Chapter Fourteen · The Ceremony Unmade

Soft light slipped through the curtains. Lyra was already awake.

Memories crowded in, pressing close, but she refused to let them settle.

They took up too much space. Better to focus on the magic first. What do I still have?

She reached down and pulled at the drawer beneath the desk.

It didn’t move.

Her brow furrowed. That wasn’t right.

She pulled again, harder. Still stuck.

A small wrongness crept in. Subtle. Hard to name.

Lyra tightened her grip and yanked.

The drawer jerked free with a sharp crack against the frame, and Voxath tumbled out, hitting the floor.

She dropped to pick it up, turning it over in her hands before pressing the cool stone to her cheek.

Good. It’s fine.

The thought had barely formed when Voxath trembled.

Just slightly.

The scar on her wrist pulsed in the same rhythm, faint spirals shifting like something alive beneath the skin.

Rubiad.

It’s calling me again?

The image rose unbidden: the High Lord who ate spiders, his curved fangs glinting.

Something nudged her to her feet.

He’s the only one who knows about the Awakening Spring.

I should try again.

Lyra glanced out the window. Still early.

If she left now, she could make it back in time for Luca’s ridiculous wedding.

Nothing held her back.

Alone, she set out once more.

The Wind-Crystal Garden was still beautiful, still radiant, but it no longer felt new to her.

She ignored the tulips with mouths and walked straight to the fountain.

As before, she clenched her jaw and placed her hand on the Rubiad.

Pain tore through flesh and bone, like a twisted needle drilling inward. She turned the stone counterclockwise.

The streams of water froze mid-fall.

A figure dragged itself up from the ground.

The same man. His eye sockets had sunk deeper. His voice was weaker now, but it still carried that dry, brittle edge of something kept caged for far too long.

“Xzzz… You want to know where the Awakening Spring is, don’t you?”

Lyra held his gaze.

“Tell me, and when I get my magic back, I won’t leave you here.”

He laughed. The sound warped as it echoed.

“Based on what? Your confidence?”

“You’re willing to stay trapped here forever?”

That made him pause.

He turned sharply, his body slithering low along the ground as if searching for air.

Bony fingers clawed at the worn stone edge, snatching up spiders and shoving them into his mouth.

Lyra’s throat tightened in disgust every time she saw it, as if she were the one swallowing.

After a few ragged breaths laced with something toxic, he spoke.

“I’ve heard it’s in Hemaliel. But I’m not certain.”

Lyra didn’t blink.

“Then?”

He shook his head.

“The map was split into four pieces and entrusted to four fae clans.”

Lyra’s hand tightened.

“Which four?”

He lifted his head. His eyes were dark, deep as the bottom of an ancient well.

“I don’t know.”

He waved her off, already searching for more spiders.

Lyra stood in the crystal garden as a thought threaded through her mind.

Only four of the eight fae clans held the key, and he didn’t even know which ones.

Was he bargaining, or just useless?

“You really don’t know?” she began.

Heat flared across her wrist.

The resonance surged again.

Her body couldn’t hold the connection. Last time, everything had cut out on its own.

If it overloads, it severs itself…

It hurts too much. She couldn’t hold it.

So what if I reverse it before it breaks?

Lyra forced the pain down. She couldn’t hold on long enough to keep questioning the High Lord.

She raised her hand and turned the Rubiad clockwise.

The High Lord’s form unraveled into the spiral of water and vanished.

The garden stilled, returning to what it had been, as if nothing had ever happened.

Dawn had fully broken. She left the Wind-Crystal Garden.

There were more important things today. She had to make it back for the wedding.

The Royal Great Garden lay under a thin veil of sunlight, soft as silk. Roses climbed along the stone arches, their scent sweet enough to make a person careless.

Luca stood beneath one of the rose arches, dressed in a dark groom’s coat threaded with silver. He leaned toward a young princess, his hand brushing a branch just behind her shoulder.

“You’re more beautiful than any flower in this world.”

His voice was smooth, slick as wine.

The princess flushed but didn’t pull away. A soft laugh slipped out, half shy, half pleased.

