CHAPTER 47: THE GROOM WHO WALKED LIKE A FAIRYTALE

Silas stood still at the altar.

Unmoving. Unblinking. Unbreathing.

The ceremonial hall—once buzzing with silks, whispers, and enchanted fanfare—was now a vacuum of silence.

Dead silence.

Everyone was staring at the Grand Duke like he’d just been turned into a very well-tailored statue. Somewhere in the third row, a noble whispered too loudly, "Did the Grand Duke turn into stone?"

Even the enchanted choir dared not breathe.

The Empress leaned toward the Emperor and whispered behind her fan, "Do you think he’s still alive?"

The Emperor glanced sideways at Silas, who hadn’t so much as twitched, then smiled faintly. "Don’t worry. He’s very much alive. It’s just... the man standing at that altar is head over heels in love with his soon-to-be wife."

"Groom," the Empress corrected sharply. "And you didn’t stand like that when you married me."

The emperor froze. His soul visibly left his body. "My dearest—"

"We’ll talk after the ceremony," she said sweetly.

Now the Emperor was more pale than a ghost in winter.

Meanwhile, Silas...

Still hadn’t moved.

Still staring at the gilded ceremonial doors like they held the meaning of life, death, and everything in between.

Callen leaned in and whispered, "Your Grace... Perhaps sit for a moment? The ceremony hasn’t started yet—"

"I will pass out on my feet before I sit," Silas replied through gritted teeth.

The empress fanned herself. "This suspense is so intense it’s giving me labor flashbacks. And I didn’t even deliver my child."

Elize, positioned like a regal wall of composure, cleared her throat. "Any moment now..."

And then—the doors creaked.

The choir inhaled like it was choreographed. A shaft of enchanted sunlight burst through, spilling onto the aisle like a celestial red carpet made of gold dust and high expectations.

And there he was.

Lucien D’Armoire.

Standing at the end of the aisle, glowing like the gods themselves hand-sculpted him from cheekbones, rebellion, and pure aesthetic chaos.

His hair caught the light like strands of enchanted honey kissed by the sun. His robe shimmered with every movement—snowfall silk over storm-thread satin, tailored like a dream and embroidered with ancient sigils that sparkled like whispered spells.

And his expression?

Smug. Sparkly. And 100%, Lucien. The kind of look that said, "Yes, I am the moment. You may applaud now."

He took one step forward.

The enchanted aisle lit up beneath his feet.

Another step.

The choir began exhaling in six-part harmony like angels getting dramatic.

By the fifth step, several nobles were dabbing at their eyes, weeping into scented lace. By the tenth, the empress gasped softly and whispered, "If he ever runs for emperor, I’ll vote twice."

And Silas?

Silas still couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t move.

He was dazed.

Absolutely, utterly wrecked by the vision walking toward him.

Because that was Lucien. His Lucien.

A walking tornado in silk. Chaos in a robe. Disaster dipped in glitter. And somehow—miraculously—his.

By the time Lucien reached the final step, Silas lifted his hand automatically—like some instinctual, reverent offering.

Lucien grinned and took it with a flourish, leaning in dramatically. "Did I walk like a fairy tale?"

Silas chuckled softly, eyes glowing. "You walked like a man descended straight from heaven."

Lucien flushed, his smile wobbling just a little. "Oh my gods... You and your honey-dipped words. I can’t take it."

"It’s true," Silas murmured, squeezing his hand gently. "I’ve never seen anything—or anyone—like you."

Behind them, the High Priest narrowed his eyes and muttered under his breath, "So... he’s the rare male omega, huh?"

Then he smirked. Slowly. And definitely not a good smirk. He cleared his throat, his voice rising.

"Well," the High Priest said, "now we should finally begin the ceremony."

His eyes drifted—not subtly—to Lucien. Then... to Lucien’s barely showing stomach.

Then, Callen leaned in dryly and added, "Yes, let’s begin. Before someone else runs off for gelato."

Lucien gasped in mock offense, stage-whispering, "It was ice cream. Gelato is for anniversaries."

The royal choir giggled. Three nobles chuckled into their gloves. And somewhere in the back, the empress was muttering, "He’s not wrong."

The Emperor accidentally snorted.

But Silas?

He didn’t laugh.

He just looked at Lucien, his fingers still wrapped around his, like he was holding the center of his universe.

Because he was.

And whatever vows were about to be spoken... Whatever magic was about to be invoked...

Silas knew one thing for certain.

He would never stop falling in love with this ridiculous, radiant, impossible man.

Not now. Not ever. Not even if the God of Rain did start weeping on their vows.

The ceremonial hall shimmered in gold and silence.

All eyes were on the altar.

The High Priest Caldris stood tall, his golden robes catching the morning light, casting shadows that seemed longer than they should have. His scroll hovered before him, held aloft by a ring of soft divine light—but his smile? Too smooth. Too polished. Like a man playing a role... and enjoying the audience far too much.

He turned first to Silas.

