Cassian Vale hated paperwork.
He hated it with a quiet, enduring fury. The kind that did not show on his face but settled deep in his bones like an old wound. He would rather stand knee-deep in mud with arrows flying past his throat than sit behind a polished desk drowning in reports, requisitions, treaties, and letters stamped with seals that meant more than men's lives ever seemed to.
But he sat anyway.
The study was stark and disciplined, much like its owner. Maps covered one wall, marked with pins and faded scars of past campaigns. Ledgers lay stacked in precise order. Orders waited for his signature— troop rotations, supply allocations, border patrol schedules, disciplinary reports.
Cassian's hand moved steadily across parchment, signing his name again and again.
Vale.
Vale.
Vale.
Each stroke was controlled. Precise. Detached.
This was the work of a high-ranking official. The work of a man whose authority extended far beyond the battlefield. The Empire demanded not only blood and steel, but ink.
And Cassian complied. He always did.
The door to his office opened without ceremony.
"Still alive in here, I see."
Cassian did not look up. "You're loud for a man who claims to be a diplomat."
A laugh followed, warm and irreverent, utterly out of place in the severe room.
General Lucien Marrow stepped inside, dressed not in field armor but in a tailored uniform adorned with insignia of rank and office. Where Cassian was all sharp lines and restraint, Lucien carried himself with an ease earned through words rather than blades— dark hair pulled back loosely, eyes quick and observant, smile perpetually halfway to trouble.
They had survived the academy together. That kind of bond never truly faded.
Lucien dropped into the chair opposite Cassian's desk, propping his boots up without asking permission.
"Gods," he said, glancing at the paperwork. "I've seen mass graves that looked more inviting."
Cassian signed another document. "You're welcome to leave."
"And miss this?" Lucien gestured dramatically. "The great War General buried alive by parchment? Never."
Lucien leaned forward, grinning. "You know, your wedding is in a week."
Cassian's pen did not pause. "So I've been informed."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "That's it? No anticipation? No escape attempts? No dramatic refusal at the altar?"
"I have duties," Cassian replied coolly. "They don't stop because of a ceremony."
Lucien chuckled. "You're unbelievable. Most men would be drowning in wine and anxiety. You're drowning in supply manifests."
"I'm a soldier before anything else."
Lucien laughed again but this time, the sound faded too quickly.
He studied Cassian more carefully now. The bruises long faded. The stiffness in his posture. The way his gaze never lingered anywhere too long.
Lucien's smile softened. "…Cass."
Cassian finally looked up.
The use of his shortened name— rare, familiar— signaled a shift.
Lucien folded his hands together. "What are you going to do about Seraphine?"
The question settled into the room like a blade laid gently on a table.
Cassian's expression did not change. But something behind his eyes hardened.
Lucien had known. Of course he had. He'd seen it years ago— the way Cassian went quiet whenever Seraphine's name was mentioned, the way he lingered near balconies and gardens he otherwise despised, the way a man famous for brutality learned gentleness in precisely one place.
Lucien had never mocked him for it. Only watched. But he enjoy every moment of seeing his best friend struck by cupid.
"She is no longer my concern," Cassian said flatly.
Lucien didn't smile this time.
"That's not true," he said quietly. "And you know it."
Cassian returned his gaze to the document before him. "Feelings are irrelevant."
Lucien leaned forward. "Cass… I've seen you carry men off battlefields with half your own blood soaking into your uniform. I've seen you hold dying soldiers in your arms like you could keep them alive by force of will alone."
Cassian's jaw tightened.
"You don't give parts of yourself easily," Lucien continued. "But when you do—"
Cassian interrupted him.
"I will handle it," he said, voice cold and final. "The same way I handled it when Lieutenant Rowan died in my arms."
Lucien went silent. The air changed.
Cassian did not look at him when he continued. "I closed my eyes. I gave the order to advance. And I never spoke his name again."
Lucien swallowed. "That's not—" he began, then stopped.
Cassian finally looked up. His eyes were calm. Empty.
"That is how soldiers survive," Cassian said. "We bury what cannot be carried forward."
Lucien stared at him, something like grief flickering across his face.
"…You loved her," Lucien said softly.
