“STOP!”
A three-foot barricade of sheer blonde defiance blocked his path—arms stretched wide, head high, hair radiating judgnt. Mnemosyne’s Aeons stood planted, the final defense of dignity, all twenty kilograms of it.
“Papa, you haven’t said the vow yet!” she announced, with all the solemn authority of a tiny deity in ribbons.
“The vow?” Burn arched a brow, his voice dragging with disdain. “To whom should I vow my words? Am I not the Emperor of Netherre? No one stands above in this realm. I’ve brought witnesses. I’ve brought riches. All of it—this entire realm—is already mine. So who dares receive the promise of my word and hold a blade to my neck if I break it?”
“Mama will,” the little girl replied, lips pouting into a weapon more effective than steel.
And that, inconveniently, was legally sound.
With both their sets of parents long gone and no higher authority alive (or foolish enough to try), the arrangent had been made. The vow would be given directly—groom to bride. No interdiaries. No crown above them.
“So that’s how it is.” Burn’s lips curled into the faintest smile, one that promised to behave. “If Madam demands it, I shall comply.”
From behind the curtain, a pale hand reached forward. White lace clung to its form—not heavy, not ornate, rely honest. It was a hand made for spellcraft and soul-tempered writing, more used to mana and fire than flowers. A soft blur of veins beneath skin too fair, too perfect for a world this stained.
Then Yvain stepped forward.
Draped in ceremonial regalia, crown angled in deep respect, the boy moved with the ghost of old rites. He mirrored the bride’s outstretched gesture, his own hand raised—not for himself, but as her surrogate.
Burn raised his own.
And at the sa ti, the little blonde priestess grabbed the bride’s hand on her side of the curtain, forming a chain of reverence. The Emperor and the bride, finally connected—through interdiaries too beautiful and too small to be practical, but precisely correct in the way of myths.
“Say your prayers, Your Majesty,” Yvain intoned, voice low and steady.
Burn gave one nod, closed his eyes, and summoned sothing inward. Sothing private. He said his prayers—not for the crowd, not for the sky—but for himself. When he opened his eyes, he nodded again.
Yvain inhaled, his voice catching just slightly with nerves before formality returned to him like armor. “I give you Lucia of Elle, Morgan of the Fairy, daughter of Elysian, in marriage, with the dowry of the realm of Netherre.”
Burn didn’t wait.
“I accept Lucia of Elle, Morgan of the Fairy, daughter of Elysian, in marriage, with the agreed dowry of the realm of Netherre.”
The words ca fast—half hunger, half fear that the ceremony might vanish before he finished speaking. Not that anyone would dare interrupt, but so parts of him still lived in war. And this was the only conquest that made his hands shake.
Yvain stared, blinked, then found his voice. “Legitimate!”
“LEGITIMATE!” echoed the crowd, erupting in cheer.
And just like that, the most powerful man in existence got married through a toddler and a teenager playing tag-team officiants.
He wouldn’t have had it any other way.
In Burn’s chest, sothing delicate sparked and swelled—a tide of tingling warmth rising and falling in rhythm, subtle but relentless. His mind was lit with glittering static, his vision edged with color. He should have been embarrassed for blurting out his vow with the urgency of a man catching a dropped jewel, but there was no sha. Not when it was her.
“Papa!” Yvain launched into his arms, small, fast, joyful. Burn caught him easily, arms closing around him like instinct. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you,” he said, his voice gentler than usual, seeing little Nemo barrelling in right behind.
“Congrats, Papa!” she bead, cheeks round with glee, gold hair bouncing like a banner of mischief.
“Thank you, Ain. Nemo.”
The congratulations ca from all around—Aroche, Isaiah, the Round Table, the chamber, the world—and then the noise stopped.
The hush ca not from command, but revelation. The kind of stillness that didn’t ask for attention but demanded it.
The bride had risen.
Inside the circle of silk curtains—paper-thin, ceremonial, never truly concealing—Morgan Le Fay stood from her throne. A faint breeze stirred her veil, catching in her golden hair like the prelude to sothing biblical. And the sky, dutifully transford into a nation-wide screen, captured it all.
No more veils. No more barriers. The world saw her.
She had been too beautiful even obscured. But now, unveiled, unguarded—her beauty struck like divine punishnt. Calamitous. That was the only word that dared describe it. Nations had burned for less. Fortunes had fallen for eyes less steady. But she was Morgan Le Fay. She could raze a kingdom with a sentence. She didn’t need her beauty.
She stepped down.
And behind her, the bridesmaids erged—like spirits released from a shrine—giggling, trailing soft silks and shared secrets.
Behind Burn, Aroche appeared like a very efficient but deeply amused ghost, handing him three rolls of betel leaf filled with areca flower, uncaria, slaked li, and black tobacco, wrapped with ceremonial silk thread. “Throw!” the man muttered, pushing Burn forward.
Burn, mighty emperor, master of war, conqueror of realms… awkwardly lobbed the offerings. One hit her forehead, one her chest, one her knee. All according to the ancient rites. All deeply embarrassing.
Morgan, radiant and rciless, accepted them with no change in expression. Then Bella, dutiful, delighted, and possibly trying not to laugh, passed her three rolls in return.
Morgan’s aim was impeccable. Burn took one to the chest, one to the knee, and possibly one to the pride. The people cooed, which sohow made it worse.
The symbolism was ancient. Pure. A greeting between bride and groom. An exchange of affection, loyalty, and lifelong respect.
It also involved being pelted in public.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
From behind the procession, Shorof and Nahwu entered, carrying two trays with far too much excitent. One held a single egg cradled in petals. The other, a basin of water.
They placed them ceremonially at Burn’s feet and fled.
He stared down, expression flat, soul weeping quietly. Galahad appeared on cue to help remove his shoes with all the gravity of preparing a king for martyrdom.
On the other side, Bella and Tashr guided Morgan to her knees.
Burn stepped on the egg.
There was a sickeningly soft crunch. Yolk bled into the petals, mixing white and gold into a perfect little symbol of fertility that made every soul in the chamber squirm just slightly.
Morgan, calm as dawn, exchanged trays, removed her gloves, and washed his foot in the basin. No spell. No illusion. Just her bare hands, water, and the slow burn of reverence.
Tashr handed her a towel. She dried his foot, precise, unfaltering. Then let him put his shoes back on with the sa silent grace she reserved for war.
If the world had ever wanted to see a man at the brink of emotional combustion, this was the mont. The screen caught it all. The sharp breath. The reddening ears. The twitch of a jaw holding back whatever passed for sha in a man who had burned empires.
He stood in full regalia, crown high, surrounded by his knights and subjects, and looked seconds away from lting into ceremonial goo.
But then again, every wedding, in every kingdom, in every age, found so way to humiliate the groom.
Even when he was emperor.
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I'm having a serious writer's block. If you see at Patreon, the last advanced chapters are chapters 305 and 306. Though I am sure I can build it up slowly to 20 advanced chapters again, it'll need so ti. Don't worry, normal updates won't take any hit I promise. I'm blaming my pre graduation prep. Going ho, relative visits, moving out of dorm, paperworks... It's crazy. Isn't this why we all hate paperworks, social shit and bureaucracy? :'vvv
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