The sun still slanted toward the west when Rianor grasped Elara's hand in the castle garden. Around them, the Snow Chrysanthemums began to close their petals, preparing to greet the night. A gentle breeze drifted by, carrying the scent of damp earth and drying leaves.
But Rianor refused to wait until tomorrow.
"Elara."
Elara looked up at him. Her eyes were still puffy from her earlier tears, but her smile remained. It was warm. It was real.
"We are getting married. Soon. I don't want to wait anymore."
It wasn't a poetic line. There were no flowery metaphors or grand allegories. But the tone of his voice—firm, absolute, like a commander issuing an order on the battlefield—made Elara's tears fall once more.
She laughed through her sobs. "You... can't you be just a little bit romantic?"
"I am being romantic." Rianor's face remained stoic, but the corner of his lip twitched upward ever so slightly.
"You call this romantic?"
"This is my version of it."
