The palace corridors at night felt like the inside of a sleeping dragon—vast, echoing, and filled with the low hum of distant preparations. Torches burned low in their silver sconces, casting long shadows that danced across black marble veined with comet-silver. Somewhere beyond the thick walls, the capital of Stag City was alive with frantic energy.
Nobles who had come for a simple imperial summon now scrambled through the night markets and private vaults, hunting for gifts worthy of a prince's wedding. Tailors worked by lantern light on gowns and tunics no one had expected. Merchants doubled their prices on silk, jewelries and pearls.
Even the lowborn hung lanterns shaped like stags from their windows, whispering that the Grimharts were binding new blood to the throne.
Yet the Emperor had kept the brides' names locked tighter than any seal. No leaks. No rumors allowed to fester. Only the inner circle knew.
Jared Grimhart stood alone in the hallway outside the private solar wing, the weight of the evening pressing on him like the pressure his father could summon with a thought. He had dressed with the care of a man armoring for battle rather than matrimony. The outfit was a masterpiece of imperial tailoring, every thread chosen to remind the world he was still Grimhart—sigil of stag and comets, not the dragon some lesser houses still whispered about in error.
At the base lay a high-collared, textured black shirt or tunic, fastened with dark, glossy buttons that caught the torchlight like polished obsidian. Over it crossed a wide, slate-grey fabric sash that draped diagonally from his right shoulder down across his chest, hanging in a long, structured panel that swayed with each breath. The chest itself was heavy with bright gold jewelry: an ornate cross-like gold medallion pinned to the left breast, and a smaller golden clasp on the right that anchored a pair of delicate gold chains draped gracefully across his collarbone.
The sleeves were fitted and dark, accented with gold studs along the cuffs and intricate gold, cross-shaped embroidery near the elbows. The main garment was a long, structured coat that split into sharp angular panels reaching below the knees, the bottom hems reinforced with neat rows of silver and dark metal studs that clicked softly when he shifted. From his right shoulder fell a heavy, solid black cloak that swept all the way to the floor, pooling like midnight around his boots.
At his waist, an elaborate multi-layered belt system cinched him tight: a wide, corset-like dark blue band secured by two prominent gold buckles set with large oval-shaped blue gemstones the color of the unfrozen Glass Sea. Over that sat a standard black leather belt with its own gold buckle, featuring a golden lion-head ornament that held a gleaming gold chain looping stylishly over the front panel. A geometric gold pendant hung lower on the left side, catching the light with every step.
Dark fitted trousers disappeared into tall black leather lace-up boots that reached mid-calf, sturdy yet elegant. From behind his left hip, the elegant gold-capped hilt of his sword peeked out—his own battered blade from the riverbank, cleaned and polished but never replaced. It was the only piece that truly belonged to the man beneath the finery.
He looked every inch the imperial prince. He felt like a prize stallion being led to stud.
Jared's grey eyes stared at the closed doors ahead. Tonight he would meet the women he was expected to share his life with. The empire's answer to a thinning bloodline. He wondered again what twisted joke his father might have played. An orc? A goblin? Some pig-faced beastman chosen for political leverage and a sense of humor only Ezra could appreciate? The man had sent him to war at ten; marrying him off to monsters would be mild by comparison.
His hand rose to knock.
Before his knuckles could touch the wood, the Emperor's voice drifted through the door—calm, certain, as if he had been waiting.
"Enter, son."
Jared pushed the doors open and stepped inside, but the hallway moment lingered in his mind like the aftertaste of comet-wine. The corridor had felt endless. Now it felt like the last breath before a charge.
Ezra stood just beyond the threshold, alone for once—no stewards, no scribes. The Emperor was dressed in matching midnight and gold, his own cloak pinned with the Grimhart stag-and-comets brooch. From behind his father, the rest of the hallway cleared. Two Imperial Aegis knights and Amon the Red Knight—still in his refined black-and-crimson armor—received a silent gesture. They bowed and withdrew without a word, boots echoing away until only father and son remained.
"You look good, boy," Ezra said, voice low. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "I wore almost the same outfit when I went to meet your mother for the first time, a week before our marriage. Though I would say I had much more swagger."
Jared remained quiet. The words hung between them, awkward and heavy. He had no reply that would not reopen old wounds.
Ezra stepped closer. From his sleeve he produced a brooch—golden and silver, shaped into the proud stag head with three falling comets arcing behind its antlers. The Grimhart sigil, rendered in perfect miniature. Without asking, he pinned it to Jared's left shoulder, fingers steady despite the years. The metal clicked softly into place.
"I know I have not been the best father to you," Ezra continued, tone stripped of imperial command for the first time Jared could remember. No pressure. No magic. Just a man speaking to his son. "I know you must be mad. Anyone would be. Sending you away at ten… seven years of silence… I watched the reports. Every battle, every scar you earned in those cursed lands. But I promise you—all I did was for your own good. Maybe you will understand when you have your own children. But I promise… it was all for your own good."
The voice cracked—just once, barely audible. It hit Jared like a war-hammer to the chest. The proud, cunning, emotionless Emperor he had built in his mind for seven years suddenly looked smaller. Older. Human. Yet the apology did not erase the boy who had run bleeding from the Black Forest, nor the ten-year-old sent to die with nothing but a sword. Words could not unmake exile.
