Chapter 105: Chapter-105

But even that—even those massive, impossible letters—wasn’t all.

Because the garden had been transformed in ways that went beyond just the flowers.

Lanterns hung from every tree—delicate paper and glass constructions in soft golds and whites, dozens of them, maybe hundreds, each one still glowing with candlelight despite the sun having already risen. They looked like captured stars, suspended in the branches, turning the whole grove into something magical, something that belonged in dreams rather than waking life.

Silk ribbons in crimson and gold streamed down from the branches like waterfalls, dozens of them, hundreds of them, catching the morning breeze and fluttering gently, creating movement and sound—a soft whisper of fabric against leaves that was almost musical.

Tables had been set up along the edges of the garden—long, elegant tables draped in white cloth so fine it looked like it had been woven from clouds, embroidered with gold thread in patterns of vines and flowers. And on those tables…

Food.

*So much food*.

Platters of fresh fruit arranged in elaborate geometric patterns—strawberries and grapes and sliced melon and exotic things he didn’t recognize, all glistening with morning dew. Pastries dusted with sugar that sparkled like snow in the sunlight—delicate things shaped like flowers and stars and crescents, clearly made by master bakers who understood that food could be art. Sweets in every color imaginable, arranged in spirals and pyramids and cascades. Pitchers of juice and wine and crystal-clear water infused with berries and mint and citrus, all sweating slightly in the warming air.

It looked like a feast for royalty.

No—it looked like a feast for *gods*.

Musicians stood in formation near the fountain—he counted them quickly, still in shock—at least twenty, maybe thirty. A full orchestra. String instruments and woodwinds and brass and a ’harp’, an actual golden harp that gleamed in the sunlight. They were dressed in formal performance attire, instruments held ready, clearly waiting for some signal he couldn’t see.

And servants—

’Gods’, there were servants everywhere. Dozens of them, maybe more, all dressed in crisp formal livery that looked brand new, each one standing at attention along the pathways. And each one was holding flowers. Not just a few—’armfuls’ of them. Individual bouquets in every color and combination imaginable, clearly meant to be distributed, shared, given away as part of whatever celebration this was.

The whole thing looked like someone had taken every romantic gesture ever conceived, multiplied it by a thousand, and then executed it with the kind of resources and manpower that only an ’empress’ could command.

It was excessive.

It was elaborate.

It was completely, utterly, impossibly over the top.

It was the most beautiful thing Larus had ever seen in his entire life.

And standing in the very center of it all, directly beneath the massive floral MARRY ME, looking up at him with an expression that was equal parts confident and nervous and absolutely radiant—

Was Heena.

She was dressed in a gown that looked like it had been woven from sunset itself.

Deep crimson silk that caught the light and turned it into liquid fire, flowing around her in waves that moved like water with every small shift of her weight. The fabric was so fine, so beautifully made, that it seemed to ’glow’ from within, like the color wasn’t just dyed onto the surface but emanated from the threads themselves.

Gold embroidery covered the bodice and sleeves—intricate patterns of vines and flowers and geometric shapes that must have taken ’months’ to complete, each stitch placed with the kind of precision that spoke of master craftsmanship. The designs caught the sunlight and threw it back in flashes of brilliance, making her look like she was wearing captured pieces of the sun.

The sleeves were long and elegant, ending in delicate points that brushed the backs of her hands, and the neckline was high and regal, accentuating the graceful line of her throat without being immodest.

The skirt pooled around her feet in soft, elaborate folds, the kind that required multiple layers of fabric to achieve, and when she shifted her weight slightly the whole thing rippled like water disturbed by a stone.

Her hair had been arranged in a style so elaborate it must have taken hours—braided and twisted and pinned up in intricate patterns, woven through with what looked like small golden ornaments shaped like stars and flowers. A few strands had been left deliberately loose, framing her face in soft waves that caught the light and turned amber-gold.

And on her head—

A crown.

Not the massive, heavy thing she wore at official state functions—not that intimidating piece of metalwork that spoke of power and authority and the weight of empire. This was something different. Something lighter. More delicate.

Fine gold worked into intricate patterns of leaves and flowers and vines, so delicate it looked like it might blow away in a strong wind, set with small gems—diamonds or crystals, he couldn’t tell from this distance—that caught the morning light and threw tiny rainbows across the garden.

It sat on her head with perfect balance, looking less like a symbol of political power and more like something a nature spirit might wear. Beautiful and otherworldly and somehow making her look more human rather than less.

She looked like an empress.

She looked like a goddess.

She looked like someone who had decided to remake reality itself and had ’succeeded’.

In her hands, held carefully like something precious, was a single white rose.

Perfect and unblemished, its petals just beginning to open to the morning light.

And she was looking up at him.

Her expression—

Gods, her ’expression’.

There was confidence there, yes. The sureness of someone who had planned this down to the last detail and knew it would work. But underneath that, threaded through it like gold through silk, was something softer. Something more vulnerable.

Hope.

Nervousness.

The look of someone who had just laid everything out in the open—every resource, every advantage, every ounce of power they possessed—and was waiting to see if it would be enough.

Her smile was warm and genuine and just slightly smug, like she knew ’exactly’ what effect this was having on him and was thoroughly pleased with herself.

But her eyes—

Her eyes were ’asking’.

Their gazes met across the distance—him on the balcony above, her in the garden below, the impossible display of flowers and light and beauty spread out between them like a physical manifestation of intention.

And Larus felt something inside his chest ’crack open’.

Not break—not exactly—but split apart in the way that ice breaks in spring, in the way that seeds break open when they’re ready to grow, in the way that something that’s been held too tightly for too long finally, ’finally’ gets permission to expand.

Tears welled up so fast he didn’t have time to stop them, didn’t even have time to ’think’ about stopping them. They just came, hot and overwhelming and immediate, spilling over and running down his cheeks in streams that blurred his vision and made the whole garden below swim and shimmer like something seen through water.

His breath hitched—once, twice—and then turned into something that was half-laugh, half-sob, a sound he’d never made before in his life, a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest where he’d been holding everything he wasn’t allowed to feel.

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