As soon as the grand doors of dark oak of the main room baited open, Heron would be married. He had purposefully avoided seeing any of the preparations, look at the list of noble folks and dignitaries invited. He'd settled for the bare minimum. It was no use to having a harsh talk with his father for being late again, so Heron covered that. Plus, he had welcomed the servants when they came to knock on his door to dress him, or even when Master Salmior summoned him for the start of the ceremony. One additional step remained to go—Heron exhaled: the most dreadful.

Stepping inside that room barefoot to meet his bride could never feel right. The sons and daughters of the simple-blooded had the liberty to lay and settle with whom they pleased. No one bothered that a poor meatbread marketeer died without any offspring carrying their names. But with status and power came the obligation of continuity. New generations were mandatory. As soon-to-be Monarch in prospect, he would never afford the luxury of a marital walk where his heart was set.

He attempted to swallow the lump stuck on his throat since that morning, but it stuck around his throat, and saliva went down the wrong hole. He convulsed with coughs, the ceremonial thick feline fur around his shoulders—covering a fine silk tunic and coat— shaking along.

Bashful footfalls sounded behind him. "Is all well, Lord?" a voice just as timid called.

Heron cleared his throat and was pleasantly surprised to see servant Nayna there, head bowed and her flimsy hands playing with her red apron.

"A little bit nervous, right?" She wore a smile that, for instants, made her look younger than she was. "I have heard she's from Owynis," the smile that hid the wrinkles around her eyes was back, "like myself, Lord." Nayna looked at Heron with joyful eyes for an uncomfortable moment. She reached for Heron's cheek, caressing it with a dry, callous hand. "Lady Servyna would be so proud of you."

"You knew my mother?"

"Since she first arrived in the palace from Tholos. She was a pure soul. A rare type of noblewoman, who saw all as humans before their status or origin."

"Oh." Heron had been disarmed. Either to save him from his lack of skill to entertain a conversation or to punish him for that reason, the door of the main room squeaked open. A superior guard with muscles bulging through his black uniform stood in front of him, suggesting it was time to begin the ceremony. "I must go," Heron said.

Nayna pursed her lips. "Yes, of course." She reached for Heron's scalp with both hands, depositing a kiss on his forehead. She stepped back and nodded. She looked pained, but the rules remained irrevocable. As a simple-blooded, the woman wasn't allowed to watch the ceremony. "Landae ni," she said her blessings.

Heron entered the room after a heavy exhale. Only flame lights stood on chandeliers that complimented the curvy patterns of the room's architecture, pulsating with a reddish glow. The men of The Monarch, the clergymen, and other dignitaries stood in a straight line on the right side of the room, the strongest side. As demanded by The Great Ancients.

On the weakest side, the Owyni Regents and their own dignitaries wore garments of layered white fabrics that individually could blend with the lightest winds. They carried silvery jewelry everywhere: heads, necks, hands. Women and men alike sometimes gave the impression that boundaries of sexes weren't of any value to the insular. In complete contrast to the dark tones of blue, red, and brown abounded the heavily layered clothing of the Ceri. Among the Ceri, his half-brother, Mainor stuck out like blood-stains on snow. They briefly locked eyes, Heron's jaw clenching. The ceremony was his place as a half-high-born bastard.

The path to Elana was paved with the skins of each living animal that wandered the Ceri forests. She stood at the opposite end of the room, barefoot, like Heron was, dressed in the same fabrics as her people. But her jewels glinted more than anyone else's in the room.

She began the marital walk, the edges of her dress hovering as if blown by a slight breeze aimed only at her. Heron stepped on the skins sprawled on the floor, losing sight of his brother.

When their hands touched, mid-way through the path, faces around them lit up and the division that separated the Ceri and the Owyni degenerated. In an ordered shuffle, all of them shifted their position, forming a circle around the two.

The leaders of the Ceri clergy offered the gift of the Spirits to the regents of the Island, the Onus of the Ancients. In exchange, the Ceri received the Golden Sun of Owynis — a bird with wings stretched wide, and long horns as sharp as spears.

