CHAPTER 45: RUNAWAY HEARTS

[Grand Ceremonial Hall, Wedding Hour]

Silas stood beneath the grand arch of fire lilies and enchanted wisteria—an explosion of crimson and twilight-purple blossoms swirling with softly enchanted light. The petals shifted with every breath of magic in the air, casting flickering patterns across his robe like dancing flames.

And what a robe it was!

Tailored in the ancient style of the Grand Dukes of old—long and regal, stitched with centuries of legacy—it shimmered black as starlit midnight, the fabric dense with obsidian thread and whispers of ancestral enchantment. Golden embroidery coiled down his sleeves in the shape of ancient dragons and crowned wolves—symbols of power, loyalty, and legacy. His shoulders were capped in structured armor silk, layered for elegance and quiet intimidation. The deep-cut collar exposed a sliver of his collarbone, where a ceremonial sapphire burned with quiet fire.

He looked like a storm carved into flesh. Sharp. Imposing. Unapologetically royal.

And around him—chaos disguised as elegance.

The ceremonial hall was full to bursting—every noble family, foreign envoy, and self-important ambassador packed in like jeweled sardines. Silks rustled. Fans fluttered. Goblets clinked with whisperwine and scandal.

And above it all, the royal choir sang—a celestial melody woven with six-part harmonies, enchanted to project peace and divine calm.

It wasn’t working.

Silas could feel the ripples of tension snaking through the room. Whispers slid across velvet carpets. Eyes tracked his every breath. Half the room was rooting for a perfect love story.

The other half was waiting for it to burn.

At the front of the altar stood High Priest Caldris, adorned in golden robes that shimmered like melted sun. His face was carved in lines of patience and pretense, his scrolls glowing with light runes. But his eyes? Sharp. Curious. Almost predatory.

He cleared his throat, loud enough to be heard through the choir’s crescendo.

"Where is the bride?" he asked, with a thinly veiled curl of disdain beneath the velvet of his voice.

Silas didn’t even look at him as he replied flatly, "He’s not a bride. He’s the groom. Just prettier than everyone here."

There was a pause. Then—

"Ahh." The high priest smirked. "Yes, I forget your duchy’s... unique choices. I never imagined you would marry a man."

Silas turned his head slightly. Just enough for his stare to cut across the space like a blade. "I don’t live according to your imagination, High Priest Caldris."

That earned a chuckle from the older man, dry as dust. "Indeed. But forgive me, Your Grace... I was merely wondering aloud about the matter of heirs."

He leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping in pitch.

"Because you see, even your imagination does not produce children. Not with another man. Unless..."

A pause.

A smirk.

"...he is an omega."

Silas’s gaze hardened.

"Please, High Priest," he said coldly, "concern yourself with your scrolls, your holy ink, and the direction of your incense. Not my husband’s biology."

Caldris raised both brows, feigning innocence. "My, my... Such a temper, Grand Duke. A dangerous thing to carry into a marriage."

"I carry more dangerous things than temper," Silas said darkly. "Trust me."

The priest chuckled softly and stepped back, clearly enjoying himself. "Of that," he said, "I have no doubt."

Silas turned away, jaw clenched just enough to make the gold chain at his neck tremble. He scanned the crowd again, the grand hall stretching like a theater carved in gold and politics—and yet all he could feel was the aching absence of one person.

He leaned toward Callen and his second knight, Elize, who stood at the edge of the dais like a sentinel with a clipboard and a hidden sword.

"Where is Lucien?"

Callen didn’t blink. "He was in the bridal chamber twenty minutes ago. Marcel and the stylists confirmed he was dressed. He’s not in the hallway now. I’ll check again. Personally."

"Do it," Silas said. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. Power echoed in every syllable.

Callen bowed and left, disappearing into the corridor like a shadow sent on a mission.

The High Priest hummed quietly to himself, inspecting his holy scrolls with the smug serenity of a man who’d seen too many scandals unfold like theater.

Silas adjusted his cuffs again.

Slowly. Deliberately.

And then—

The echo of hurried footsteps broke through the music.

Callen appeared at the edge of the dais, face pale and breath short, cloak fluttering behind him like a trailing panic.

Silas turned. Instantly alert.

