A month later.
Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows of Lara's chamber in Hevenfort Palace, gilding the room in a soft golden glow. Freya's hands trembled slightly as she placed the delicate tiara upon her daughter's head. The crown gleamed with the same quiet brilliance as Lara's eyes—eyes that shimmered with a mixture of joy, nerves, and disbelief at the day that had finally come.
Lara's wedding gown was a masterpiece of silken lace, its intricate patterns catching the light like threads of spun starlight. The soft fabric cascaded to the floor in gentle waves, and when she moved, it whispered like the hush of a prayer.
Today was not only Alaric's coronation as the new Emperor of Azurverda, but also the day he would take Lara's hand as his empress. The weight of that truth settled heavily—and tenderly—on both women.
