Page 18 of Lich's Bride

KIRA

Today is my wedding day.

It seems impossible, unreal, that the day has finally arrived.

That after all the weeks of preparation, of ritual and ceremony and breathless anticipation, I will finally stand beside Malachar and pledge myself to him for all eternity.

As if summoned by my thoughts, there is a sudden flurry of movement at the edges of my vision. I turn to see a trio of enchanted sprites flitting through the air towards me, their gossamer wings shimmering in the pale morning light. They alight on the edge of my bed, their tiny faces alight with mischief and glee.

"Mistress!" they trill in unison, their voices like the chiming of miniature bells. "It's time to prepare! The ceremony will begin at sundown, and there is much to be done!"

Before I can respond, they are upon me, their deft little hands tugging at my nightgown, pulling me from the bed and towards the bathing chamber beyond. I laugh, allowing myself to be swept up in their infectious enthusiasm.

What follows is a whirlwind of activity, a dizzying flurry of primping and preening and perfuming. The sprites work their magic upon me, their touch as light and sure as butterfly wings. They weave strands of glimmering crystal and living flowers into my hair, painting my skin with shimmering, iridescent unguents that make me feel as if I am glowing from within.

And the gown... oh, the gown.

It is a work of art, a marvel of sorcerous craftsmanship.

The fabric seems to shift and change before my eyes, cycling through a kaleidoscope of colors - now the delicate blush of a rose petal, now the deep, rich blue of a midnight sky, now the fierce, molten gold of a sun at its zenith. It clings to my curves like a second skin, at once demure and alluring, regal and sensual.

As I gaze at my reflection in the full-length mirror, I scarcely recognize the woman staring back at me. Gone is the frightened, uncertain girl who stumbled into this strange and wondrous world all those months ago... In her place stands a budding witch, a woman of power and purpose, resplendent in her magical finery.

A soft chirrup draws my attention, and I glance down to see Whisper winding around my ankles, her mottled fur brushing softly against my skin. I bend to gather her into my arms, pressing my face into her warmth, drawing strength from her steady, comforting presence.

"Well, my heart," I murmur, my lips quirking in a tremulous smile. "Are we ready for this? Ready to embrace our dark destiny at last?"

Whisper merely purrs, her topaz eyes gleaming with an uncanny intelligence. I take a deep, steadying breath, squaring my shoulders beneath the weight of my gown.

The journey through the castle is a blur, a dizzying processional of wonders. Everywhere I turn, there are magical creatures lining the halls, their forms bizarre and beautiful in equal measure.

Fauns and satyrs caper and dance, their hooves clattering against the flagstones. Dryads sway and rustle, their leafy hair whispering in an unfelt breeze. Sprites and pixies flit through the air, trailing sparks and glimmers in their wake. And all of them, from the tiniest fairy to the most towering giant, bow and curtsy as I pass, their eyes shining with reverence and awe.

For I am the Nightlord's chosen, his bride and consort, soon to be elevated to a place of power and prestige beyond mortal reckoning.

The great doors of the castle swing open before me, and I step out into a world a vision of dark Faewild beauty, the path before me lined with floating orbs of every hue, bobbing and swaying like drunken stars casting a soft, ethereal radiance over everything, turning the twisted trees and gnarled roots into things of unearthly beauty. The orbs part before me like a curtain, revealing the splendor that lies ahead.

The wedding glade is a vision out of a fairy tale, a scene of such breathtaking loveliness that it steals the very breath from my lungs. The trees that ring the clearing are adorned with garlands of flowers, their petals shimmering like captured starlight.

Gossamer ribbons drift on the breeze, catching the light and splitting it into a thousand prismatic shards. The air itself seems to hum and thrum with barely leashed power, a palpable aura of magic that sets every nerve ending alight.

And there, at the center of it all, stands Malachar.

He is resplendent in robes of deepest midnight, the fabric so dark it seems to drink in the light around him. And yet, he is a crackling nimbus of energy that sets him apart from the world, above and beyond it. His features, usually so cold and remote, are softened with an expression of such tenderness, such undisguised joy, that it makes my heart turn over in my chest.

As I take my place beside him, I feel the weight of his gaze upon me, heavy and hot as a brand. "Kira," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. "You are... a vision. A dream made flesh."

I duck my head, feeling a flush of pleasure warm my cheeks. "I am only as you have made me," I reply softly. "Your creation, your... love."

His hand finds mine, his long fingers twining with my own. The contact sends a jolt of electricity arcing through me, setting my blood to singing in my veins.

"No," he says fiercely, his grip tightening. "You are your own creature, Kira. Powerful and wild and utterly perfect. I am simply the fortunate soul who gets to share in your light."

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I blink them back fiercely. I will not cry, not now, not when my heart is so full of joy it feels like it might shatter with the force of it.

The ceremony passes in a blur of words and gestures, of ancient rites and eldritch invocations. The officiant, a wizened old sage with eyes like starlit pools, speaks of the power of our union, of the way our magics will twine and grow and flourish, nurtured by the strength of our bond.

I scarcely hear him, lost as I am in the depthless ebony of Malachar's gaze, in the feel of his hands in mine, his skin cool and smooth against my own. In this moment, nothing else matters - not the glade, not the gathered guests, not even the weight of the destiny that presses down upon us both.

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