At the center, the ceremonial dais stood with unnerving simplicity. A gilded arc behind it marked the spot where the vows would be exchanged, custom-forged from ethersteel and blessed by someone very old with too many titles to bother remembering.
The floor gleamed. Every tile had been scrubbed by palace staff whose nightmares now included Gabriel's inspection notes. The imperial crest had been redrawn in molten gold, still faintly warm from the final spellwork. The lighting, sunlight channeled through crystal conduits, made everything look softer than it was. Almost holy. A lie, in other words.
"Your Grace," the herald began, bowing so deeply he nearly snapped in half, "you are to enter from the north wing, just after the choir and before the final blessing."
