rich velvets, shimmering silks, and rugged linens—lined the shelves like silent sentinels. Subaru stood atop a fitting podium, his reflection fractured in three angled mirrors, each showing a different facet of his tension. Rem circled him with a measuring tape, her movements precise yet distant, while Beatrice perched on a velvet-upholstered stool, flipping through a catalog of embroidery patterns with feigned indifference.
"This collar is strangling me," Subaru grumbled, clawing at the stiff brocade. "Since when do emperors need lace?"
"You are not an emperor, in fact," Beatrice said without looking up. "You are a fool playing dress-up for a kingdom that will dissect your every thread. Now hold still, or Betty will staple your sleeves to your ankles."
Subaru shot her a withering glare but froze as Rem's fingers brushed his wrist, adjusting the cuff of a charcoal-gray jacket. Her touch was featherlight, but he felt the tremor in her hands.
"It's… important to look the part, Subaru-kun," she murmured, her voice softer than the silk draped over her arm. "The people need to see strength. Unity."
The word hung between them, heavy with unspoken grief. Subaru's throat tightened. Unity. A pretty lie for a man bound to five women, one of whom stood before him now, sewing her heart into every stitch.
One year earlier, in the Roswaal Manor gardens—
Rem's laughter rang clear as she held up a lopsided scarf, its neon pink yarn clashing horribly with Subaru's tracksuit. "It's… warmer than it looks!"
He'd draped it around his neck, grinning despite the villagers' snickers. "Who needs fashion when you've got this much passion?"
Her smile had been brighter than the sun. "Always so reckless, Subaru-kun."
"Subaru." Beatrice's voice snapped him back to the present. She floated inches from his face, her tiny hands gripping his collar. "Your slouching is ruining the hemline, I suppose. Stand properly."
"Easy for you to say," he muttered, but straightened his posture. "You're not the one getting stuffed into a human corset."
"A corset would imply you have waist definition," she retorted, tugging a sapphire-studded pin into his lapel. "This is a tactical harness for your lack of dignity."
Rem's lips twitched—a ghost of a smile—as she knelt to adjust his trousers. The sight punched through Subaru's ribs. She's still here. Even after I broke my promise.
The tailor, a wiry woman named Marta with ink-stained fingers, scurried forward with a bolt of silver-threaded fabric. "For the mantle, my lord! Woven with true dragon's silk—symbolic of the Tablet's blessing!"
Subaru eyed the iridescent material warily. "Dragon's silk? Isn't that just code for 'unaffordable'?"
"It's code for bankrupting the royal treasury," Beatrice muttered, though her gaze lingered on the way the fabric caught the light. "But it would annoy that orange haired peacock, I suppose. A worthwhile investment."
"Priscilla's already got enough dragon-themed everything," Subaru said, scratching his neck. "Let's not feed her ego."
Rem stood abruptly, her cheeks flushed. "I'll… fetch the jade buttons. They would honor Lady Crusch's house colors." She hurried toward the back room, her skirts whispering against the floor.
Beatrice watched her go, then turned to Subaru, her eyes narrowing. "What did you do, I wonder?"
"What makes you think I did anything?"
"Because that girl radiates misery like a dying star, in fact. And you reek of guilt." She floated closer, her voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear. "Did you forget your promise?"
"I didn't forget," he said hoarsely. "But the Dragon—"
Beatrice hissed"You are a fool if you think chains of duty will spare her heart. You can find a way, You always do, I suppose"
The Back Room
Rem leaned against a shelf of thread spools, her chest heaving. The jade buttons trembled in her palm, their cool green surface mocking her. Why does it still hurt? She'd known, hadn't she? Subaru's heart had always been split—between Emilia, and the ghosts of promises he couldn't keep.
She pressed the buttons to her lips, their edges biting into her skin. He did save everyone. Except himself.
"Girl."
Rem startled as Beatrice materialized beside her, arms crossed. "Your sniveling is disrupting the fitting, I suppose."
"I'm sorry, Lady Beatrice. I'll return shortly."
"Tch." Beatrice floated closer, her glare softening. "Subaru is an idiot. But he is your idiot, in fact."
Rem's eyes widened.
"Do not mistake his silence for indifference," Beatrice continued, plucking a spool of silver thread from the shelf. "That man would tear the stars from the sky if you asked. But he is… afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Afraid of failing. Again." Beatrice's voice wavered, ever so slightly. "It is a fear Betty understands too well."
Before Rem could respond, the spirit left in a flutter, leaving her alone with the weight of those words.
Subaru emerged from the dressing room in the completed ensemble—a charcoal doublet with silver filigree tracing his shoulders like frost, paired with trousers tailored for mobility. The sapphire cufflinks glinted darkly, a nod to the shadows he'd always carried.
Rem's breath caught. "You look…"
"Like a sacrificial lamb?" he offered weakly.
"Like a king," she whispered.
Beatrice hovered at his shoulder, her tiny hand adjusting his collar. "A foolish king. But… adequate, I suppose."
Subaru met Rem's gaze in the mirror, his reflection flanked by hers and Beatrice's. For a moment, the world narrowed to the three of them—a fractured family bound by love and loss.
"Thank you," he said, the words raw. "Both of you."
Beatrice huffed, moving toward the window. "Save your gratitude for the altar, in fact. You'll need it."
As the tailor bundled the garments, Subaru lingered by the door, watching the cathedral's spires pierce the twilight.
Tomorrow, I marry five women. Tomorrow, I break a thousand promises.
Rem's hand brushed his, steady and sure. "We'll face it together, Subaru-kun."
He interlaced their fingers, the jade button she'd slipped into his palm pressing like a vow.
