The day of the Autumn Equinox Ball arrived, and the Imperial Palace transformed into a spectacle of light, music, and shimmering robes. The air was electric, thick with anticipation—not just for the lavish party, but for the official announcement that would change Imperial history.
Despite the formal resistance from the Grand Council, on the night itself, the atmosphere was simply too grand, too distracting, and too exciting for petty prejudice. Courtiers were busy admiring the Empress's jewels, gossiping about the new Archduke's terrible dancing, and tasting the exotic, forbidden dishes flown in from the Southern territories.
Everyone was too busy and excited to care if the future consort was a man or a donkey. The sheer audacity of the event, the glamour, and the importance of the Crown Prince's happiness overshadowed the traditional concerns about heirs and lineage. The mood was one of the celebratory revolution.
Riven stood beside Vaelorian, looking utterly magnificent in his newly tailored ceremonial robes—a deep sapphire that matched the Prince's Imperial purple. He held himself with the quiet confidence of a man who knew he had earned his place. He had his friends around him: Barron and Willow exchanging thrilled looks, Anya shedding happy tears in the corner, and Mira Lune nodding with proud approval.
But the true significance of the night resonated far beyond the walls of the Palace. Across the Empire, in humble taverns, quiet farms, and guarded noble houses, there were thousands of people with Vaelorian and Riven's kind of relationship—relationships that had to be hidden, whispered about, or denied entirely. These people had followed the story with nervous hope, seeing their own silent struggle reflected in the Prince's quiet fight.
When the Imperial herald finally sounded the call and Vaelorian led Riven to the center of the ballroom, the quiet awe in the room was palpable. The Prince didn't just stand Riven beside him; he faced him, took his hands, and looked at him with an open, pure love the entire world could see.
For those watching, whether in the room or hearing the news carried on the wind to the farthest corners of the realm, everyone felt seen and represented. The Empire's highest authority had just sanctioned their quiet, secret loves. It was more than a betrothal; it was an acknowledgment of their love.
The Emperor's voice boomed over the crowd, but the formal words were less important than the simple act:
"It is with great joy that we announce the official betrothal of our son, Crown Prince Vaelorian Darius Valemere, to Lord Riven Elric Ashbourne of House Ashbourne."
The cheers were deafening, the celebratory applause overwhelming. Vaelorian took the elaborate betrothal torque—a thick chain of gold and sapphire—and gently fastened it around Riven's neck.
Riven reached up, touching the cold metal, his eyes filled with the depth of his commitment. He smiled at Vaelorian, a smile that promised loyalty, love, and a lifetime of shared adventure. And so, the two are engaged. They had faced the Empire, tradition, and personal demons, and they had won.
The Imperial Palace remained in a state of high celebration for days following the announcement. The atmosphere was one of triumphant relief, and the Grand Ball felt less like a political necessity and more like the biggest party the Empire had seen in a generation.
Riven and Vaelorian were the center of attention, moving through the celebrations with a shared, confident grace. They were inseparable, their gentle glances and easy laughter silencing any remaining skeptics. Vaelorian, now openly affectionate, kept a possessive hand on Riven's back or shoulder, broadcasting his joy and commitment to the Court.
Riven, fully embracing his role, handled the endless stream of congratulations with practiced ease. He accepted the fawning praise of the nobles, deflected the loaded questions of the diplomats, and shared genuine, heartfelt moments with those who had risked much to support them.
Barron and Willow were their constant, protective satellites, ensuring no overly enthusiastic courtier spilled wine on Riven's magnificent new robes. Anya and Mira Lune blended perfectly into the crowd, exchanging knowing looks with Riven from across the room—their presence a physical proof of their loyalty and a reminder of the life Riven had fought to build.
The most telling sign of their success was the deluge of congratulatory messages that poured into the Palace. Every major Lord, General, and trading entity sent well wishes, affirming their support for the Crown Prince's decision. The sheer volume of positive reaction confirmed that the Empire, tired of political strife, was ready to embrace the stability Riven offered.
But the most unexpected message came from a source Riven and Vaelorian both instantly recognized: Princess Lyra of the Sovereign Empire. The scroll, delivered by a high-ranking envoy, was addressed personally to the engaged couple. It was brief, elegant, and sincere.
Vaelorian read the note aloud to Riven in the quiet of their chambers later that evening: "To Prince Vaelorian and Lord Riven, my sincerest best wishes on your union. May your bond bring you the happiness and peace that all alliances should strive for. I bear no ill will, only respect for two individuals who successfully fought for their own truth. May your reign be as prosperous as your commitment is fierce."
—Princess Lyra
Riven let out a long breath. "She is so freaking unpredictable," he murmured, relief washing over him. Lyra's blessing was vital; it signaled to the entire Continent that the broken betrothal had ended not in diplomatic disaster, but in a respectful, mutual agreement.
Vaelorian set the scroll aside and pulled Riven close. "No enemies, no ill will, my parents are pleased, and the whole world knows about us." he summarized, burying his face in Riven's hair. "We actually did it, my love."
Riven wrapped his arms around the Prince, the feeling of the betrothal torque cool and heavy against his chest. "We did. And I wouldn't trade this for anything in the world."