Time had once felt meaningless to Youri — a blur of missions, battles, and silence — but the moment he met Leonora on that fateful day, time had shifted. It did not move faster or slower; it deepened. Every second afterward carried weight. Every breath had purpose.
Their reunion had been nothing short of a storm. Leonora had not only survived the Empire's brutal ascent through military ranks — she had conquered it. With relentless discipline and an iron will reminiscent of her father, she rose step by step until she stood among the highest-ranking officers of the Terrian Empire. In time, she succeeded Aurelion as one of its leading generals, commanding fleets and legions with authority that few dared question.
And yet, for all her titles and medals, she had never stopped searching for him.
When Leonora finally uncovered the truth of Youri's identity — the man behind the myths, the soldier beneath the cold mask — she did not hesitate. The moment she knew the truth, she ran to him. No rank, no pride, no uniform stood between them. She clung to him as though afraid the universe might steal him away again.
Youri, who had once buried his humanity beneath steel and silence, felt something break open inside his chest. The walls he had constructed so carefully — layer by layer, mission by mission — crumbled beneath the warmth of her embrace. He had spent years convincing himself he did not deserve happiness. That he was too stained by darkness, too fractured by loss.
But Leonora did not see a weapon. She saw him.
And so, against his instincts, against the ghosts that whispered otherwise, he chose to live again. Not for redemption. Not for glory. But for her. With her steady presence and Aurelion's reluctant yet sincere blessing, the two finally stood where they had always belonged — side by side.
The Kaelthorn family was among the most powerful noble houses in the Terrian Empire. Tradition demanded spectacle: towering guest lists, orchestras, diplomats from distant sectors, chandeliers of gold and crystal. But Leonora had refused grandeur for grandeur's sake.
Youri's past was not one that blended easily with aristocratic ceremony, and she would not allow their union to feel like a political display. This was not an alliance. It was a promise.
So instead of a palace ballroom, the ceremony would take place in the grand garden of the Kaelthorn estate — intimate, deliberate, and attended only by those who truly mattered.
Under the arching canopy of ancient trees, preparation transformed the estate grounds into something ethereal. White silk runners were rolled across the grass, stretching from the mansion steps to a floral altar waiting at the garden's heart. The fabric shimmered faintly in the afternoon light, as though woven from threads of moonlight itself.
Chandeliers were hoisted carefully into the branches overhead, their crystals catching the sun and scattering soft fragments of gold across the lawn. When electricians tested the power, the trees seemed to awaken — each prism glowing gently like captured starlight suspended in air.
Florists draped garlands of cascading white blossoms along the branches. Ivory roses, hydrangeas, and delicate wisteria-like strands spilled downward in romantic curtains. The scent of fresh petals lingered in the breeze, subtle and sweet. At the aisle's end stood an arch sculpted entirely of blooms — layered, cloud-like, flawless — framing the space where vows would soon bind two lives together.
Round tables dressed in crisp linen were arranged with perfect symmetry. Golden-framed chairs gleamed under filtered sunlight. Glassware chimed softly as it was placed, each setting polished to mirror-bright perfection. As dusk approached, tall glass cylinders housing steady candle flames were positioned along the aisle, their warm glow complementing the chandeliers above.
By afternoon, the garden no longer resembled mere land and trees. It had become a cathedral of light and blossom — sacred not by religion, but by intention.
Inside the mansion, the atmosphere was far less serene.
Roland moved like a man chased by invisible enemies. He rushed between corridors and the garden, barking instructions at staff, double-checking seating charts, ensuring musicians had arrived, confirming security details, and glancing at the sky every few minutes as if weather itself might betray him.
Finally, overwhelmed, he collapsed into one of the garden chairs and dragged both hands down his face. "My god… sis is going to kill me," he muttered, staring at the glowing chandeliers as though they were judging him.
A hand touched his shoulder.
Roland nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around — only to find Youri standing there, faint amusement in his eyes.
"What are you doing still here?" Roland demanded. "You should be getting ready!"
Youri smirked lightly. "Relax, Roboy. I will. But it's you who's getting late."
Roland frowned in confusion — then looked down at himself.
He was still in his daily clothes.
"…Shit."
"That's what I mean," Youri replied calmly.
They walked back toward the mansion together, the tension easing into shared laughter.
Inside the preparation room, garment bags hung neatly along the wall. Roland turned to Youri. "You got the suits, right?"
Youri nodded. "Of course. If I hadn't, I probably wouldn't be alive right now."
Roland snorted. "That's true. She would've killed you."
The humor softened something unspoken between them. They began to change, the air thick with anticipation rather than nerves.
Roland stepped into his tailored dark red suit — a bold contrast softened by a crisp white shirt and polished white shoes. The cut was sharp, confident, fitting for the brother of the bride.
Youri, however, made a different choice.
Most men chose black for weddings — authority, elegance, tradition. But black, to him, carried too much history. Too many battlefields. Too many memories soaked in shadow.
He chose white.
The suit was tailored precisely to his frame, the clean lines sculpting his shoulders and waist. It was not flashy; it was resolute. A declaration that he would not let his past define this day.
As he adjusted his cuffs, he caught his reflection in the mirror — and hesitated.
"Hey, Roboy," he said quietly. "Do I really deserve this?"
Roland stepped closer, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "I didn't want to say this before because I didn't want it going to your head," he began with a half-smile, "but you're the coolest guy I know. And yeah, a total badass too. If there was ever a man worthy of my sister, it's you."
For a moment, Youri couldn't speak. Then he pulled Roland into a brief, firm hug — not dramatic, not emotional — but real.
At that exact moment, the door opened.
Anna stepped inside.
Today she was not dressed in her usual maid attire. Instead, she wore a soft pink gown that flowed gracefully to the floor. Her hair was gathered into a structured yet gentle bun at the back of her head, arranged with volume rather than severity. She looked radiant — not like staff, but like family.
"They are inside, my lord," she said softly.
She stepped aside.
As Aurelion entered the room.