[Haldor's POV—Ceremonial Hall—Imperial palace]
I had faced death without fear with the princess.
I had stood at the front lines with blood in my mouth and steel lodged in my armor. I had given orders while men screamed and kingdoms burned. I had walked through rain soaked in iron and smoke, heart steady, mind clear.
But nothing—nothing in all my battles—had prepared me for this.
I stood at the altar, hands clasped behind my back, posture rigid enough to pass inspection. The ceremonial black of the Imperial Knights sat heavy on my shoulders, silver insignia gleaming against my chest. Every breath felt measured. Every heartbeat thundered like a war drum.
I was about to marry the Crown Princess.
No—I was about to marry Lavinia.
The empire watched.
I could feel their gazes like blades pressed against my spine. Nobles whispering behind painted fans. Priests standing solemn, eyes sharp. Generals measuring my worth with the cold calculus of war.
And above all of them—Him.
