The Scion Hold was no longer merely a fortress of stone and steel—it thrummed like a great heart preparing for celebration.
What had once been quiet corridors of discipline and order became a swirl of hushed conspiracies, clattering tools, and bursts of laughter that could not be contained.
The knights of the Scion Order, stoic by nature and bound by oaths, found themselves drawn into a secret plan.
At dusk, they gathered in the old training yard where the stars stretched wide overhead, practicing the hymns of their Order.
The hymn was reserved for rare occasions—songs of triumph, remembrance, and the passing of eras. Its verses carried the weight of centuries, and now they prepared to sing it not in mourning or victory, but in honor of their commander and her chosen.
Voices roughened by war learned again to weave harmony, and more than one knight blinked against unexpected tears when the melody filled the air.
Meanwhile, the maintenance staff—those who kept the hold's hearths burning, its floors clean, its armories polished—schemed their own gift.
Quietly, with fabric, thread, and determination, they worked into the night to create handkerchiefs, each marked with the emblem of the Hold: a dragon pierced by three lightning spears.
No stitch was wasted, no thread out of place, for each token was meant not only for the guests but to remind them that the Scion Hold itself stood behind its commander.
In the kitchens, chaos reigned supreme.
Cooks barked orders over roaring hearths, pots of stew big enough to drown a squire bubbled merrily, and entire boars roasted over enchanted flames.
The feast they planned was fit not for a wedding but for a kingdom—platters that could feed thousands, dishes drawn from every corner of the alliance, sweets dusted with gold flakes, wines enchanted to never sour.
The air itself was thick with spices, herbs, and the warmth of anticipation.
Not to be outdone, the squires plotted their own spectacle.
They trained in secret, blades flashing silver in the moonlight as they practiced the intricate steps of a sword dance that told stories of loyalty, battle, and love.
Between drills, they passed around folded sheets of paper, reciting poems clumsy yet heartfelt—verses dedicated to Kane and Arasha, written with all the sincerity of young hearts burning with admiration.
Elsewhere, mischief brewed.
Leta, with her usual grin that promised trouble, locked herself in her quarters with bubbling vials and the sharp scent of herbs.
Her intention? A collection of stamina potions, meant, as she put it, "to keep the couple properly occupied when the revelry is over."
She cackled to herself, imagining Kane's mortified face when the gift was unveiled.
Garran, more refined in his sentiments, unearthed a bottle of vintage wine—aged longer than most men lived—along with a pair of lace gloves, delicate enough to melt in the hand.
"For a lady who deserves grace in every form," he murmured as he wrapped them with care.
Roen busied himself in his workshop, fingers blackened with soot as he wound gears and set springs.
From his table rose two mechanical lovebirds, their feathers polished steel and silver, their eyes set with gems that glowed faintly in the dark.
With a twist of a key, the birds leaned toward one another, singing a soft duet that echoed like windchimes.
John, ever practical, prepared a pair of journals bound in fine leather.
One was for Kane, its pages etched with space for tactics, sketches, and notes on training.
The other was for Arasha, lined with elegant parchment suited for reflections and private letters.
Between them, he slid a slim volume meant to be shared: a chronicle of their days together, yet blank, waiting to be filled.
And Rewald—gruff, unwilling to admit sentiment—prepared in his own way.
Night after night he worked beneath the open sky, tracing runes into the earth and calling sparks of mana into his palms.
At the height of the wedding, his gift would streak across the heavens: a storm of fireworks shaped in colors unseen by mortal eyes, spells that painted the sky with their bond.
Amid all this frenzy, Arasha tried not to pry too much, though her sharp eyes missed little.
What she could give in return was her own time, her own hand.
And so she sat late into the night, quill scratching, crafting thank-you cards for every soul who had lifted a finger for the wedding.
For knights and cooks, squires and artisans, guests and allies—each received words written personally, not as a commander but as Arasha, the woman they served and loved.
Kane, naturally, refused to let her shoulder the burden alone.
He took half the work, sitting opposite her at the long table, scribbling letters with his own clumsy but earnest script.
He made certain she had meals between tasks, ushered her out for air when the ink smudged from exhaustion, and gently plucked quills from her hand when she worked past her limit.
It did not escape anyone's notice that the groom seemed determined to keep his bride from fraying herself to the bone.
"Careful," Leta would grin, "you'll spoil her so badly she won't know what to do without you." as she teased Kane relentlessly as always.
"Or perhaps," Rewald rumbled, "he's at it again, rehearsing for keeping her in bed for a week straight."