On the other side of the arch, Elena bent to pick a few more white roses to tuck into her hair. Her wedding gown trailed over the grass, pollen dusting the sleeves.

She heard every word.

Not by accident. Not a misunderstanding.

She lifted her head.

Luca was still smiling at the princess, not even trying to hide it.

Then his eyes caught Elena.

He didn’t look ashamed. He only raised a brow, then dismissed her.

Lyra stood a few steps away and saw everything.

Something rose in her throat and lodged there, unbearable.

She stepped forward, her voice low and edged.

“You’re about to be married. The least you can do is show your wife some respect.”

Luca turned to her, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“She should be grateful to marry me.”

He let out a short scoff.

“As for Aulith, what is it worth?”

He smoothed a strand of his carefully styled hair back into place.

The air seemed to thin.

Across from them, Elena’s hand loosened. The roses slipped and scattered across the grass.

She turned and walked away, her eyes blinking too fast.

No running. No shouting.

Just walking faster. If she stopped, people might see her face. She couldn’t let that happen. Not today. Not on a day like this.

Luca brushed off his sleeve and adjusted his coat.

“Don’t make a scene,” he said. “It’s only politeness.”

He headed toward the main hall.

Lyra didn’t follow him.

She went after Elena.

In the waiting room, Elena stood before the mirror while a maid quietly adjusted her veil.

Her eyes were red, but no tears fell.

“I’m fine,” she said softly.

Lyra took her hand, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to do this.”

Elena kept her gaze on her reflection.

“Don’t say anything. For Aulith.”

That calmness was what tightened something in Lyra’s chest.

Elena fixed the rose in her hair. Her hand trembled slightly, but the smile was already back in place.

She would still walk down the aisle.

Even with a broken heart.

Outside, the ceremony was already being set in motion.

Right on time.

The musicians began to tune. Quartz Canopy Hall had never been dressed so lavishly.

Every member of the royal family was present. The King and Queen sat elevated on the dais.

The eldest Royal Mage presided.

Luca stood in position, immaculate, chin lifted, confidence set in his eyes as if everything already belonged to him before the vows were even spoken.

Below the stone steps, the guests were arranged in ranks. High officials of the court stood at the front. Behind them stood princes, princesses, and the noble houses. At the very back waited envoys of the fae clans.

Among the high officials, High Commander Derron stood rigid, like a pillar of steel. His face was closed, unreadable as a fortress wall.

Syveris stood beside him, adjusting his gloves.

Lyra stood just behind Syveris, at the head of the royal descendants. Orlas stood beside her, then Haris.

Lyra and Orlas exchanged a small smile. There was a hint of awkwardness after so long apart, but neither of them spoke. The reason didn’t need words.

The ceremonial music rose, strong and measured, filling the hall.

At that exact moment, as the sound climbed the vaulted ceiling and spread across the quartz pillars, Syveris leaned closer to Derron.

His voice was low, just enough for Derron to hear. Perhaps meant for someone else as well.

“High Commander, the command of the army will soon be yours.”

The words slipped through the music and struck Lyra’s ear.

She stilled.

Everything aligned in her mind in an instant.

Command of the army? Is Derron plotting something?

And Luca.

A prince arrogant enough to believe he could have her imprisoned.

If the wedding is sealed, the alliance locks in. Derron and Aulith control the supply routes. The northern camps. The palace itself.

This is bad.

Lyra clenched her fist, her gaze lifting toward the dais.

The King and Queen still sat there, composed, serene.

If they heard what she just heard…

Elena stepped in from the corridor. A white veil covered her face. Her hands gripped a bouquet of barely blooming roses. Maids scattered petals on either side.

Everything was too perfect.

Lyra stood still, her eyes fixed on the bride.

If she stayed silent, the ceremony would proceed.

If she spoke, the hall would erupt.

Just moments ago, she had thought this was about a bride’s dignity.

Now she knew it was about the throne.

Why do things like this always fall to me?

Better not to know at all.

The music swelled into the main movement. The notes pressed forward, relentless.

Luca stood before Elena, ready to speak his vows.

