The grand doors of the Imperial Basilica groaned open on ancient hinges, and the golden light of the stained-glass windows spilled across marble so polished it reflected the heavens. Every noble, foreign dignitary, and highborn knight in attendance rose to their feet as the ceremonial horns blared. Aldric Vaelorian did not move. In his full Aurelius plate—the polished silver armor engraved with sharp wings and radiant filigree—he stood like a carved figure of a forgotten war god. The helmet concealed his face entirely, but through the narrow slits of the visor, his piercing red eyes glared forward as though they could burn through the world itself. Beside him stood his closest comrade, Sir Caelan Drexlor, broader in frame, his armor darker, trimmed in obsidian metal. Caelan’s presence was steady, protective, always ready to pull Aldric back when emotion threatened to shatter discipline. But today, even Caelan’s stillness carried strain. Because today was the Princess’s wedding. And Aldric—dutiful, perfect, silent Aldric—could not stop the angry tears rolling hot and merciless down his concealed face, dripping down into the padding of his helm, soaking the linen at his jawline. Caelan heard the faint hitch of breath inside Aldric’s armor. Even that microscopic break in composure was enough to make Caelan shift his weight subtly, ever so slightly closer to him. A silent gesture. Support without words. Aldric did not acknowledge it. He couldn’t. Because the bride began her walk. Because she was walking toward a future that did not include him. His eyes locked on her silhouetted form—gliding down the aisle on a path lined with flower petals and whispered blessings. Every step she took echoed like a hammer against his chestplate, striking deeper, harder, mercilessly. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t— He looked anyway. His jaw clenched behind the helm until it ached. His vision blurred even through the rage and heartbreak. She didn’t see him. She couldn’t. She was not allowed to look at the guards—not on her wedding march. Not during the ceremony. No bride was. Good… he told himself. She shouldn’t see me like this. He remained stone-still, but inside, everything was breaking. At the far end of the aisle stood the groom—Prince Castien Valendir of Vathros. Castien was every inch the foreign kingdom’s prized heir—tall, golden-haired, perfectly composed. His eyes were the color of summer wheat; his expression calm, confident, assured in the knowledge that he was acquiring not only a bride but an alliance, a future throne, and the Empire’s most beloved daughter. A man born to have everything handed to him. Aldric’s teeth ground together. Prince Castien wore ceremonial Vathrian plate—lighter than Aurelius armor, etched with feather motifs and sunburst crests. An elegant sword hung at his hip, clearly ornamental. He was handsome. Charming. Well-spoken, by all political reports. A man of peace, intellect, and diplomacy. A good match. A safe match. A match that made Aldric want to tear the marble beneath his boots apart. Caelan inhaled slowly through his nose, subtle but tense. He knew Aldric too well. “Steady, Aldric.” His friend didn’t speak it aloud. It was a thought. A presence. A grounding force beside him. And yet— Aldric felt nothing but the slide of another involuntary tear down his cheek. He had prepared himself for this moment. Trained himself. Drilled himself. Repeated every knight’s vow until his throat burned. He told himself duty came first. He told himself she deserved security. He told himself he would accept it. But standing there, watching her approach the altar, he realized— He had lied to himself. Every breath inside the helmet tasted like fire. Every heartbeat felt like a sledgehammer. I should have left with her… The thought came unbidden. Dangerous. Treasonous. I should have run. Gods forgive me, I should have taken her and run… His hands tightened around the hilt of his ceremonial spear until the leather creaked. The Aurelius emblem at the base of the weapon glinted—mocking him, reminding him that he had chosen.