Time had once felt meaningless to Youri, a blur of missions, battles and silence. But from the moment he met Leonora again that night, time changed. It didn't move faster or slower; it deepened. Every second afterward carried weight. Every breath had a purpose.
Their reunion had been nothing short of a storm. Leonora had not merely survived the Empire's brutal climb through the military ranks; she had conquered it. With relentless discipline and an iron will so like her father's, she had risen step by step until she stood among the highest-ranking officers of the Terrian Empire. In time she succeeded Aurelion as one of its leading generals, commanding fleets and legions with an authority few dared question. And for all her titles and medals, she had never stopped looking for him. When she finally uncovered the truth of who he was — the man behind the myths, the soldier beneath the cold mask — she didn't hesitate for a moment. She ran to him. No rank, no pride, no uniform stood between them. She held on to him as though she were afraid the universe might steal him away again.
And Youri, who had buried his humanity under steel and silence, felt something break open in his chest. The walls he had built so carefully, layer by layer and mission by mission, crumbled under the warmth of her embrace. He had spent years convincing himself he didn't deserve happiness — that he was too stained by darkness and too fractured by loss. But Leonora didn't see a weapon. She saw him. So, against every instinct and every ghost that whispered otherwise, he chose to live again — not for redemption, not for glory, but for her. With her steady presence, and with Aurelion's reluctant but sincere blessing, the two of them finally stood where they had always belonged: side by side.
The Kaelthorns were one of the most powerful noble houses in the Empire, and tradition demanded spectacle — enormous guest lists, orchestras, diplomats from distant sectors, chandeliers of gold and crystal. But Leonora refused grandeur for its own sake. Youri's past didn't blend easily with aristocratic ceremony, and she would not let their marriage feel like a political display. It wasn't an alliance. It was a promise. So instead of a palace ballroom, the ceremony would be held in the great garden of the Kaelthorn estate — intimate and deliberate, with only the people who truly mattered.
Beneath its arching canopy of ancient trees, the preparations turned the grounds into something ethereal. White silk was rolled out across the grass from the mansion steps to a floral altar waiting at the garden's heart, shimmering faintly in the afternoon light as though it had been woven from moonlight. Chandeliers were hoisted carefully into the branches overhead, and when the electricians tested the power, the trees seemed to wake, every crystal glowing like captured starlight. Florists draped the branches with cascading white blossoms — ivory roses, hydrangeas, long delicate strands like wisteria — that spilled down in romantic curtains and filled the breeze with a subtle sweetness. At the end of the aisle stood an arch made entirely of flowers, layered, cloud-like, flawless, framing the place where two lives would soon be bound together. Round tables in crisp linen stood in perfect symmetry, golden-framed chairs gleaming beside them, glassware chiming softly as it was laid out. As dusk approached, tall glass cylinders holding steady candle flames were set along the aisle to answer the chandeliers above. By late afternoon, the garden no longer looked like land and trees at all. It had become a cathedral of light and blossom — sacred not by religion, but by intention.
Inside the mansion, things were far less serene. Roland moved like a man pursued by invisible enemies, rushing between the corridors and the garden, barking instructions at the staff, checking and rechecking the seating plans, making sure the musicians had arrived and confirming the security details, glancing at the sky every few minutes as though the weather itself might betray him. At last, overwhelmed, he collapsed into one of the garden chairs and dragged both hands down his face. "My god," he muttered, staring at the glowing chandeliers as though they were judging him. "Sis is going to kill me."
A hand touched his shoulder. Roland nearly jumped out of his skin and spun around to find Youri standing there with faint amusement in his eyes.
"What are you still doing here?" Roland demanded. "You should be getting ready!"
Youri smirked. "Relax, Roboy. I will. But you're the one who's running late."
Roland frowned, confused — and then looked down at himself. He was still in his everyday clothes. "…Shit."
"That's what I mean," Youri said calmly, and they walked back to the mansion together, the tension easing into shared laughter.
In the dressing room, garment bags hung neatly along the wall, and Roland turned to him. "You got the suits, right?"
Youri nodded. "Of course. If I hadn't, I probably wouldn't be alive right now."
Roland snorted. "True. She would have killed you."
The humor softened something unspoken between them, and they began to change, with anticipation in the air rather than nerves. Roland stepped into a tailored dark red suit — a bold color softened by a crisp white shirt and polished white shoes, its cut sharp, confident and fitting for the bride's brother. Youri made a different choice. Most men wore black to weddings, for authority, elegance and tradition. But to him black carried too much history — too many battlefields, too many memories soaked in shadow — and so he chose white. The suit was tailored precisely to him, with clean lines across his shoulders and waist, not flashy but resolute: a declaration that he would not let his past define this day.
As he adjusted his cuffs, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and hesitated. "Hey, Roboy," he said quietly. "Do I really deserve this?"
Roland came over and laid a firm hand on his shoulder. "I didn't want to say this before, because I didn't want it going to your head," he said with a half-smile, "but you're the coolest guy I know. And a total badass. If there was ever a man worthy of my sister, it's you."
For a moment Youri couldn't speak. Then he pulled Roland into a brief, firm hug — not dramatic or emotional, but real. At that exact moment the door opened, and Anna came in. Today she wasn't in her maid's uniform. She wore a soft pink gown that flowed to the floor, her hair gathered into a gentle, full bun at the back of her head. She looked radiant — not like staff, but like family.
"They are inside, my lord," she said softly, and she stepped aside, as Aurelion walked into the room.