Jared drew a deep breath, the slate-grey sash shifting across his chest. "I'm not yet sure I can forgive you but I hope this can mark a new beginning, Father."
Ezra's golden eyes softened. "Me too, son."
From behind them came the soft rustle of silk and the familiar scent of jasmine and winter roses. Queen Seraphine appeared like a vision in matching crimson and gold, her pregnancy bump proudly rounded, violet eyes bright with unshed tears. She wrapped her arms around both of them at once, pulling them into a fierce, awkward, perfect hug.
"Me too," she whispered, voice thick. "Now let's go before we make those young ladies wait any longer."
The three of them turned as one. The great doors to the private reception hall swung open on silent hinges.
Below the short flight of stairs, a sea of people knelt on the polished marble—families of the brides, minor lords, mages, chieftains, guild masters. They had come from every corner of the empire and beyond. Heads bowed, hands pressed to chests, they chanted in perfect unison.
"Long live the Grimhart family! Long may their reign!"
Jared stood in the middle, flanked by his parents. Emperor Ezra on his right, tall and regal in midnight velvet edged with comet-silver. Queen Seraphine on his left, radiant and fierce, hand resting on her belly. They descended the stairs quickly, cloaks sweeping, boots and slippers clicking in sync. The hall's everflame chandeliers bathed them in warm gold.
"All of you rise," Ezra commanded, voice carrying warmth rather than decree. "We are practically family now."
"Indeed," Seraphine added, smiling the smile that had once toppled kingdoms.
One by one the gathered rose. Faces flushed with nerves and hope. Eyes flicking to the too-handsome prince in the center.
Then five—no, four—distinctive women stepped forward from the front row, the fifth perhaps a chaperone or attendant who remained respectfully behind. They moved with the grace of those raised for this exact moment. Each bowed low before the imperial trio.
Jared studied them openly, grey eyes calm but assessing.
The first was Andrea Valerius, daughter of Duke Haelys. She rose with the fluid poise of the western coast, hair the color of azure waves cascading over one shoulder, eyes the same bright blue as the unfrozen Glass Sea. Her gown shimmered in House Valerius colors—deep ocean blues and silvers—hugging a figure that spoke of both court elegance and the strength of a sailor's daughter. Beautiful in the way of clear skies after a storm.
The second was Shadiya Bulsworth, originally from the east and one of the palace's most promising cultivated mages. Long dark curly hair streaked with silver fell to her waist; her skin was a rich, deep brown that glowed under the lanterns. Deep, soulful eyes met Jared's without flinching. Her dress was simpler, scholarly yet luxurious.
The third introduced herself with an elven accent "Alynna Silvaris, daughter of Guild Master Monford Silvaris of the Moonveil Kingdom on the Morgra continent." She was from a land separated by two oceans from Veldara, yet here she stood—milky skin like fresh snow, blonde hair braided with living moonflowers, blue eyes bright as starlight. Slender and ethereal, her gown of pale silver and forest green clung to a frame that was thinner than the others yet no less captivating. Her elven beauty made the air around her feel lighter.
The fourth and final stepped forward with a confident sway that drew every eye. Xaya Greymane, first daughter of Chief Olaf Greymane of the Grey Felis clan from the north near the Uncrowned Lands. She looked more human than beast—great deal of human blood, Jared noted—but the giveaway was unmistakable: a sleek grey tail flicking behind her, matching grey hair and eyes that gleamed with predatory amusement. Brown skin, full lips curved in a grin, and a body that caught Jared's full attention—big breasts and an ass that strained the seams of her fur-trimmed leather-and-silk dress in the most deliberate way. She noticed his gaze and grinned wider, unashamed.
All four had the kind of bodies Jared had always found himself drawn to in quiet moments between battles—curves and strength and presence. Even the slender elven Alynna carried an otherworldly allure that fit the pattern perfectly. He wondered how his father and mother had chosen so accurately. Spies? Did they read his jurnal? Or they just knew him?
Jared stepped forward, bowing with perfect courtly grace. "I am Jared Grimhart, second son of the Emperor and Empress. It is an honor to meet you all."
His voice carried across the hall—deep, steady, the same tone that had rallied a thousand Forgotten Sons. The four women rose, eyes bright with open pleasure. Andrea's cheeks flushed. Shadiya's smile was warm and knowing. Alynna's elven gaze sparkled with curiosity. Xaya's grin turned downright wicked, her tail curling in approval.
The rest of the gathered families watched, relief and ambition mixing on their faces. The prince was magnificent.
Emperor Ezra raised a hand. A goblet of wine flew from a side table straight into his palm, magic humming softly. He lifted it high.
"Alright then," he declared, voice ringing with imperial finality and genuine hope. "Let this night mark the alliance of the Emperial family and the people of Veldara"
The rest followed—goblets rising, voices joining in a single toast that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
Jared drank with them, the wine sweet and sharp on his tongue. Tonight the veils would lift a little more, very soon the empire would celebrate four new unions meant to thicken the blood. The day after, he would ride west to war beside his brother while his father prepared a second host.
But in this moment, surrounded by his parents and the women fate had chosen, the Forsaken Prince allowed himself one small, guarded hope.
New beginnings, perhaps.