By the time the procession arrived at the entrance of the Numen Grand Hall, the world outside had already dissolved into a fever of flashes, shouted names, and the mechanical whir of broadcast drones hovering above the gates. The front steps were lined with security personnel whose presence alone could have passed for a military parade: Numen Corp's private guards in black, city officials in deep navy, and the Ministry's security detail layered behind them in coordinated precision.
Every camera outside wanted the same impossible thing: a perfect glimpse of the groom and the groom's groom, as if Victor Numen and Elias Clarke were mythic creatures descending from the clouds.