Every time, Kane's ears burned red and his jaw tightened, much to the delight of the staff who now whispered gleefully about their commander's upcoming wedding night.
Through it all, the Hold was alive with joy and anticipation.
A fortress of war had transformed into a hearth of celebration—every stone, every person carrying the same unspoken vow: that this union would not only be blessed, but remembered for generations.
****
The eve of the wedding carried an air so electric that even the stone walls seemed to hum with anticipation.
Music drifted faintly from the mess halls where guests and knights alike traded laughter and stories, while artisans finished last-minute touches under lamplight.
Even the weary travelers who had arrived days early found themselves restless, carried along by the tide of celebration.
It was as though joy itself had seeped into the foundations, leaving everyone unable to sit still.
When evening fell, Arasha slipped quietly away from the crowd.
The stars above were sharp and clear, as if even the heavens wished to witness what tomorrow would bring.
She sought Valmira, finding her aunt watching the preparations from a balcony that overlooked the hill, her eyes reflecting both pride and longing.
Arasha bowed her head with deep sincerity. "Great Aunt… thank you. Without you, these preparations would have been endless and overwhelming. I don't know how to repay you."
Valmira turned, her smile warm, touched by both sentiment and age-old wisdom.
"You can thank me tomorrow, child. By making your wedding day a memory that lives in your heart, brighter than any of this."
She gestured toward the glowing hill, the lanterns, the bustle below. "Do that, and you will have made me the happiest."
The words struck Arasha's heart, heavy and tender. She stepped forward and embraced her aunt, holding on longer than she intended. "I'll make it so," she whispered.
After bidding Valmira goodnight, Arasha found herself intercepted by Leta, who seemed to have been lurking just for her.
Leta's grin was wide, her eyes dancing.
"Congratulations," Leta blurted before Arasha could even ask. "I wanted to be the first to say it, before you get smothered by a thousand others tomorrow."
Arasha chuckled, shaking her head. "You couldn't wait until morning?"
"Of course not," Leta said, then leaned close, lowering her voice with mischief.
"Besides, I also wanted to be the first to congratulate you on your great blessing." She pointed boldly at Arasha's stomach.
Arasha blinked, then groaned, rolling her eyes. "Really, Leta? You and your wild imagination."
"Wild, yes," Leta smirked. "Wrong? Not so sure. Maybe not now, but soon enough. I'd bet my treasure stash on it."
With a shake of her head, Arasha laughed, gently pushing her friend away. "You never change. Go on, before I regret stopping for you."
"Gladly," Leta grinned, already plotting how she'd retell this moment.
Left alone again, Arasha sighed, a smile lingering despite herself, and finally retreated to her chamber.
She knew rest was precious tonight, for tomorrow would demand every ounce of her strength.
She lay down, willing herself to stillness, though her heart thrummed with both joy and the enormity of what awaited.
Meanwhile…
Across the hall, Kane paced his own chamber like a man preparing for battle.
His hands flexed, unclenched, flexed again—restless energy coursing through him with no outlet.
When Garran pushed the door open without ceremony, Kane stopped, caught somewhere between relief and embarrassment.
"Marriage blues?" Garran asked dryly, one brow raised.
Kane shook his head, though his voice betrayed him with its heaviness.
"Not blues. Just… I keep thinking this can't be real. That I'll wake up, and it will all vanish like smoke. That this wedding is some cruel illusion."
Before Kane could spiral further, Garran strode forward and gave him a resounding smack across the back.
The strike echoed like a clap of thunder.
Kane winced, groaning as he rubbed the spot. "MF—what was that for?"
"The pain," Garran said flatly. "Proof enough that this is no dream. Unless your illusions have learned to bruise you."
For a moment, Kane stared, then a smile cracked across his face. A real, unguarded smile.
"Thank you. I needed that."
Garran's expression sobered.
He folded his arms, his tone low and serious.
"Good. Because now that your head's back on your shoulders, I want your vow. Tomorrow you'll swear to her before gods and men—but swear to me now that you'll uphold those vows, no matter what. Even after death, if it comes to that."
Kane's throat tightened. Slowly, solemnly, he placed a hand over his heart.
"I swear it, Garran. No matter life, no matter death, I'll hold to those vows."
In the quiet that followed, Kane said nothing more, though in the back of his mind the thought came unbidden, weary and raw: I already did. I already crossed death itself to stay beside her.
And yet, for tomorrow, he would swear it again, gladly.