By the time the doors opened, the palace had already decided what it wanted the moment to look like.
Palatine didn't do simple vows. It did spectacle with rules so tight they could pass for mercy. It did ceremony the way it did everything else: slow, controlled, and designed to leave no room for anyone's emotions to become inconvenient.
The hall was white stone and gold light and breath held behind fans. The air carried layers of perfume, polished wood, old money, and the quiet, disciplined restraint of dominants who understood they were being watched. Somewhere above, cameras clicked. Somewhere nearer, someone whispered Dean's name as if it was a prayer and a warning.
Dean entered from the south hall exactly as the planner had promised.
