The bells of the imperial city did not often ring. When they did, their peal echoed across spires and rooftops like the voice of heaven itself, jolting the city awake and commanding every man, woman, and child to raise their eyes to the gilded palace above.
Today, they rang not for war, nor for coronation, but for a wedding.
And not any wedding.
Sharath Virayan Darsha, Count of Unnatirajya, master inventor, noble slayer, scandalous tradition-breaker, and the Emperor's latest favorite headache, was to be wed in marriage to the Imperial Princess.
Day One: The Capital's Splendor
The morning of the first day of wedding ceremonies started at sunrise.
Golden pennants spread from each balcony. Musicians filled the streets, blowing horns, drums, and flutes in mad concord. Bakers distributed honey-dusted sweet rolls, and children darted with painted masks in wolf, slime, and wizard bat forms—Sharath's dungeon adventure reimagined as carnival action.
Sharath stood on his balcony suite, his face impassive. His heart was a tempest within him.
Well, well, 🐧NeuroBoop thought in his mind, they're calling out your name. Cheering the lad who butchered nobles, created airborne balloons, and pioneered fish-wrapped newspapers. Sentimental, indeed.
"Shut up," Sharath grumbled under his breath, tugging at his ceremonial collar.
"You look like you're heading to execution," Lord Basanna said dryly from behind. His grandfather had never looked more merchant-like: velvet robes, jeweled cuffs, and a grin that screamed political leverage. "Relax. Smile. Think of the alliances. Think of the profits."
"It's my wedding, not a trade deal," Sharath said.
"Marriage is the oldest trade deal," Basanna replied smugly.
Lord Varundar Darsha, his father, rested a heavy hand on Sharath's shoulder. Softening his face, though his voice contained iron, he said, "This is not simply a wedding. This is a pronouncement: Darsha blood will share the imperial throne. You've worked for it, son. Never let them take away what you build here."
Sharath had no caustic response this time.
The palace of the empire sparkled like a legend. Jewels set into its towers reflected sunbeams, casting arcs of rainbow across the plaza. Nobles came in silk-draped beasts, carriages that rumbled over cobblestones. Foreign ambassadors waited at the gates, eyes alert, already weighing how this union altered the terms of power.
The Princess emerged in her processional attire, silver and crimson clothed. She moved with each step causing petals to scatter on the marble, borne on enchantments. Her veil glowed softly, not to hide but to enhance her beauty.
Sharath approached her, boots heavy, heartbeat thunderous.
Gasps of shock swirled through the assembly as they lined up shoulder to shoulder. Some murmured of his youth, of his bloody legend, of his inventions that revolutionized the empire. Others muttered of the Princess's decision, her headstrong determination that she would never marry another man.
The Empress and Emperor sat upon their thrones at the far end of the hall, imperial and impassive. Their gazes sized Sharath up as if balancing not only a groom, but an empire's coming pillar.
The High Priest began to speak, his voice resonating over the marble. Vows were made, hands tied with silk, rings sparkling in the light of the candles.
When Sharath and the Princess said it together, "I swear loyalty, love, and bond eternal," the crowd erupted. Fireworks exploded above. Trumpets vibrated the air.
And in the recesses of his mind, 🐧NeuroBoop snickered. Bond eternal? Adorable. Just wait until she catches a whiff of your lab tests.
Sharath restrained himself from laughing during his own vows.
Day Two: Darsha Territory
No imperial wedding would conclude in one day.
The second day moved to Darsha land, the ancestral homeland of his family. If the capital had been greatness, Darsha was closeness.
Villagers thronged the streets, cheering as Sharath and the Princess rode by on horseback. Children hurled wildflower garlands, and elderly women sobbed openly, invoking blessings from the goddess herself had descended upon their soil.
The halls of the estate were decked out in a riot of color. Each noble guest was stuffed until his belt creaked. Oxen whole were roasted, rivers of wine flowed, and the musicians played until their fingers were bloody.
Lady Ishvari, cradling one of her twins in each hand, greeted the Princess in person. "Welcome, daughter," she said warmly, though her eyes probed the imperial bride as a hawk does its prey. "You're family now. I have no doubt you'll learn to deal with Sharath's nonsense."
The Princess smiled beatifically. "I already do."
Laughter spread through the hall. Sharath blushed.
Basanna, however, took the chance to deliver a majestic speech. "My grandson, a boy of tinkering and disorder once, now is at the side of the throne. Darsha blood attests itself again!"
Each subsequent toast grew louder, more drunk, more dramatic. A bard recited an epic of Sharath fighting off wolves with nothing but wit and sarcasm. At midnight, peasants were dancing barefoot on tables, nobles scandalously intermingling with peasants, and Sharath himself had been pulled into a ring of villagers chanting his name.
Epic, 🐧NeuroBoop snarked. Hero by day, drunken dance champion by night.
Day Three: Sharath's Territory
The third day was his alone.
Unnatirajya, his refurbished and thriving land, burst into festivities. Air balloons floated in the sky, adorned with vibrant flags. Magic tricycles wheeled along streets, transporting giggling children. Street vendors distributed free bread and sweets as tribute to their lord's marriage.
Sharath and the Princess stood on a raised platform in the central square.
"Esteemed land, this is ours," Sharath announced, his voice ringing above the throng. "Yours and mine, constructed together, fought for together, holidays celebrated together. Today, as I wed, I do not claim merely a bride. I claim the future—yours, mine, and our children's."
The applause almost rattled the clouds.
Even 🐧NeuroBoop whirred in approval. Not bad. Very statesmanlike. Ten out of ten, would vote for you.
The Princess pinched his hand. For once, in a moment of fleeting respite, the politics, the noble intrigues, the perpetual inventions—all receded. They were just the two of them, ringed about by the people they would serve.
After the Feast
When the last of the fireworks died away, when the nobles sagged into their carriages and the villagers slept in drunken piles, Sharath sat alone in his study.
Piles of presents sat along the walls—gold, silks, magical trinkets. But his gaze rested on the Princess's veil, which had been carefully folded on the desk.
He remembered her laughter at the feast, her calm eyes in the vows, her unyielding selection of him even when the chaos he brought with him threatened to destroy it all.
🐧NeuroBoop interrupted the silence. Well. Congratulations. You've gone and bound yourself to a person capable of causing you to blush in the public square. Absolutely horrifying.
Sharath smiled weakly. "Perhaps I need to be terrified."
The capital's bells, the villagers' laughter, his parents' pride in their eyes—all rang out in him.
He had battled dungeon halls, nobles with swords, assassins with knives. But this—this marriage—seemed more weighty, more significant.
For now, the empire itself had tied its destiny to his.
And the world would never be the same again.