[color=lightgray]A man who had to be Lord Serath approached the altar after Lucian. Eryn’s father did not so much glance at his daughter, so when Azariah received a nod, he merely stared at the lord, unresponsive. It was this when Azar turned around his hand, and slipped Eryn’s palm into his.

They kept holding onto each other from then on, when the memories were revealed, and beyond. Hers was a sacrifice hauntingly familiar to his, and he understood. In as much as one could ever understand another’s pain – the thoughts and feelings on any particular person were always theirs, yet commonalities wrought the chance for [i]connection[/i]. Her hand twitched in his grasp, bidding him to offer a brief squeeze. [color=c83f49][i]It’s alright,[/i][/color] he wanted to tell her. Or maybe even better: [color=c83f49][i]I’m here.[/i][/color] His irises brightened with the unspoken words. Perhaps the silent wish came through, because he recognized the look in her eyes: she accepted being seen by him, just like he had acknowledged that she had witnessed him.

[color=#93E9BE][i]I will meet him there.[/i][/color]

It was a promise.

The golden thread flashed, and wound around their hands, sinuous, sensual, as slow as a content snake wrapping her coils around her eggs. The soft brush of it struck Azariah like a spark of electricity – sudden, stinging, yet intimate. Being marked was not foreign to him, yet this was unlike anything else. His tattoos, his scars – those left an imprint only on his body. [i]This[/i] extended further, reached far deeper.

It touched his soul. It was new, and unknown, and he had no idea what to make of it. But it was [i]his[/i].

Eryn’s eyes searched for his, and he met them, gave a light small smile, eyebrows quirking up in a silent inquiry. He had no idea at all what thoughts were spinning behind that flat grey-blue gaze. What Azariah did know was his own surety: a renewed confidence that this [i]was[/i] the right decision. That he would make this work. That he was willing to put in the effort for it. For them. And for the kingdom, too.

So, when he felt a faint tremor running through her hand, he brushed his finger down the back of her hand. Only once, but it was a reminder: She wasn’t alone. 

His sister entered, then, and Azariah watched her with pride. Orianne was of average height at around 5’6, but was striking, yet carried herself with a sense of calm. She had deep auburn hair which almost seemed black in certain lighting, her eye a serene green. As a priestess dedicated to Solvya, she was garbed in the ceremonial attire of Solethei. Her wide, white linen trousers were embroidered with sun-blessed golden thread. The pattern was subtle, abstract, sparkling – glorious even when she stood still like this, but at its most dazzling when performing their traditional dances. Her sleeveless top was a warm, dusk red, edged with delicate lace and speckled with fire quartz dust, a layer of enchantment binding it to the fabric.

Ria was utterly focused as she mixed ash and saltwater, whispering an incantation passed down mouth from mouth since times long past. Steam curled into the shape of a bloom. Hand in hand, Azar and Eryn approached, each placing a hand into the steam. Heat licked at his hand, but Azariah was used to such.

The Nymere heir squared his shoulders, fervor lighting his gaze, his tone wholly somber as he recited the Oath of his goddess.

[color=c83f49]“As Solvya binds sun to star,

So shall we be bound,

In silence, in sentence, in spark.

Let none sever what has been witnessed by goddess and sea and flame.”[/color]

A braided candle was placed on the altar, two coils of wax intertwined, the colour of House Lunevere joined with that of House Nymere.

There was a flame offered they could use to light the candle, but Azariah chose to summon his own spark of fire. He did not do so to manipulate the outcome – he would never – but to give a bit of a personal flair to the ritual. A flicker of flame between his fingers, and he lit the wick protruding from the red side.

Eryn lit her sea-green side. They watched, and they waited with bated breath. The two flames closed the distance infinitesimally until they were practically sliding up against each other. It was almost as if they were teasing them all with a ‘will-they-won’t-they’ tension while silently laughing among themselves. After long seconds stretched into longer minutes, they finally joined into one. After that, they burned bright and true, no sign of being extinguished.

Azar chuffed near-soundlessly, amused yet undeniably relieved. Orianne wrapped Solvy’s ribbon around the couple’s wrist, and pronounced them united.

The newly wedded couple turned from the altar to face the crowd, walking closer to be witnessed. They watched the court and were watched in turn – though most of the guests’ attention was on the glass ceiling above.

Azariah did not need to look. When it appeared, he [i]felt[/i] Solvya’s blessing. It was like a warm embrace from within, its warmth bordering on hot, then subsiding into something that had all the comfort of lounging by a campfire during the year’s coldest nights.

Murmurs and stares abound, but Azar paid them no attention. It was enough for him to know that his goddess approved.

When it was all over, they departed. On the way out, a member of the Royal Court arrived to bless them. However, Azar’s was fixated on the guard next to them.

Of course.

This would be the most fitting moment – a timing most wicked.

Ishaan was fitted with the royal guard's armour and arms, expressionless, scanning them as if they were strangers. He held himself proudly, but there was [i]nothing[/i] resembling humanity in his father's gaze. Azar searched his face, sought a hint of something. Anything. Yet, apart from his visage, there was nothing familiar about the man. Fear that his soul was long gone seized his heart.

He clutched Eryn’s hand, half for comfort, half because a surge of protectiveness arose in him. He offered only empty, polite words at whatever the royal uttered. Before he could think to say of something, the court member was finished, and bowed politely. Then, they were gone, vanishing as a if a false mirage. Then, the wife and the husband were on their way to the Nymere’s carriage.

[color=c83f49]“That was my father,”[/color] Azariah quietly explained once the grip of tension released him enough to speak. [color=c83f49]“He’s–Well, you saw.”[/color] He exhaled, a long and cleansing breath.

At the carriage, he opened the doors, and helped Eryn up if she needed it. He had not once released her hand, and now that they were inside, he wasn’t quite sure whether to let go or not.

[color=c83f49]“Is anyone coming with you?”[/color] He had a vague awareness that the Lunevere were destitute, but he thought they might spare at least one servant for Eryn. Having someone familiar with her during the transition into a new estate would surely be helpful.[/color]