The bells of Duskmoore tolled before dawn,
their deep resonance echoing across the spires and down through the city streets.
By sunrise, the palace was alive with ceremony. Flowers wove through silver archways, moonstones glittered along the aisles, and the air shimmered faintly with incense and quiet awe.
King Valaen Duskmoore stood before the altar, draped in a royal blue wedding robe trimmed with fine silver threads. The fabric shimmered beneath the morning light, each stitch a declaration of lineage and duty. His hair was swept neatly back, his crimson eyes cold yet composed, the weight of the crown pressing unseen on his shoulders.
When Lyra entered, the hall fell silent. Her gown was spun from silk the color of frost and moonlight, flowing like water as she walked. Silver lace framed her bodice, and her veil, embroidered with Ashmoor sigils, drifted behind her like mist.
Every step she took glowed faintly in the torchlight; graceful, measured, perfect.
Valaen's gaze flickered, not out of love, but recognition of the balance she represented.
The Ashmoor family was strong, politically sharp, and loyal to the throne. This union would heal fractures left by the betrayal that still haunted him.
As Lyra reached him, she curtsied deeply. "My King."
He inclined his head. "My Queen."
The priest began the vows, his voice deep and measured. The hall was so quiet that every word echoed.
"Do you, King Valaen Duskmoore, take Lyra of Ashmoor to be your Luna, your partner in reign, your bond through moon and blood?"
Valaen's voice was steady. "I do."
"And do you, Lyra of Ashmoor, vow to stand beside the King, to serve the realm and its people as Luna of Duskmoore?"
"I do," she answered softly, her tone carrying warmth that almost felt real.
The priest lifted his hands. "Then before the eyes of the Moon and the Spirits of the Pack, I bind your souls as one."
The crowd erupted in applause. Gold petals rained from the balconies. The sound of trumpets filled the air.
Lyra turned to face him with a gentle smile, and for the first time in weeks, Valaen's chest felt—lighter. Maybe this truly was the start of something new.
He offered her his hand as they walked down the aisle together. Outside, the courtyard was alive with cheering citizens, banners fluttering in the wind. Children threw flower petals beneath their feet. For the people of Duskmoore, this was a moment of rebirth, an end to grief, the beginning of unity.
By evening, the palace had transformed into a sea of gold and silver. The banquet tables overflowed with roast venison, spiced fruits, and honeyed wine. Laughter and music filled the great hall as nobles from every house raised their goblets to the new royal pair.
Valaen sat at the head table beside Lyra, her smile gentle as ever, her eyes glancing often toward him as though seeking reassurance that he was truly there beside her. He managed a faint nod. This was what he'd chosen, peace, stability, duty.
Lyra's father, Lord Ashmoor, stood suddenly, goblet in hand, his heavy robes rustling as he moved. His wife followed, eyes gleaming with pride.
"To His Majesty, our noble King," Lord Ashmoor began, his deep voice commanding the room. "And to our beloved daughter, now Queen of Duskmoore! This day ties House Ashmoor to the crown forevermore, through honor, through loyalty, and through the blessing of the Moon itself."
The room cheered, goblets lifted high. Lord Ashmoor circled around the long table, coming to stand behind his daughter. With a playful grin, he nudged Lyra lightly on the shoulder, his voice warm with laughter.
"You've done your old man proud, my dear. Who would've thought the little girl who used to chase fireflies through our gardens would one day sit beside a king?"
Lyra's cheeks flushed faintly. "Father…"
Her mother chuckled softly beside him. "Let him have his moment, love. He's been rehearsing that line since dawn."
Even Valaen allowed a small, polite smile. Lord Ashmoor's joy was infectious, and the hall seemed to glow brighter with each toast.
But not everyone in attendance shared that joy.
From the lower table, a tall man in dark robes stood slowly, his goblet catching the light. "A fine match indeed," said Lord Verrin of East Marches, voice smooth as silk. "May this union bring as much fortune to the crown as it clearly has to House Ashmoor."
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
The air shifted, a faint murmur rippling through the hall. Everyone could feel the edge beneath his words—the envy, the bitterness. Verrin's own daughter had once been a rumored match for Valaen, a rumor that had now died with this ceremony.
Lord Ashmoor's jaw tightened, but he raised his glass again with unbothered poise. "Fortune favors loyalty, Lord Verrin. It seems my family has simply been… consistent."
Laughter rippled through the guests, easing the tension. Verrin's smile faltered slightly as he sat down, his pride bruised but his resentment far from gone.
Valaen remained silent through it all, observing. Politics, pride, hidden daggers—this was the world he knew too well. Yet tonight, he wanted none of it. For the first time in months, he wanted only quiet.
When the music began again, Lyra leaned toward him, her hand brushing his beneath the table. "You haven't spoken much tonight," she said softly. "Are you alright?"
He looked at her, seeing not the woman he loved, but the one he'd chosen to believe in. "I will be," he said simply.
Her eyes softened. "Then let's make sure tomorrow starts with peace."
He nodded. "Tomorrow, yes."
Later that night, as the guests drifted away and the music faded into silence, Valaen found himself standing alone by the balcony. The city of Duskmoore stretched beneath him, glittering under the moonlight. His hands rested against the railing, and he exhaled slowly.
The night wind carried the scent of rain and desert sand, stirring something faint inside him; something old, painful, and buried.