"Grand Duke Silas Rynthall," Caldris intoned, his voice rich and resonant. "Crowned sentinel of House Rynthall, chosen of wind and sword... Do you vow to honor and protect Baron Lucien D’Armoire as your beloved and your consort... and to protect what he now carries?"

Silas’s jaw twitched slightly at that—what he now carries?

But he didn’t break his gaze from Lucien.

"I vow it," he said, eyes locked with Lucien’s. "With every breath, every battle, every heartbeat. You are not just the joy in my days, Lucien—you are the reason I want those days. And I swear, before the heavens and all who witness us, I will never let you go. Not in this life. Not in any. And I promise—on crown, blade, and blood—to shield you from every evil eye and destroy it before it even dares to reach you."

The air shimmered.

A soft golden pulse moved through the sigils on the floor—acknowledging the truth of the vow.

Lucien’s breath hitched. He blinked furiously. "Ugh, damn it. Who said you could get all poetic before my turn?"

The choir chuckled.

Caldris hummed, pleased—but it wasn’t the warmth of celebration. It was the kind of pleased that slithered beneath the skin. The kind that sounded too much like a plan unfolding exactly as designed.

Then he turned to Lucien.

"And you," Caldris said, his voice dipping—silken, sharp. "Baron Lucien D’Armoire. Heir of House D’Armoire, bearer of legacy and light... do you vow to offer yourself—your love, your spirit, and your gift of new life—for the glory of this union? To remain loyal to Grand Duke Silas Rynthall?"

Lucien smiled.

Bright. Steady. Fierce.

"I do."

He stepped forward, his gaze locked on Silas with a fire that defied any shadow.

"I vow to stand beside you, Silas. To annoy you lovingly. To make you laugh when you’re trying very hard to be serious. To remind you that love isn’t always about legacy or politics—it’s also about shared cookies at 2 a.m. And when you go full terrifying Grand Duke mode, I’ll be the one holding your hand and telling people, ’Yes, he’s scary—but he’s mine.’"

The golden pulse flared again—warmer now, brighter. A blessing not from gods, but from love itself.

Lucien leaned in then, voice lowered just enough to carry to the front rows:"Also, I vow not to run away again... unless it’s for waffles. Then all bets are off."

Silas choked on a laugh.

"I’ll come with you," he whispered back.

High Priest Caldris raised his hands, face solemn, but eyes too still.

Two white-gold phoenix feathers descended between them—hovering like a blessing forged from flame and future—resting above their joined hands.

"Then by vow and virtue," Caldris intoned, "you are now bound. By bond. By title..."

He paused—just a breath too long. And his gaze flickered downward. Not at Lucien’s heart. But at his stomach.

"...and by destiny."

Lucien felt it. A chill threaded along his spine. An instinct, ancient and visceral.

But before he could react—

"You may now seal the bond," Caldris said, stepping back with a smile that curved like a blade in silk.

Silas wasted no time.

He pulled Lucien into him, cradled his face, and kissed him.

Long.

Certain.

Real.

The ceremonial hall erupted into applause and celebration.

But behind them, half-shadowed by gold-stitched robes and reverence, Caldris turned slightly. His eyes narrowed, locked on Lucien’s belly with quiet, possessive hunger.

And what he carried within.

The Wobblebean.

"Soon," he murmured beneath the triumphant harmony of the choir, "the Divine will have its heir."

Then he smiled.

Not like a priest.

But like a predator.

A holy man with unholy plans.

Whereas Silas?

He didn’t let go.

Even after the kiss ended, even after the applause echoed like thunder through the marble hall, even when people began tossing petals and shouting blessings—he kept holding Lucien like the world had narrowed down to just this.

To them.

To now.

Lucien laughed softly against his chest, cheek flushed, breath a little shaky. "So... do I look like the most handsome being in celestial history?"

Silas smiled. "You look like the reason history will be rewritten."

Lucien groaned. "Ugh. Stop. You’re going to make me cry again. My eyeliner’s already on life support."

The Empress sniffled into her handkerchief, still weeping freely. The Emperor quietly passed her a fresh one, his own eyes suspiciously shiny. Callen and Elize stood tall but proud, and even Marcel was dabbing the corner of his eyes with something that was definitely not a stolen curtain.

As they turned together to face the crowd—husband and husband, Grand Duke and Baron, storm and sunlight—the phoenix feathers still drifted around them, catching light like tiny comets.

They walked down the aisle hand in hand, their steps slow and certain.

And behind them, the hall shimmered with applause, joy, and just the faintest echo of something more.

Something divine.

But for now, it didn’t matter.

Because for now—They had each other. Lucien’s fingers squeezed Silas’s just a little tighter.

And Silas leaned in to whisper, voice low and fond and impossibly content: "Let’s go home."

Lucein smiled and nodded saying, "Yes, let’s go home."

And together, with love blazing like sunlight through stained glass, they stepped forward into their new life.

Not perfect.

But theirs.