In the waning blush of eventide, when the sun itself seemed weary o'er the Kingdom of Leverage, there was proclaimed a union of great renown:
Princess Artha'Regolte ma Leverage Slokan, to be wedded unto Prince Blotom Crown de Alaska Brreotem within the sanctified halls of Abha Temple, which standeth as the beating heart of Leverage.
The air brimmed with the murmurous tread of gathering folk, a clamor woven of eager footsteps and fluttering whispers that clashed like restless birds in spring.
Yet anon, a single thunderous clap—so mighty it seemed born from the palms of the gods—shattered the tumult. Its echo rolled across the sacred walls, lingered several breaths, then fled through the open windows like a startled spirit.
"The Queen of Alaska is as fair as rumor paints her," murmured a man ensconced in the far shadowed corner.
Beside him stood another, who replied,
"Thou shouldst behold Slokan herself. 'Tis said her beauty doth outshine Queen Arlgone as the dawn outshines a candle's flame."
A young maiden nearby—graceful of form yet edge'd with a thorn of envy—spoke sharply,
"So ye gather not for the vows, but for the spectacle of royal beauty?"
Then rose the solemn voice of King Artha'Preoleg Slothon ma Leverage Alikon, seated beside the King and Queen of Alaska.
"The sacred rites of matrimony between Prince Blotom Crown de Alaska Brreotem and Princess Artha'Regolte ma Leverage Slokan shall commence. I entreat thee all—be silent."
Behind him, Queen Arlgone stood bathed in sunlight, her countenance aglow with otherworldly grace.
Moments passed, and the evening sun spilled molten gold across the temple's center, shaping a radiant dais fit for the two whose fate would now be sealed.
Lo—the colossal gate groaned and cracked ajar.
Tap… tap… tap.
Two figures entered, hand in hand—not with lovers' tenderness, but with the gravity of royalty itself.
The woman's gown whispered along the marble, a crimson river trimmed in the fire of gold. Her necklace, wrought of purest gold, caught the sunlight and flung it back as though warning the heavens themselves to behave.
Her visage, half-veiled by a crimson cloth, yet revealed lips whose glow alone could summon a thousand dreams in the weak of heart. A mere glance from her was enough to conjure lifetimes of longing.
She wore pale gloves reaching to her elbows, and her hand entwined with that of a man in gleaming white.
A rose of ruby-gold adorned his coat, and from his neck streamed a long scarf that trailed to the floor and was bound gently to a corner of her dress.
His gaze remained fixed upon the priests at the altar, while she, with eyes closed, leaned, trusting entirely in his guidance.
And the hearts of men in the crowd fractured silently—shattered by the simple, torturous image of Slokan's hand resting in another's grasp.
At last they reached the dais.
"Sit," spoke the prince, loosening his hold but not his authority.
He ascended and folded his legs with regal ease.
She settled upon her own legs, then—at long last—opened her wondrous eyes, searching the crowd as though seeking a soul she had misplaced.
There—at the temple gate—stood a lone knight.
His blade rested upon the ground, his hands upon the hilt, his gaze chained unbreakably to Slokan.
And she smiled.
Oh, a smile so faint that none in the temple perceived it—save he for whom it was crafted.
In that one fragile curl of her lips, he beheld their stolen days: tending her garden, dreaming beneath gentle suns, weaving futures that would now never dawn.
He remembered how she clasped him tightly, pleading for words through the armor of duty, until he broke protocol for her—always for her.
He recalled her voice reading tales of valiant knights rescuing princesses fair and marrying them beneath star-touched skies.
Mayhap he had dreamt too deeply.
Mayhap the dream had been his alone.
For the sweetness of her smile masked a venomous truth—she had played upon his heart like a harp, plucking away the love he had sworn to guard for life.
Tears sprang unbidden, but his helm hid them well.
Ah, but tears weigh heavy, and even the strongest armor cannot shield a man from himself.
"Fool," he whispered inwardly. "How dared I hope for a princess' hand? I am but a knight—naught more."
His grip tightened upon the sword's hilt as he watched them exchange garlands—symbols of a bond that should have been his, in another life, another world.
"But… I was ready to rescue thee," he breathed, though none heard but the dying light.
Then the great clock above the temple uttered its final solemn tick…
…
…and all fell silent.
Utterly, devastatingly silent.
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Written by { dhoben }
Published by { noobBooks studio }
Published on { webnovel TMR }
Editor { raitha, leaf on books studio,GPT o5.1 }
Translation { nooblate eng studio & sub studio }