"Yeah," he said. "Together."Though the streets were as lively as ever, there was a sense of something looming in the air—something grand, something historic. It wasn't every day that a single man was wed to five royal candidates. The entire kingdom had heard the decree from the Dragon Tablet, and while opinions were divided, no one could deny that today would be a day marked in history.
But despite the magnitude of this moment, the wedding itself was to remain isolated.
In accordance with ancient Lugunican customs, the marriage of royalty was a sacred event, untouched by politics or public spectacle. Only the brides, the groom, and the priest were permitted anyway near the ceremonial grounds. Not even the Spirits Or knights, no matter their rank or devotion, were allowed to enter once the ceremony began.
The grand hall of Priestella's cathedral was a tomb of opulence. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass depictions of Volcanica casting fractured hues over the silent procession. Incense coiled like serpents in the air, cloying and thick, mingling with the scent of lilies that lined the aisle their petals too white, too perfect, like bones laid bare.
Subaru stood at the altar, his ceremonial coat heavy as chainmail. The fabric, embroidered with threads of gold and stardust, itched against his skin. A costume, he thought bitterly. For the worst performance of my life.
The brides stood in a crescent before him, their gowns identical in color but dissonant in spirit.
Emilia clutched her bouquet of frost lilies, their stems trembling in her grip. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, as if the weight of her crown—a delicate silver circlet—might snap her neck if she dared lift it. When Subaru's whisper brushed her name, her flinch was barely perceptible. "It's okay, Subaru,"she lied, her voice a threadbare veil over despair.
Crusch stood rigid, her posture a general's even here. Her gown's high collar framed a jaw set like iron, but her eyes betrayed her—flickering once to the cathedral's shadowed alcoves, as if calculating escape routes. *"This is for the kingdom,"* she declared, the words ash in her mouth.
Anastasia's smile was a ledger of compromises. Her fingers traced the Hoshin coin sewn into her veil—a silent vow that even this farce would turn profit. "Ain't no point fussin' over what you can't change," she drawled, though her eyes glinted with something darker.
Felt had torn her sleeves. The frayed edges bristled as she crossed her arms, her gaze a wildfire trapped in glass. "This is bullshit,"she spat, not caring if the priest heard.
Priscilla laughed. The sound was a blade drawn slowly, languidly, across the silence. Her gown pooled around her like molten gold, and her eyes drank in the room's discomfort. "Oh, come now, Peasant,"she purred, "most men would kill for a harem of this caliber."
…Natsuki Subaru," the priest's voice cut through his daze. "Do you take these women as your lawful wives?"
Silence.
A heavy, unbearable silence.
Subaru's fingers twitched. His throat felt tight. He wanted to scream. To laugh. To run.
Instead, his lips moved. "I… do."
The words barely made a sound, but they sealed his fate.
One by one, the brides gave their vows.
Emilia hesitated. Just for a moment. But then she spoke, voice soft, trembling. "I do."
Crusch was firm. "I do."
Anastasia's smile never faltered. "I do."
Felt gritted her teeth. "Tch… I do."
And Priscilla… she laughed. "How amusing. I do."
A quiet horror settled in Subaru's gut.
The priest finished his blessings, but there were no cheers, no applause. Just a series of empty words, binding them together.
Subaru turned his head, catching Emilia's eyes for the first time that day. A silent plea, an apology, something unspoken passed between them. Then she looked away.
And just like that, it was done.
Five wives. One man.
None of them happy.
Dragon's blessing descended as a beam of light, searing the crest of Lugnica into the stone floor. It should have felt holy.
It felt like a brand.
Suddenly, a thunderous explosion shattered the heavy silence of the place.
The force of it sent dust and debris raining from the ceiling, shaking the ancient walls of the sacred chamber. The eerie chime of the wedding bells was drowned out by the panicked shouts from outside.
Subaru's body reacted before his mind could process it. His feet pounded against the marble floors as he sprinted toward the temple doors. The brides followed, their gowns billowing behind them.
They stepped outside.
And were met with chaos.
The skyline of Pristella, the Water Gate City, was ablaze with smoke. The once-peaceful streets now swarmed with terrified citizens, their screams blending into an orchestra of pure panic.
From the tallest clock tower in the city, an eerie voice rang out.
"—Gosh, honestly. Please excuse me for making a ruckus, my sincere apologies."
Subaru's breath hitched.
The voice was shrill, trembling with an unsettling mixture of excitement and artificial remorse. It clawed at the ears, sending a shiver down the spine.
The source of the voice stood at the peak of the clock tower, teetering on the edge with an unnatural balance.
A figure.
Wrapped head to toe in filthy, blood-stained bandages, leaving only a pair of wild, feverish eyes visible. Their long black coat fluttered in the wind, heavy chains clinking against the stone floor. Each movement was slow, deliberate, calculated.
The people below had frozen in place, trapped by the weight of the figure's presence.
"Thank you. I really only need just a little bit of it, so please let me borrow your time."
It was a request wrapped in false politeness, yet laced with something dangerous.
The figure's tone wavered, caught between mockery and something far more sinister. It spoke words of apology, yet none of them carried a shred of sincerity.
The unease in the air thickened.
Subaru felt his stomach churn.
Then—
The figure laughed.
A dry, rasping sound that sent a spike of dread through everyone listening.
The chains around their wrists jingled as they spread their arms wide, like a preacher basking in divine light.
"My apologies," the figure whispered, voice dripping with something sickeningly sweet. "I am a Sin Archbishop of the Witch Cult, representing Wrath."
The world seemed to stop.
The air itself felt colder, heavier.
"—I am called Sirius Romanée-Conti."