Chapter 328: Hours

As the formal rituals dissolved into the chaos of a true Northern celebration, the empire outside the palace walls came alive. In the market districts, taverns spilled into the streets, the imperial treasury providing free casks of vintage wine that fueled wild drinking games and sea shanties.

Even in the outer districts, where the scars of the demon attack were still fresh, the grief was tempered by a bittersweet joy. Memorial sites were covered in ice-flowers, and toasts were raised to those who had been lost—and to the woman who had saved the survivors.

Inside the hall, the scene was turning gloriously messy. Old Lord Thaddeus, in an ill-advised attempt to impress a young lady with a minor frost-cantrip, managed to freeze his long, white beard to the edge of the mahogany table. He sat stuck, unable to move his head, while servants rushed forward with warm cloths to thaw him amidst the howling laughter of his peers.

Rael, exhausted by the weight of the day, had finally succumbed. He fell asleep in Eris’s lap, snoring softly and drooling slightly onto the silver filigree of her gown. Eris sat frozen, her hands hovering uncertainly over the small boy, until Soren leaned over and gently draped his own heavy, fur-lined cloak over the child.

“He’s fine, Eris,” Soren whispered, his eyes soft. “Let him sleep.”

Bjorn, the silver wolf, was finally caught in the kitchens. A harried servant grabbed his collar as he tried to bolt with an entire roasted pheasant. The wolf looked toward the high table with wide, pathetic eyes, and Soren simply waved a hand. “Let him go. It’s a celebration.” Bjorn immediately trotted off to a dark corner to finish his prize.

Near midnight, the Herald’s voice rang out one last time. “The Imperial Fireworks!”

The guests rushed to the massive crystalline windows or out into the courtyards. These were not the fire-powder displays of the South. These were masterpieces of ice-magic.

From the palace towers, rockets launched into the dark sky, exploding not into heat, but into gargantuan frozen fractals. They hung in the air, glittering in shades of deep violet, sapphire, and silver, forming the shapes of dragons and phoenixes that chattered and roared with the sound of chiming bells.

The finale was a massive, blinding explosion that formed two figures dancing in the stars, recognizably the Emperor and the Empress before shattering into a million glittering shards that fell harmlessly as magical snow.

Eris and Soren stood at the balcony, the freezing night air a welcome relief after the heat of the hall. Soren’s arm was wound tightly around her waist, and she leaned against him, the weight of the sleeping Rael in her other arm.

“Happy?” Soren asked, his voice a low rumble against her hair.

Eris watched the city of Nevareth below, illuminated by the fading magic of the fireworks, and for the first time all night, a completely genuine smile broke across her face. “Getting there.”

They returned to the hall as a massive wedding cake, carved to resemble the glacial peaks of the North, was brought out.

Soren took a small, silver-forked piece and tried to feed it to Eris, his eyes full of a playful, dark intent. She refused with a sharp, amused tilt of her head and turned instead to feed the small bite to the waking, groggy Rael.

Soren didn’t mind. He watched the way her throat moved as she laughed at Rael’s sticky face, his mind already drifting to the hours ahead when the doors would be locked, the crowds would be gone, and he would finally be allowed to feast on something far more intoxicating than cake.

“You’re thinking about something inappropriate again,” Eris murmured, catching the heat in his gaze.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about anything inappropriate since the altar,” he confessed, leaning down to nip at the shell of her ear.

The music played on, the wine flowed, and the empire celebrated, but for the two of them, the world was narrowing back down to the space between their heartbeats.

…

The transition of the night arrived not with a sudden halt, but with the creeping, inescapable reality of the Northern climate. Unlike the Solmirans, who were known to revel until the first golden fingers of dawn touched the horizon, the people of Nevareth lived by a more practical clock.

As the winter grew harsher with each passing hour, the deep cold began to seep through even the thickest stone walls, demanding that the revelry move toward the hearths of private homes. The public joy did not end; it simply fragmented, moving into a thousand different households where families celebrated the union over their own fires.

In the Grand Hall, the noble exodus began. It was a slow, graceful thinning of the crowd. The women and wives retired first, their silk skirts whispering against the stone as they sought the warmth of the guest wings.

Ophelia was among the first to leave, her hand resting protectively over the gentle swell of her belly. She looked exhausted, her porcelain mask finally cracking to reveal the heavy toll the day and the sight of her husband’s longing had taken on her.

She moved toward the guest chambers with a grateful, weary step, followed shortly by Mira, who had been given leave to retire early. Though the girl had smiled through the dancing, she was still recovering, her frame needing the restorative silence of sleep.

Rael had long since been carried away, a small bundle of velvet and dreams tucked into his bed, leaving the high table slightly emptier. As the hall cleared, the servants began the gargantuan task of cleanup, moving like shadows around the clusters of men who remained.

Tradition dictated that the men stay longer, a period of bonding fueled by the stronger, darker vintages of the imperial cellar.

The atmosphere shifted, shedding its formal, regal weight for something more relaxed and masculine. Dice games broke out on the lower tables, the clatter of bone against wood punctuating the low hum of conversation.

Others played cards with ice-themed decks, their fingers flying through a regional game of strategy and bluffing. Arm-wrestling matches continued in the corners, accompanied by the occasional grunt of effort and a roar of laughter.

War stories and hunting tales were traded like currency, and beneath it all ran the steady, low-frequency murmur of politics and trade, the true business of the empire being conducted over the rim of a glass.

At the center of it all sat the inner circle. Ryse was nursing his fourth drink, his head bobbing as he drifted on the edge of sleep, while Aldric drank with a steady, practiced rhythm, his sarcasm sharpening with every swallow.

Duke Konstantin was in the middle of an animated story about a mountain cat he had tracked through a blizzard, his hands gesturing wildly to illustrate the beast’s size.

Caelen sat among them, but he was a ghost at the feast. He remained silent, his fingers tracing the rim of a goblet he hadn’t refilled in an hour. He didn’t participate in the laughter or the games; he simply stared into the depths of his wine as if searching for a way out of the room.

Occasionally, his gaze would flicker toward the high table… a compulsive, painful habit he couldn’t break—before he would snap his eyes back to the table, his throat working in a hard swallow.

The problem was that Soren hadn’t left Eris’s side.

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