CHAPTER 46: THE RETURN OF THE RUNAWAY GROOM

The palace corridor had never seemed so endless.

Silas moved like a force of nature—his boots thundering against marble, his ceremonial robe trailing behind him like an omen stitched in fury. Courtiers flung themselves against walls to avoid him. Guards, trained for war and worse, flinched at the storm in his eyes.

"South wing," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Private courtyard. That’s where they said he went."

The corridor turned narrow here, less ceremonial. Less gilded. More real. Fewer tapestries, more silence. More shadows.

More space for fear to crawl in.

He turned a corner sharply—and nearly collided with a maid.

The poor girl shrieked and dropped her tray of lemon water and sugared cherries.

Silas didn’t blink. "Lucien. Did you see him?"

Wide-eyed and trembling, she nodded. "Y-yes, Your Grace! About thirty minutes ago! He and Lady Seraphina—heading to the gardens! The ones with the weeping fig trees and the koi pond!"

"Thank you." He was already gone.

Behind him, a thunderstorm of footsteps echoed—Callen, Elize, Marcel, the Emperor and Empress, half a dozen nobles, and even a very panicked court musician still holding his lute.

The garden doors burst open.

"FIND HIM!" Silas roared, his voice shaking leaves from the trees.

Everyone scattered like terrified birds.

Callen shouted orders. Elize was already checking the perimeter. The empress was muttering prayers. The Emperor had taken off his crown and was pacing like a man preparing for war.

And Silas?

He stood at the center of the garden like a statue about to crack.

Until—

"GODS ABOVE, I’M TELLING YOU, I’M GOING TO BE LATE!"

Every head turned.

The garden gate creaked open—and there he was.

Lucien D’Armoire, storming inside like a furious vision in silk, hair slightly wind-tossed, cheeks flushed, eyes dramatic and glistening, robes rustling like a scandal in motion.

"I TOLD YOU!" he wailed, pointing an accusing spoon. "I TOLD YOU WE SHOULDN’T HAVE GONE FOR THAT SECOND SCOOP—"

Behind him, Seraphina appeared, utterly unbothered, licking a rapidly melting cone of moonberry swirl. "Oh please. You were the one who begged the vendor for ’just one more tragic, creamy bite.’"

"I’m pregnant!" Lucien yelled. "I’m allowed to have cravings and poor time management!"

"You’re also about to be married, you sugar-soaked idiot!" Seraphina hissed, balancing a rapidly disintegrating cone in one hand while flapping at Lucien’s robe with the other. "That bast—I mean—Grand Duke of Doom and Royal Anxiety must be waiting for you in the wedding hall, and you ran off for ice cream! For five different flavors!"

Lucien gasped like she’d just accused him of treason. "They were emotionally necessary flavors! I am having a wedding panic and carrying an entire future inside me, thank you very much!"

"You ordered cursed berry, Lucien!"

"I was curious!"

"That one made the vendor cry!"

Before Lucien could shout back something about magical dairy enlightenment, Seraphina froze mid-rant.

Her gaze slowly swept the garden.

And her expression shifted.

From annoyance.

To confusion.

To dread.

To full, slow-motion horror.

Because standing in the middle of the garden were dozens of people. The royal choir, mid-chorus, now gaping with mouths open and enchanted sheet music trembling.

The empress—one hand on her chest, fanning herself dramatically and annoyingly with a silk handkerchief that read "WHY THE HELL IS SHE WITH HIM."

The Emperor—visibly mouthing "what the f—" behind a politely horrified cough.

Callen looked like he was about to fall on Elize’s sword. Marcel was gripping a tree like it personally betrayed him.

And Silas...

Silas stood at the center, expression carved from stone and eyes locked onto Lucien like a storm had just decided it was in love.

Seraphina blinked, then whispered, "...Did they change the wedding location to the garden?"

Lucien, panting and still clutching his stomach and a spoon like a weapon, looked around slowly.

Then he blinked at the twenty stunned nobles, the ceremonial choir, and the man he was supposed to marry—currently vibrating with imperial tension.

And then... at Silas.

His groom.

His very intense, very brooding, currently vibrating-with-imperial-anger groom, who looked one heartbeat away from declaring holy war.

Lucien’s eyes widened in sheer, breathless panic.

"SILAS!" he blurted. "I told you I’m not getting married in the garden! What if the God of Rain hears the wedding bells and decides to have a mid-life crisis?! I REFUSE to say my vows in soggy silk!"

Before anyone could react—

Silas moved.

He strode forward like a hurricane in royal robes, grabbed Lucien by the waist—

And hugged him.

Tightly.

Chest-to-chest. Arms like steel. Face buried in Lucien’s neck.

"GAH—my ice-cream!!" Lucien screeched, watching the remains of his cone splat onto the grass like a fallen soldier of dessert.

But Silas didn’t seem to hear. Or care. Or even know ice cream existed at this point. He just held Lucien like he was afraid he’d disappear again.

Seraphina stared, eyes wide with dramatic horror. "He’s going to suffocate my brother," she whispered. "Someone get a healer. Or a crowbar."

But Silas just murmured softly into Lucien’s neck, voice rough with relief.

"Thank gods... you’re here."

Lucien blinked, halfway between being squished and utterly baffled. "Huh? What do you mean?"

