The wedding day dawned with the kind of golden brilliance that seemed tailored for legends, the May sun spilling its honeyed light across the cobbled streets of Rome, gilding the edges of every archway and fountain where petals—rose and myrtle, crushed underfoot by laughing children—already formed a fragrant carpet leading toward destiny. Phainon had risen before the first bells, his fingers pausing over the ceremonial robes laid out with military precision by his valet, the heavy silk brocade threaded with gold that caught the light like liquid fire, a visual proclamation of his family’s near-regal standing. The city itself seemed to hold its breath, the usual cacophony of merchants and pilgrims muted by the weight of what this union represented—a merging of bloodlines, of influence, of futures yet unwritten.

He stood now at the altar of St. Peter’s Basilica, a colossus of marble and gilt towering above them all, its vaulted ceilings swallowing the whispers of the assembled elite whole. Sunlight streamed through the high clerestory windows, painting the interior in fractured rainbows that danced across the faces of politicians and patriarchs, their jewels and medals winking like a constellation of complicit stars. The air smelled of incense and the wax of a thousand candles, their flames trembling in the draft that swept through the open doors each time another guest arrived. Phainon’s posture was flawless, shoulders squared beneath the weight of his embroidered cape, but his hands—clasped too tightly behind his back—betrayed him. The leather of his gloves creaked with the tension of his grip.

He had not seen her. Not once.

The irony was not lost on him, this most intimate of transactions conducted with the clinical detachment of a treaty signing. His parents had spoken of her in terms of alliances and advantages—the sharpness of her father’s mind, the reach of her family’s trade networks, the rumored grace with which she carried herself in court. But no one had thought to mention whether her laughter was low and melodic or bright as spring water, whether her hands were calloused from harp strings or ink-stained from letters, whether her eyes would reflect the candlelight like his mother’s amber necklace or swallow it whole like the midnight between stars.

A fanfare of trumpets shattered his thoughts, the sudden peal reverberating through the basilica’s bones. The massive doors at the far end of the nave swung open, and a collective inhale swept through the crowd as petals rained anew from the balcony above. Phainon did not turn. He would not give them the satisfaction of his anticipation, though his pulse roared in his ears like the Tiber in flood.

Then—silence. A hush so complete he could hear the rustle of her gown before he saw her, the whisper of fabric against stone as she began her procession. Only then did he allow himself to look.

She was neither the painted doll nor the stern dynast he’d imagined, but something far more dangerous—a vision in ivory silk that seemed to glow from within, the delicate embroidery of golden vines catching the light with every step, as if the very threads were alive. Her veil, translucent as morning mist, did nothing to obscure the proud line of her neck, the set of her shoulders that spoke of dignity rather than submission. But it was her pace that undid him—the deliberate, unhurried grace with which she moved, as if this were her choice, her moment, and they were all merely witnesses.

A sunbeam struck the edge of her veil as she passed a column, and for a fleeting second, her features were illuminated—the curve of a cheek that would fit perfectly in his palm, the faint press of lips that might, in time, learn to smile for him rather than at him. Something hot and possessive coiled in his chest, a sensation too sharp to name.

"Oh, divine beings," was the only response that Phainon could muster.