The wedding wasn’t just a ceremony. It was a war of taste, power, and unapologetic excess.

Emma Frost stood at the top of the marble staircase in couture so sharp it could cut diamonds, her veil held in place by psionic will and a crown no mortal designer dared claim. Below, the garden glimmered—floating candles, glistening ice sculptures, mutant royalty seated like nobles at Olympus.

And across the aisle? Her soon-to-be wife, just as radiant, just as terrifying.

Neither had compromised. Not on the dress. Not on the vows. Not on anything.

When two queens marry, no one walks down the aisle. They meet in the middle—and the world watches.