The entire hall fell silent, waiting for the most sacred moment of a lifetime.

Elena swallowed. Tears, and more than tears. She didn’t dare lift a hand to wipe them away.

Lyra saw all of it.

The feeling was hard to name. Something heavy settled in her chest.

Not sorrow. Not pity. Not anger.

All of it.

And then.

“Stop.”

A voice cut clean through the space between the drumbeats.

The entire hall snapped toward the voice.

Princess Lyra.

The King and Queen rose. They watched, waiting to see what she would do.

They both knew their daughter well. She never acted without reason.

Lyra slipped through the space between Syveris and Derron, stepped out of the line, and took her place before the dais.

She turned, her gaze cutting across the hall to the High Lady of Aulith at the far end. Her voice carried.

“Before Aulith gives their daughter to Luca, they have the right to know what kind of man he is. And what he said in the rose garden.”

A ripple of whispers spread.

Below, Haris glanced at Orlas, his jaw tightening. Orlas looked even more strained, like a string pulled too taut.

No one spoke.

This was beyond anything the two princes had imagined.

On the dais, Luca’s lips curved. “Princess, if this is some kind of joke—”

Lyra turned to him and cut him off.

“You said your fiancée should be grateful to marry you.”

The hall fell silent.

“You said Aulith was nothing.”

She didn’t give him time to respond. His mouth remained open, but no words came.

Luca’s family erupted almost at once.

“Slander!” one of them shouted.

Lyra didn’t blink.

“The bride heard it. I heard it. Princess Andrel was there as well.”

She spoke the girl’s name without hesitation.

Andrel went pale, lips pressed tight, her gaze dropping.

High Commander Derron stepped forward, his voice heavy.

“It was nothing more than polite conversation before the ceremony. Hardly reason to disrupt something sacred.”

Lyra turned to face him.

“Polite?”

Her voice was calm. Sharp.

“Since when does the royal court call the humiliation of an ally good manners?”

Murmurs began to spread among the other fae representatives.

Luca stepped down one step, his eyes darkening. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

“You’re in no position to talk about spectacle,” Lyra said. “I’m stopping one from being made official.”

She turned to Elena.

“Elena of Aulith. If you still wish to go through with this, I won’t stand in your way.”

The air tightened.

Elena stood frozen. Her grip crushed the bouquet until petals began to fall.

“But,” Lyra continued, her gaze never leaving her, “only step forward if you are certain that man sees you as a blessing. Not as something to be taken.”

Luca’s family broke into an uproar.

“Have the princess removed!”

“This is an insult!”

“Your Majesty, do something!”

The King remained silent, watching it all unfold. The Queen stepped back, just slightly.

Below, Syveris showed no reaction at all. Almost too at ease.

Derron flushed, his voice turning hard as steel.

“Princess Lyra is undermining an alliance with baseless accusations.”

Lyra snapped her gaze back to him.

“Baseless?”

She tilted her head slightly.

“Then perhaps the High Commander can explain why, moments before the ceremony, your son stood in the rose garden and declared Aulith to be of no worth.”

The name Aulith struck through the hall like a blade.

The High Lady of Aulith’s voice rang out from the far end of the hall.

“High Commander,” she said, frowning, “is that truly the position of your house? We may be a smaller clan, but we have our dignity.”

No one answered.

Luca tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. He didn’t know how to shift the blame or turn it aside. Instead, he reached out and seized Elena’s veil, yanking it down.

“You’re all conspiring to defame me!”

The High Lady of Aulith stiffened, stunned into silence.

Elena snapped.

She hurled the bouquet down. Roses struck the floor hard, petals bruising on impact.

“I will not marry a man who flirts and looks down on my people!”

Her voice broke. Tears spilled freely now.

In that moment, the entire hall tilted toward Aulith.

Luca’s family stood exposed beneath the gaze of the royal court and the assembled fae, as if something had been stripped from them.

The High Commander’s jaw tightened. He could not deny it outright, but neither could he argue openly before the full court.

His silence was confession enough.

Lyra did not move.

She did not claim victory. She did not smile.

She simply stood there, letting the humiliation spread like ink across white silk.