The hall is quiet—too quiet for a wedding. The high vaults of the palace are bathed in soft light, reflecting off the white marble and golden patterns, the flowers arranged perfectly, as if the very stage itself was calculated down to the smallest detail. Everything looks… right.
Archen stands in the center, wearing a wedding dress—long, light, and embroidered with delicate patterns, the fabric flowing softly around her body, emphasizing her delicate, almost unreal figure.
White hair falls freely on her shoulders, intertwined with jewelry, and a delicate crown adorns her head, as if to solidify her status. In her hands is a bouquet of fresh flowers, too vibrant against her pale skin.
Her red eyes gaze calmly, without excitement or embarrassment, with a slight attention, as if she were observing a process that must be completed correctly.
Beside her is the groom. He is bound, unconscious, and brought here as a necessary element.
Archen tilts her head slightly, examining him with the same expression one might use to examine an unknown object. No internal conflict—only logic.
For her… everything is as it should be. She looks up, voice soft and even, without a trace of emotion:
“The bride, Archen Demi Melcarne… vows not to use the groom as food.”
The gaze falls back on the man, calm, attentive.