CHAPTER 561: THE CROWN AND THE VEIL

Lara’s brothers glared daggers at Alaric, their expressions dark and intimidating. But when Alaric turned to them, their expressions turned into fawning smiles.

"You damn fox. How could you cheat?" growled Galahad, the second eldest, his massive hand coming down on Alaric’s shoulder with a thud that would have sent most men staggering.

But Alaric didn’t flinch. He stood unmoved, as immovable as a mountain peak against a storm.

"You brat!" Jethru spat, stepping forward until he was chest to chest with him. "We spent hours setting traps for you, and you just—you just did not even go past them and sneak straight into the bride’s chamber?"

Alaric’s lips curved into a smile—slow, deliberate, full of mischief. "I wasn’t about to ruin my wedding clothes over your childish pranks."

Jethru’s nostrils flared, but he finally grunted in reluctant acceptance. "Fine. I’ll let you take the bride today. But if you ever make her cry, I’ll make sure you pay for it—tenfold."

Alaric rolled his eyes skyward, amusement flickering in them like sunlight on steel. "Lara? Let herself be wronged? You give her too little credit. Her martial skills outmatch mine, Master Jethru."

A reluctant smile tugged at Jethru’s mouth. "Good. At least you know what you’re marrying into." He stepped aside, clearing the path.

At last, Alaric found himself face-to-face with General Odin. The old general’s presence filled the air like a tide—stern, commanding, yet softened by the faint warmth of pride.

"Well done, my son-in-law," Odin said, his deep voice rumbling with approval. "You remind me of myself on my wedding day."

Alaric bowed with a crisp salute. "Thank you, Father. You have my word—I’ll cherish Lara and protect her all my life. She will be my only love, as mother-in-law has always been yours."

For the first time that morning, Odin’s face broke into a genuine smile. It melted away the iron of the general, revealing the father beneath—the man who was, just for a moment, happy to let his daughter go.

After a few more stern warnings and a final round of teasing from the brothers, the tension lifted. The groom’s entourage filed out of the bride’s chamber, their laughter echoing through the corridors until they reached the grand hall, where music and celebration awaited.

...

The bells of Calma began their joyous toll just as the sun reached its zenith, the ringing echoing across the city. From the highest spires to the cobbled lanes below, all of Calma stirred to life. The coronation day had come.

Inside the grand hall of Hevenfort, guests from different kingdoms stopped mingling around and were all focused on the grand door, waiting for the new emperor to enter.

At the center of the dais, stood the throne: carved from white marble, adorned with gold filigree and the crest of Azurverda—an eagle clutching a ring of fire. Before it, laid upon a velvet cushion, rested the first crown of the empire of Azurverda. Its jewels caught the noon light filtering through the stained glass, scattering it into a hundred dancing colors that shimmered like fragments of heaven.

The trumpets and bugles thundered, and the great doors swung open.

Prince Alaric entered, his wedding robes hidden behind the imperial robe of deep crimson, trimmed with ermine and lined in cloth-of-gold. The train followed behind him like a river of light. A hush swept through the gathered nobility as he approached the high altar, where the High Priest waited, holding the sacred oil of anointing, flanked by the high priest, the grand duke of Arches, and the former king of Northem.

"Do you swear," the High Priest’s voice rang out, resonant as the bells, "to uphold the laws of the empire, to protect the weak, and to serve your people in justice and mercy?"

Alaric bowed his head. "I swear it, with all that I am, and all that I shall become."

The sacred oil touched his brow, his hands, and his heart. The fragrance of myrrh and frankincense filled the air, mingling with the sound of murmured prayers.

Then came the crown. The grand duke of Arches lifted it from its cushion, his hands trembling under its weight—not for its metal, but for its meaning. As the High Priest placed it upon Alaric’s head, the crowd rose to its feet.

"Long Live The Emperor!"

The cry began as a whisper and swelled into a roar that shook the very rafters. Trumpets blared, drums thundered, and outside, the city erupted in bells and cheers.

