The wedding may have ended with phoenix feathers and choir harmonies, but the reception?
The reception was pure chaos—and not the controlled kind.
The grand ceremonial hall had been swiftly transformed into a feast fit for immortals. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead. Long banquet tables groaned under the weight of enchanted delicacies. Wine flowed like waterfalls. Nobles danced, gossiped, and suspiciously avoided standing near magical fountains that spat glitter every twenty seconds.
In the corner, Marcel was nursing his fifth glass of wine.
Correction: He was weeping into his fifth glass of wine.
"I just..." he hiccupped, holding the goblet like a fragile dream, "I just can't believe our Lord is married now. Like... married married."
And then—without missing a beat—he drank his own teary wine.
Callen made a face like he was witnessing a spiritual breakdown in real-time. "That's...that's your fifth cup, isn't it?"
