Silk & Sabotage

Part 3: The Day

"The Wedding of the Century".

Dawn in Sonhane arrived like a soft command. Not blinding, not roaring — but absolute. The sky blushed in layers of pale gold, casting a clean light over a city that had not truly slept for days. Bells rang before the sun cleared the horizon. The air, perfumed with crushed jasmine and ceremonial smoke, clung to everything — skin, silk, memory. Down in the streets, the people had already begun to cheer. Children tossed handfuls of powdered dyes into the air. Dancers spun in circles beside open altars. Every rooftop was filled with eyes. It was not just a celebration. It was an offering to history.

Inside the palace, the world moved slower. Sacred. Measured. Like time itself had knelt in reverence. Mia Veyra sat in a chamber bathed in sheer curtains and silence. Her maids moved with wordless precision around her — tying, pinning, layering. The gown she wore was not white. It was woven from sea-glass thread, layered in shifting silver and opaline blue, kissed by starlight and sorrow. Embroidered along the hem were constellations — her constellations — the ones she had memorized as a child when war had stolen sleep. Each stitch was a spell. Each shimmer, a shield.

The veil was unlike anything Sonhane had ever seen. Forty feet of transparent silk fell behind her like mist, embroidered with the twin crests of Rica and Lina Loas. No flowers were placed in her hair — only cold, unyielding pins of silver steel. Her lips, painted the barest rose. Her eyes? Fire beneath frost.

She hadn't spoken in hours.

Elsewhere in the palace, Lucas Drax stood facing the mirror, unmoving. His ceremonial armor glinted dully beneath layers of midnight-blue silk. He had never looked more princely. Regal. Controlled. And yet his jaw was tight. His knuckles, white. The weight of the crown on his brow was nothing compared to the heat behind his eyes — not anger, not nerves. Guilt. And something worse: a bruise still fading across his collarbone. A mark no one else could see but that burned all the same.

Mino had left before dawn. No kiss. No goodbye. Just a quiet door click and a lingering scent — lavender smoke and salted silk. Lucas had not moved since.

The wedding took place in the Temple of Avenine, a structure hidden deep within the palace grounds and opened only for once-in-a-century events. Its architecture was ancient, carved from white volcanic stone and polished obsidian. Thousands filled its courtyard — royalty, politicians, generals, foreign dignitaries, high priests, spies draped in legitimacy. Drones floated overhead, casting the ceremony to every corner of both nations in real time. The world was watching. Every enemy, every lover, every future child not yet born.

Mia entered from the east, veil trailing behind her like prophecy. She did not smile. She did not look up. But every step she took shook the bones of the temple.

Lucas entered from the west, flanked by his war generals, blade absent, expression locked.

They met at the sacred arch — a structure carved from the original truce stone, lined with pearls melted from the blades of fallen soldiers. Between them burned a small flame, flickering blue. The crowd held its breath.

The High Priest spoke in Ruhani — the ancient treaty tongue known only to diplomats and historians. His voice echoed through the dome like wind in a cathedral.

"Do you, Lucas Drax, take this woman not as a symbol, not as a cage, but as a sovereign storm who walks beside you?"

Lucas looked at Mia, and for the first time, his gaze faltered. "I do."

"And do you, Mia Veyra, take this man not as a weapon, not as a wound, but as a torch — one that lights the path you'll both burn through together?"

Mia did not blink. "I do."

The moment their palms met, the sacred oil smeared across their hands ignited. A soft flame shimmered across their joined skin — not hot, but alive. Tradition said that if the flame remained steady, their alliance would hold.

It didn't flicker once.

The priest nodded, stepping back. "You may seal the vow."

They kissed.

Not long.

Not tender.

A political kiss. A kiss like an oath.

Like the quiet before thunder.

And yet, for a fraction of a second — when her lips brushed his — Mia's breath hitched. She tasted salt, and it wasn't hers.

The bells screamed. Petals rained from high arches. Cannons fired ceremonial smoke into the sky. The choir erupted into the twin anthems of Rica and Lina Loas. It was over. History had been made.

But when Mia turned from the altar, her eyes — sharp, deliberate — flicked toward the far balcony of the temple.

It was empty.

No green-flecked eyes. No shadow in burgundy.

Mino hadn't stayed.

The palace exploded into celebration. That night, Sonhane glowed from every corner. Streets flooded with dancing. The river carried floating lanterns in the shapes of swords and doves. In the royal lake, musicians performed atop boats strung with mirrors. At the palace, Mia and Lucas appeared again — now officially husband and wife — dressed in lighter, post-ceremony attire.

Lucas, elegant in navy robes.

Mia, in a sheer silk gown that clung to her like water.

They smiled for the people. Walked hand in hand. Toasted with wine. Bowed to elders.

It looked like love.

It looked like peace.

But it tasted like war.

In her chamber, later that night, Mia stood alone before her vanity. The crown had been removed. Her hair fell down her back in long waves. She reached into the carved drawer and paused.

There, folded neatly, was a note.

She hadn't seen it earlier.

She opened it with slow fingers, heart thudding against bone.

"You wear his ring. But you carry my ghost."

— M.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then she crumpled the note with a trembling hand — and wept.

But only once.

Only briefly.

Then she straightened. Dried her eyes.

And went to bed beside a man she didn't yet know.