The wedding

The morning sun spilled gold across the castle courtyard, catching the delicate embroidery of Flora’s wedding gown. Her white hair shimmered like silk under the sunlight, and her red eyes glimmered—not with fear, but with quiet joy. Slim and graceful, her presence seemed almost otherworldly, like a saint walking among mortals.

Across from her, the groom named Marcus waited. His eyes—one black, one green—watched her with a mix of awe and unspoken promises. His skin was pale with just a hint of brown, and his hands, rough from years of command, flexed instinctively at his sides. His frame, strong and muscular, radiated both authority and protection.

The court had gathered, noble families lining the hall, yet all eyes seemed to rest on them alone. This marriage was no political arrangement—it was born from the purest love, a bond nurtured by care, respect, and understanding. Both families had approved wholeheartedly, for they saw in their children a rare and sacred devotion.

The priest’s voice carried across the hall, solemn and steady. “Do you, Flora, take Marcus to be your husband?”

Flora’s hand found his, warm and steady. “I do,” she whispered, though her heart raced so wildly it could have drowned out her voice.

“And you, Marcus?”

“I do,” he said, eyes locking onto hers, letting every ounce of love and promise shine through.

The bells rang, voices rose in celebration, and for that moment, nothing existed beyond the love that bloomed between the bride and her groom—the Queen who would soon face a world aflame, and the King who would fight to protect her at any cost.

Flora squeezed his hand. “Forever, then?” she murmured, leaning slightly closer.

“Forever,” Marcus replied softly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Their lips met, soft and lingering, a promise sealed in the quiet intimacy of the crowded hall. Time seemed to stretch as they moved together, hearts beating in harmony, forgetting the world beyond the golden walls.

The day flowed in a golden blur—feet sweeping across polished floors, laughter drifting in the air. They danced not just with nobles draped in velvet and silk, but with commoners whose hands bore the calluses of labor. Every smile returned, every bow and curtsy exchanged, carried warmth.

“I never imagined it could feel like this,” Flora whispered as they twirled.

Marcus chuckled, brushing a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “It’s because it’s real. Us. Nothing else matters today.”

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the courtyard, and still they moved together, lost in each other, lost in the perfection of the day.

Night draped the castle in soft shadows. Flora stood on the balcony, the cool breeze brushing her white hair across her face. Clutched in her hand, the ring glimmered faintly in the moonlight, a tether to the love that filled her heart.

Marcus approached silently, placing a hand on her waist. “You’re thinking about the moon again,” he said gently.

“I am,” she replied. “It’s so beautiful tonight… I wish it could always feel like this.”

He bent slightly, pressing a brief kiss against her cheek. “Then we’ll make our world feel like this, wherever we go.”

Flora’s arms tightened around him. “I hope so,” she whispered, feeling the warmth of his body ground her like nothing else in the world.

Time slowed, stretching the intimacy of the moment. Even as the world slept, their hearts spoke, echoing promises of shared life, whispered only in glances, gentle touches, and the quiet beating of two souls bound together.

The light of dawn cut through the curtains, waking Flora from her slumber. She slowly opened her eyes, stretching with a soft yawn. Memories of their wedding day and night washed over her like a dream. Her most cherished wish had been fulfilled—she had married the man she deeply, truly loved. Everything felt too perfect to be real.

Turning to her side, she reached out. “Marcus?” she murmured, expecting him to be there.

The sheets were empty, still faintly warm, but he was gone. A flicker of worry crossed her face. She rang the small bell at her bedside.

Lauren, her loyal maid, appeared swiftly. “He’s already gone to his duties,” the maid explained, bowing respectfully.

Flora exhaled slowly, a mixture of longing and pride swelling in her chest. “Always working,” she murmured softly. “Even on the first morning we share.”

Lauren smiled faintly. “He does care, Your Majesty. Always.”

The maid guided Flora through her morning duties, and soon the empress arrived at her private office. Pushing open the carved wooden door, she was greeted by two towering stacks of parchment resting on the desk.

Flora lowered herself into the chair. “So much to do…” she whispered under her breath, though her eyes sparkled with determination. Picking up her ink pen, she began to write, her strokes firm, graceful, and deliberate. Each mark was a promise to the empire, and to Marcus, that she would be both a queen of heart and mind.

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