The High Priestess Serah stood as a pillar of ancient, unyielding ice, but Soren did not see her.
He did not see the thousands of nobles holding their collective breath, nor the rainbows fracturing against the glacial walls, nor the silver-braided wolf and the boy at his feet.
For Soren, the universe had narrowed to the space occupied by the woman standing before him.
He forgot how to breathe. It was a literal, physical failure of the lungs... a hitch in the rhythm of his life that left him suspended in a vacuum of his own making.
Every thought he had ever possessed, every calculation of statecraft, every shadow of doubt, simply ceased to exist. In their place was a single, rhythmic pulse that hammered against his ribs: Mine. Mine. Please, let her be mine.
Objectively, the world knew Eris Igniva was a creature of devastating beauty. But in Soren's eyes, that beauty was multiplied by infinity until it became something beyond the comprehension of mortal men.