"My Grace..." Callen bent forward, voice low, controlled—but just barely. "Baron Lucien is... not in his bridal chamber."

Silas’s eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—he’s gone. The room is empty. The attendants left after dressing him, and when they returned with the ceremonial gloves, he was nowhere to be found."

The murmuring in the hall grew louder, like a tide crashing into marble.

Silas’s hands clenched at his sides. "Search the guest wings."

"We did."

"The gardens?"

"Empty."

A beat.

"Then where—"

Callen hesitated. Just a second. But it was enough.

Silas stepped forward, his voice like steel against velvet. "Callen. Say it."

The soldier-commander glanced sideways. Then lowered his voice even more.

"Two guards from the south corridor report... they saw Baron Lucien leaving the banquet wing."

"That’s not unusual," Silas said quickly. "He might’ve gone to breathe. He does that when he’s—"

Callen’s face twisted. "He wasn’t alone."

Silas stopped breathing.

Callen swallowed. "They saw him walking with Lady Seraphina."

Silence fell between them.

Holy, terrible silence.

Even the choir seemed to hesitate.

"Around twenty minutes ago," Callen finished, his words careful. "Heading toward the southern archway. The one that leads to the private courtyard exit."

Silas didn’t reply.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

His breath lodged somewhere between his chest and throat, the space around him narrowing until the crowd, the choir, the flowers—all of it—became a distant, useless blur.

And then—

"Silas?"

The emperor’s deep, regal voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk.

The Empress and Emperor were approaching from the front row, robes billowing, expressions matching the low buzz of rising panic spreading through the crowd.

The Emperor frowned. "What’s the matter?"

Before Silas could speak, Callen stepped in, stiff and grim. "It appears—" He hesitated, and then said it plainly, "—that Baron Lucien may have left the premises."

The Empress blinked, eyebrows flying up. "He what?"

Callen didn’t flinch. "Two guards saw him leaving the banquet wing with Lady Seraphina. Toward the private south arch."

The Empress gasped. "Are you telling me the baron ran away? On his own wedding day?"

The Emperor scowled. "That doesn’t make any sense. Lucien’s not the type to pull a stunt like this."

"He was nervous this morning," the Empress said suddenly, a note of realization in her voice. "A maid mentioned he was pacing and muttering about vows and holy milk and... farting in public."

She looked to Silas, stunned. "Do you think—do you think he panicked and ran?"

Silas turned toward her, eyes dark and jaw clenched so tightly it looked carved from marble. "No," he said lowly. "Lucien wouldn’t just run. Not without a reason."

"Then where is he?" the Emperor demanded.

Silas didn’t answer.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Then, with a sharp breath, he hissed under his breath, "Damn it," and turned on his heel.

"Silas!" the Empress called after him. "Where are you going?"

"To find him," Silas growled, already striding across the polished floor like a man chasing down his future. "I’m not losing him. Not today. Not ever."

His robes swept behind him like the tail of a storm.

Whispers surged through the hall like ripples in cracked glass, gasps rising and murmurs multiplying like wildfire in silk.

The High Priest blinked once at the commotion, then chuckled—low and cold.

"Looks like Baron Lucien’s foolish decision just made my job easier," he muttered, rolling up his sacred scroll with a theatrical sigh.

But Silas didn’t hear him.

He didn’t hear anything. Because he was already gone—out of the ceremonial hall, into the long marble corridor, boots echoing like war drums.

Down the polished halls lined with royal portraits and ancestral judgment. Around the golden pillars and beneath the fluttering curtains.

Following nothing but instinct. Heat. Rage. And something far more dangerous—fear.

Fear that he had lost Lucien.

That he’d pushed too hard. Or not held him tightly enough.

But no.

No.

Not now.

Never.

Not in this life.

He would not lose Lucien.

Not too nervous.

Not to panic.

Not to a world that didn’t understand what it meant to love someone so fiercely it hurt. Silas tore down the corridor like a storm given legs, like wrath stitched in velvet and gold.

If Lucien had run—

Then Silas was going to find out why.

And he was going to bring him back.

Whatever it took.

Even if it meant baring every piece of his heart in front of the whole damn empire.

Because Lucien was his.

His chaos.

His courage.

His crown.

And no one—no one—was going to take him away.