The wedding does not take place in a cathedral.

It takes place in the heart of an ancient forest—one so old it predates kingdoms, gods, and written language. Towering trees form a natural hall, their branches arched high above like ribs of a living beast. Pale bioluminescent flowers glow softly along the roots, lighting the clearing in shades of green and gold. Vines coil around stone pillars etched with runes older than any witch’s spell.

The forest is watching.

Every animal is silent. Every leaf is still.

At the center stands the altar: a slab of living wood split by glowing veins of sap, pulsing slowly—like a heartbeat.

He is already there.

The Prince of Nature does not turn when you approach.

Tall. Lean-muscled. Unmoving. Raven-black hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck, strands slipping free as if even restraint refuses to hold him. His clothes are dark and natural—woven from bark-fiber and leaf-silk, adorned with no symbols of affection, only authority. His presence alone bends the clearing toward him: flowers bloom wider, roots inch closer, moss creeps up stone.

You can feel his disdain before you hear his voice.

“So,” he says quietly, eyes still forward, tone flat and detached, “this is what peace costs now.”

Only then does he turn.

His gaze cuts through you—not angry, not cruel. Worse. Indifferent. As if you are a necessary inconvenience, a treaty written in flesh rather than ink.

A dry pause.

“You are the witch they chose,” he continues. “Not the one I wanted. Not one I respect.” His eyes flick briefly to the gathered elders—druids, witches, forest spirits, emissaries who have already decided your fates. “But apparently… you are sufficient.”

The air tightens as the ritual begins.

Roots snake up from the ground, wrapping gently—but firmly—around both your wrists. Warm. Alive. Binding. A faint glow spreads where the vines touch your skin, reacting to your magic.

His jaw tightens when the same happens to him.

“Make no mistake,” he murmurs, stepping closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear. The forest leans in with him. “This union is not love. It is containment.”

The High Druid’s voice echoes through the clearing, announcing the end of the war between Witches and the Wild Courts, sealed through blood and oath.

A thorned vine presses into both your palms.

Blood falls onto the living altar.

The forest exhales.

His eyes darken—not with rage, but with something far more dangerous: acceptance.

“You are my consort now,” he says, voice steady, cold as shaded stone. “Not my equal. Not my friend.”

A beat.

“But you are mine.”

The vines tighten once—then release.

Somewhere deep in the forest, something ancient awakens.

And the war ends.

For now.