Silas pulled back slightly. Looked at him.

Really looked.

And then—before Lucien could gather a single working brain cell—Silas kissed him.

Right on the cheek.

Hard.

The kind of kiss that makes your brain stutter and your knees file for independence.

Lucien squeaked. "Wh—was that—what are you doing?! Are you trying to suck my soul through my cheek?!"

But Silas didn’t answer immediately.

He was still holding onto Lucien, his thumb brushing over the silk sash now crumpled between them. His voice dropped, quiet and tender.

"I thought you..."

Lucien tilted his head, confused. "I... what?"

Silas exhaled like it hurt. "You went missing. Everyone thought you ran away. I thought you’d—left me."

Lucien froze.

Then looked around.

At the gathered court.

The Emperor.

The Empress.

The entire choir of nobles who were clearly trying not to look too invested but were also collectively holding their breaths.

And suddenly—oh.

Oh.

Lucien’s mouth dropped open in horrified realization. "Wait. You thought I ran away? Like—ran ran? Like ran from the altar and dashed into the wilderness to become a hermit bride?!"

The Empress nodded delicately. "Well, dear, we had to consider the possibility."

Lucien spun and pointed an accusing finger straight at Seraphina. "YOU! This is your fault! You said we had time!"

Seraphina, now eating the remains of the cone with zero remorse, shrugged. "I said twenty minutes. You took thirty. And then made us stop because ’the vanilla didn’t have enough soul.’"

Lucien gasped like she’d cursed his ancestors. "It didn’t! It tasted like paper and betrayal!"

Silas interrupted by gripping Lucien’s face suddenly—both cheeks—squishing him into a puffed-up pout.

Lucien blinked at him like a startled guinea pig.

"I will," Silas said very solemnly, "bring you every flavor in the entire kingdom. No. In the entire continent. Mango. Cursed Berry. Ice-screaming Midnight. Ancient Cookie. Mystical Marshmallow. All of them. Just please—next time, tell me. Don’t run away."

Lucien’s eyes sparkled, round and gleaming. "Every flavor?"

"Every single one," Silas promised.

Lucien nodded seriously, his words muffled through squished cheeks. "O’kay. Deal."

And then Silas pulled him into another hug.

Not crushing.

Not panicked.

Just steady. Warm. Real.

"I love you, Lucien. I love you so much," he whispered.

Lucien’s heart stopped. Just a little. Because Silas had never said it before.

Not like that.

Not so raw, so true, so out loud in front of everyone.

Lucien blushed hard—so hard he could’ve fried eggs on his face. He buried his face in Silas’s chest, muffled and emotional.

"I love you too," he mumbled.

And somewhere in the royal garden, the choir sighed in unison—an ethereal harmony of romantic surrender and contractual obligation.

The Empress, dabbing at her eyes with lace embroidered in gold, sniffled dramatically and whispered, "The floral arch. The imported orchids. Me agreeing to be a bridesmaid at this imperial circus—it was all worth it. Finally."

Seraphina, standing just three steps away, turned and glared at her like a cat who’d been stepped on.

The Empress raised a brow and glared right back.

And then—like extras in a royal drama with too much budget and even more ego—they both whipped their heads in opposite directions, hair flipping, noses in the air like they were dueling in invisible slow-motion wind.

The Emperor watched this exchange in deeply married silence.

Then he reached out and gently caught the Empress by the elbow, voice slightly panicked. "Dearest... please, mind your neck. Your physician warned you about sudden flair movements."

The Empress narrowed her eyes. "I can handle flair."

The Emperor shut up immediately.

Cleared his throat like a man who wished to live another day and stepped forward. "Shall we... resume the wedding ceremony now?"

Lucien blinked. Then gasped.

"WAIT!" he yelped, breaking free from Silas’s arms and spinning around like he’d just remembered the empire owed him a makeover. "I need a touch-up! My mascara’s crying, my eyeliner’s traumatised, and my highlighter’s having an identity crisis!"

Silas smiled. Warm. Dazed. Worshipping.

"My love," he said softly, "you look so beautiful... You don’t need—"

"Silas," Lucien interrupted, spinning around with one perfectly dramatic finger raised, "I am about to be the most photographed person in the continent. I want to look like the most handsome being in the entire celestial history of existence. That includes gods, emperors, phoenixes, and fictional princes."

Silas blinked. "I—uh—yes."

"So go," Lucien said firmly, clutching his slightly smudged robes. "Wait for me at the altar like the good, brooding storm-cloud you are. I’ll arrive when my cheekbones are sharp enough to assassinate someone."

Silas gulped.

Stepped back with both hands raised in surrender. "Yes, my love. Whatever you say. Take all the time you need. Want backup stylists? An entire glam squad? A golden mirror flown in from the heavens?"

Lucien gave a modest nod. "I’ll settle for a full glow-up and a snack."

Seraphina sighed. "I swear to twelve gods and one forgotten demigod, if we miss this ceremony because of eyebrow symmetry—"

But Lucien had already disappeared back into the palace like a sparkly whirlwind.

Silas stood still, blinking after him like a man struck by divine thunder and glitter—then smiled, slow and helpless, like someone hopelessly, utterly in love with the whirlwind that was about to become his husband in mere minutes.