[color=lightgray]When those long, pale, delicate fingers adorned their owner’s head with the rose, Azariah tracked each movement, mesmerized. Something new budded in his chest, and he was surprised to find that it wasn’t desire, not quite. Oh, he was attracted to Eryn, [i]undoubtedly.[/i] But at her gentle yet telling gesture, he felt…Pride? Contentment? [i]Hope?[/i]

He wasn’t sure, but he decided then and there that he liked her, even if he didn’t know her at all – not yet.

He had offered her an out, but there was no hesitation on her part. She approached like a wave; slow, gliding, but inevitable. Eryn was as serene as the calmest skies, her dress as ethereal as the wispiest clouds, framing her natural beauty with nothing more than the clever arrangement of silken layers. Her hand lifted, a trail of pale green flowing through the air as her sleeve followed, catching his attention. Instinctively, he rose his arm in response, offering it as a perch. [color=c83f49]“Let’s,”[/color] he confirmed, his smile bolstering. [color=c83f49]“It [i]is[/i] a once in a lifetime event.”[/color]

The invocation of Anais surprised him. His eyes widened as those words left her lips, but he regained his composure with a habitual smile. [color=c83f49]“May Her light shine upon us,”[/color] he echoed, uncharacteristically reverent. He dipped his head at her next words. [color=c83f49]“I’ll remember that.”[/color]

[color=#93E9BE][i]May we not lose ourselves in the shadows.[/i][/color]

It was a good reminder, one he kept close to heart.

There were far too many shadows here.

The one which loomed most daunting was his father’s. Ever since they’d arrived to the palace, he and his family had been on tenterhooks. They expected to see him at each and every corner, hope and despair gripping their hearts in equal measure. Each time they’d come across a royal guard, anxiety mounted. Yet, there had been hide nor hair of the former marquis so far.

Would Kizoh not show him off at all? Or would his father, Ishaan, be there when they least expected it?

No one could predict the Red Witch’s moods.

On the way to the chapel, and as they entered into the sacred hall, Azariah’s gaze habitually flicked from guard to guard. He sought that distinctive mane of golden wheat hair, those eyes whose colour he’d inherited, once full of life, yet grown cold and lifeless under the yoke of obedience spells.

But he wasn’t there.

Azar exhaled, frustrated and relieved at once. At the very least, he could fully focus on his and Eryn’s marriage ceremony.

Inhaling deeply, Azariah strode forward, pace measured and sedate. He ignored the stares, the susurrating whispers, letting each inhale of incense calm his frayed nerves. The familiar warmth of the hot red pillars tempered by softly glowing fire opals on one side, and the serene sea-evoking colouration and imagery on the other was comforting. The golden thread winding between them brought unity to what seemed like, at first glance, clashing opposites.

The pair came to a stop before the altar. Azariah dipped his head in respect to the three goddess statues standing watch. The Nymere heir settled into a more solemn demeanour than his wedded-to-be had seen up until now.

There was a moment of silence, then a priest of Myrien entered. He was a young, pale man garbed in a gray robe, whose straight black hair framed a thin face and dull jade green eyes. He was so much like a ghost trailing through the chapel, there was barely a swish of cloth as he knelt in front of Myrien’s statue. He opened the Procession of Lineage with a brief prayer, his voice holding a strange ageless quality. Then he stood, facing the crowd, hands folded behind his back. Though Eryn and Azariah were right in front of him, he stared past them, assessing, studying, appearing to take in each and every detail. [color=white]“Representatives of House Lunevere and House Nymere, bring forth your offerings,”[/color] he stated, toneless as ever.

Lucian rose from his seat, carrying in his hands an intricately carved ivory box. He placed it upon the altar, and opened it, revealing what rested inside. It was a sleek black flute crafted from a species of their rarest, most precious trees; an instrument House Nymere oft used in ceremony and celebration alike. The Myrien priest watched as the Lunevere delegate placed their offering, then the two figures retreated. Eryn and Azariah remained, once again front and center.

From one side of the chapel, an attendant carried in a mirror bowl filled with holy water hailing from the Lunevere, while from the other side, another brought a tray bearing a ritual knife. The priest of Myrien accepted the bowl into one hand, and the knife into another.

The priest held out the receptacle between them, then lifted the knife, awaiting. Azar offered his palm first. His thumb was pinpricked, dropping a bead of blood into the clear liquid. Eryn’s blood followed, and the crimson swirled until it was subsumed by the blessed water. 

The surface cleared, stilled. A flicker, then the first images arose. Azar watched as a slice of his history was reflected within the vessel: 

[i]A village engulfed in flames, people running here to fro, some escaping…others not. Indiscernible figures burned. Buildings collapsed upon themselves, trapping some unfortunate souls. A group of soldiers descended upon those fleeing, steel flashing, blood flowing. An unknown time later, a figure of a younger man, turning a blazing palm upon his own flank, leaving an indelible mark on his skin…[/i]

Azariah suppressed a shiver, though he felt the fine hairs on his nape rising, his brow twitching into a frown. It had only been an image, but he could still hear the screams, smell the charred flesh, [i]feel[/i] the pressure, vibrations, and heat. That self-inflicted wound pulsed faintly, and the phantom pain eased his tension. It [i]never[/i] would make up for what he had done, but at least he had paid what he could. He wasn’t sure how this counted as [i]his[/i] sacrifice, however – 

[color=#93E9BE][i]May we not lose ourselves in the shadows.[/i][/color]

[color=c83f49][i]This is a part of me, too.[/i][/color]

When the first pair of visions faded, transitioning to one only the priest could see, Azariah lifted his head, catching Eryn’s gaze. He met hers head on. Searching, wondering, yet freely offering, conveying an acknowledgment – of himself, of her – through look alone.

Something appeared in the mirror vessel yet again, and Azar glanced down, curious. A swirl of fire red whooshed from one side, meeting a strand of pale green swaying from the other. The colours met, withdrew, approached yet again. To Azariah, it appeared like a dance, the two becoming more in tune with each passing. From one corner, a smudge of dark crimson flashed like a warning, then it was over. 

The priest lifted the bowl higher, and Azariah accepted it, his attention once again returning to Eryn. He drank the holy water until half was left, then passed it over to the lady.

The Rite of Mutual Acknowledgment began. Azariah found that it was not difficult to find words of truth. [color=c83f49]“Eryn Lunevere will bring to our house a new perspective, a breath of fresh air, and peace to me,”[/color] he intoned. For the first time since the ceremony started, a slow smile stretched his lips, dawning clear and bright like the sun of a new day.[/color]