Amidst the grandeur, Alaric felt the weight settle—not only of the crown but of expectation. The diadem pressed against his temples like a reminder: glory was never freely given; it was earned, upheld, and sometimes suffered for.

He turned toward his people, the jeweled circlet gleaming in the sunlight, and raised his hand in solemn greeting.

"Long Live The Emperor!"

...

After Alaric was crowned Emperor, the crowd moved to the vast palace gardens in the west. A beautiful gazebo floating in the middle of the pond was especially made for the wedding.

Lara entered through the west doors, clad in a gown of snowy silver that rippled like water with each step. A coronet of diamond and frost glass graced her brow, and beneath her veil her eyes glimmered with the calm confidence that had made her beloved by soldiers, scholars, and the commoner alike. She was no meek bride of empire; she was a warrior in her own right, and all who beheld her knew that the emperor had met his equal.

When she reached the Gazebo, Alaric extended his hand. His imperial robe was removed, revealing his wedding clothes that made him look more handsome. His gaze softened as she placed her hand in his, fingers entwining like an unspoken vow.

The High Priest raised his staff, its sapphire orb glowing faintly in the candlelight. "Before the heavens and before men, two souls shall be joined," he intoned. "Two hearts, two destinies, and one crown."

As he spoke the ancient words of union, a hush fell upon the gathering. The choir began a low chant of an ancient wedding song—a tongue few remembered, yet all felt in their bones. Lara’s veil was lifted, and for a heartbeat the world seemed to still. Alaric leaned forward and kissed her brow, sealing not only their vows but the hopes of a new empire being born.

Then the bells pealed—first one, then a hundred more—and the roar of celebration swept through Calma like a rising tide. From the palace terraces, white doves took flight, scattering into the clear blue sky.

After the wedding feast, the music had faded, leaving only the quiet murmur of distant laughter and the soft crackle of torches beyond the balcony. The west garden lay empty now, strewn with the remnants of festivity—fallen petals, half-drained goblets, and the lingering perfume of wine and roses.

Alaric and Lara walked side by side through the moonlit corridors of Hevenfort Palace, the hem of her gown whispering against the marble floor. Servants bowed as they passed, though their emperor and empress hardly noticed. The day’s weight—the ceremony, the vows, the endless congratulations—had settled into a silence that was neither weary nor cold, but gentle, like the calm after rain.

When they reached the secret garden in the north, the night air met them, cool and fragrant with blooming jasmine. The fountains murmured softly, their waters catching the silver light of the moon. Alaric paused by one of the stone balustrades, turning to face her.

"For all my victories," he said quietly, "this is the only one that made me feel a real victor."

Lara smiled faintly, her fingers brushing the edge of her cloak. "You make it sound as though you conquered me."

He shook his head. "No. You were never mine to conquer. You stood beside me before the crown ever touched my brow. You remind me that I am only a man."

She looked at him then, really looked—past the crown, past the robes, to the man beneath it all. "And you remind me that I belong to you now," she said.

A breeze lifted the edge of her veil, and Alaric reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was hesitant at first, almost reverent. "Do you remember," he murmured, "the first time we met? I was at death’s door, and you saved me."

Lara laughed softly. "You were a prince pretending to be a common soldier."

"A general, not a common soldier," he corrected, a smile tugging at his lips. "When you carried me across that bridge, that’s how I knew you were the one."

The laughter faded into silence again, but this time it was warm, full of all that did not need saying. The moonlight lay pale on their faces, and somewhere far off, the city bells tolled once—slow, tender, eternal.

Alaric drew her close, his forehead resting against hers. "Tomorrow," he whispered, "the empire will wake and expect an emperor and empress. But tonight—just for a little while—I would rather we were only Alaric and Lara."

"Then let the world sleep," she replied. "Tonight belongs to us."

Their words dissolved into the garden’s hush as they stood together beneath the watchful stars, the scent of jasmine curling in the air.

No throne, no crown, no empire—only two hearts that had chosen each other, in a world where love itself was the rarest victory.