"Yes," Zalthor answered, his voice steady and commanding, after being asked the question.
Another round of soft applause rippled through the grand hall, the delicate clatter of hands echoing off the gilded walls, before slowly fading into an expectant hush. All eyes turned toward the priest, awaiting his next decree.
"Very well. Is there anybody who does not wish for this union to take place? Speak now, or forever hold your peace."
The words hung in the air, heavy and solemn. The hall fell into a silence so deep it felt as though even the flickering candles had paused.
For some inexplicable reason, Yeara's heart began hammering against her ribs, each beat loud and insistent in her ears.
Her gaze instinctively shifted from Zalthor, but then her breath caught, freezing mid-inhale, as her eyes fell upon that figure… that figure from before.
He was leaving.
She shifted her gaze back to the crowd, then to the exact spot where she had seen him.
But he was gone.
