The wedding venue smelled of melting beeswax, cedar, and thousands of fresh white lilies-- a crisp, sterile sweetness that made the back of Cael Alexander's throat itch.
Cael stood at the head of the altar, his hands loosely folded in front of his black suit.
He kept his eyes fixed on the heavy, carved oak doors at the far end of the wedding venue.
The officiant, a grey-haired man adjusting a silver lapel pin, leaned in slightly. "Ready?" he asked quietly, offering a warm, reassuring smile.
Cael didn't take his gaze off those closed doors. A small, extraordinarily rare smile touched the corner of his lips. "I've been ready for six years."
A quiet scoff came from two feet away. Alistair Triste stood in his charcoal suit, checking his cuff links with deadpan precision. He caught the expression on Cael's face and raised an eyebrow.
"You actually smiled," Alistair muttered, his voice dry as bone. "I should call a medical team."