Cassian said nothing. Which was answer enough.
Lucien stood slowly, boots touching the floor at last. He straightened his coat, suddenly all diplomat again.
"I hope," he said quietly, "that what you bury doesn't claw its way back out."
Cassian returned to his paperwork. Lucien left without another word.
The door closed. Ink scratched against parchment once more.
Vale.
Vale.
Vale.
Outside, the Empire stood unbroken.
And inside the War General's chest, something long restrained waited—
silent, patient, unforgiving.
---
The capital woke dressed in celebration.
Banners bearing the Empire's sigil hung from marble balconies. Bells rang from dawn until noon. Nobles filled the streets in silks and polished boots, whispering with anticipation that carried equal parts envy and unease.
The War General was to be married.
Some watched with admiration. Some with calculation. Some with quiet dread.
And some— though they never said it aloud— watched waiting for something to go wrong.
The grand hall of vows was filled to its arches. Gold and white drapery softened the stone, flowers arranged in careful excess to disguise the fact that this union was not born of love, but of command.
Cassian Vale stood at the altar long before anyone else arrived.
He wore ceremonial uniform instead of armor— rayadillo tailored to perfection, medals aligned, sword removed in deference to the sanctity of the hall. He stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward.
He looked like a man awaiting orders. Not a groom awaiting his bride.
When Marienne entered, the hall stirred.
She was radiant by any courtly standard. Lace and silk cascading like sunlight, veil embroidered with imperial sigils, smile practiced and flawless. Whispers followed her steps.
She looks victorious. She looks proud. She looks like she won.
Marienne saw Cassian, and her smile widened instinctively. But it wavered.
Because Cassian did not look at her the way men looked at their brides. He acknowledged her presence the way he acknowledged reinforcements arriving on a battlefield: with awareness, not emotion.
She reached the altar. Took her place beside him. He did not offer his arm.
The ceremony began.
Vows were spoken. Blessings invoked. Promises recited that spoke of unity, legacy, and the Empire's enduring strength. Cassian answered when prompted, voice firm, respectful, perfectly measured.
Marienne answered with warmth. With hope. With brightness that strained against something immovable beside her.
Then came the final words.
The priest smiled broadly, voice echoing. "You may now seal this union."
Marienne turned to Cassian, her eyes shining, her heart lifting despite everything. This was the moment. The symbol. The proof.
She tilted her face upward, lips parted, waiting.
Cassian looked down at her. And stopped. He did not move.
The hall held its breath. A heartbeat passed. Then another.
Cassian did not lean forward. Did not touch her cheek. Did not kiss her lips, her brow, her hand— nothing.
He simply stood there. Cold. Still. Composed. Like a man waiting for applause at an award ceremony.
The silence stretched until it became unmistakable.
Awkward.
The priest shifted uncomfortably. Marienne's smile trembled. Cassian's gaze held hers— flat, distant, unreadable. There was no cruelty in it. No malice.
Only absence.
At last, after a moment that felt far too long, the priest cleared his throat and moved on, voice slightly strained as he declared the union complete.
Polite applause followed. Too polite. Too restrained.
Marienne's cheeks burned beneath her veil, but she kept smiling. She always smiled. She stood taller, convinced herself this meant nothing. That Cassian was simply reserved. That affection came later.
The celebration continued. Toasts were raised. Music played. Cassian fulfilled every obligation expected of him: standing beside Marienne, accepting congratulations, bowing to the Emperor.
But he never touched her. Never leaned close. Never whispered. Never smiled.
By the end of the night, whispers followed Marienne wherever she went.
"Did you see his face?"
"He didn't even kiss her."
"He looked like he was being decorated for service."
Some pitied her. Quietly. Behind fans and goblets. Some laughed— softly, cruelly, behind closed doors.
And Cassian? Cassian completed the day the same way he completed every duty. Without deviation. Without warmth. Without regret he allowed himself to feel.
He did not look back as he left the hall. He did not look for Seraphine. He did not look for anyone.
Marienne did not yet know it. But as the bells rang and the Empire celebrated, her marriage had already begun the way it would continue.
Dull. Loveless. And watched by a world that would never let her forget it.