"The Spirits have blessed the union between our nations and our nations are now at the mercy of the Spirits," Master Salmior announced. Everyone in the room bowed. Heron lost sight of him among the moving mass of bodies and when he caught sight of him again, his master looked back at him with satisfaction he'd never seen before. It strangely made Heron uncomfortable.

He turned away to face Elana. For the first time that night, he dared to look at her, at her skin that shone like well-polished gold. Her mouth was small and round and her eyes humble, of the color of yellow sand of the southern deserts of Anuteh. His hands trembled as he touched her chin. Her slight smile convinced him she knew he did not know what he was doing. Strangely, she didn't seem to bother. Heron felt her chin raising. Heron cleared his throat, even with his stable boys, it was rare he ever kissed them.

Her shoulders were the only immediate place where he could rest his hands. He cleared his throat, shut his eyes, and was surprised not to have missed her lips. He kissed her briefly and he retreated to see a faint smile drawn where his lips had been. He was married now. It didn't feel any different than when he woke up that morning.

The circle around them dissolved and sounds of music of percussion echoed in the room. When the servants could enter the room, the occasion had already been transformed into a fest. Men and women served themselves liquor of fruits. The people of the island danced hand in hand in a circle almost as wide as the room, calling for the Ceri noble to join in greater and greater numbers.

Elana perhaps already incarnating her role as the wife of the future Monarch, joined the fest. Heron refused her invitation.

"I cannot dance to save my guts from daggers on fire," he said.

She navigated the fest with much ease, smiling, making conversation with noble's dignitaries, and even inviting one guard or another to a dance that consisted of a series of spins that would lead Heron to vomit just after the fourth one. Even Mainor earned a dance with Elana.

When she tired, she joined Heron on a seat by his side, atop a set of stairs that separated them from the dance. Heron drank cup after cup of soothing liquor, Elana smiled and still nodded along with the music.

"You can't fathom what you're missing out on," she said.

"I imagine." She couldn't fathom how much more of it all he wished to miss.

The wedding was over now. Heron ached to be elsewhere. But he could not leave the main room until the last drunkard, possibly stinking in piss, was escorted to a sickhouse that night. It was his wedding ceremony after all. He prayed that, at least, said drunkard would not be him. With dreadful irony, the need to calm himself felt more urgent. Naturally, he drank more.

He swallowed two cups in a row and only didn't the third because the servants carrying the platter weren't near enough for a discrete call. He could go to their encounter, but given the fact that the room already spun when he budged too suddenly while seated, he decided he'd rather not trust his feet for a moment.

"You don't sound happy to be here." Ancients, her smile was everlasting.

Heron tried to meet her eyes. So, she would repeat the words while he thought of a response, but she never looked away from the dance.

"I know you didn't want this marriage to happen, despite what you told my parents during the concertation for the decree." Now she looked straight at him, and Heron wished she would look away again.

"If that comforts you, my mother most likely knew you were lying. But for her, a person's word is more valuable than what they wished would happen." Her eyes seemed to crawl up Heron's neck. "You're into this for the mining treaty with the incentive of Lord Lomeon. What I still don't understand is why. Ceres is not short on bronze deposits. Plus, there hasn't particularly been any increase in the demand for bronze in all Ceri marine routes according to the latest publishings on the economy."

Both obtaining the mines and disguising the mining of Oru and Raya in the region with bronze extraction had been his father's aim. Still, Heron couldn't avoid the anxiety growing on him about having their dishonesty towards the Island revealed sooner than they could be able to reach their goal.

"We have a big army in need of weaponry," Heron said. "Although our sources are large in numbers, our bronze is about twenty times less pure than the one we aim to extract in Owynis."

"I am just a part of a strategy then?" Elana said.

"I'm sorry, I—"

She laughed. "It's all quite alright." She seemed amused. "We do have our own interests as well. But I am glad where I've landed. I was being honest when I said that I liked you. You are quite handsome, too." She brought a hand to Heron's cheek and caressed it. It was the first time someone had made such a comment on his appearance. Heron didn't know what to say.

"Lord and Lady of Ceres, may you excuse me." A young guard was there, bowing. Heron straightened himself on his chair and waved a hand.

The guard rose and spoke. "It's from your guard, the Anutehi, Lord. He would like to have a word with you before his transfer to the barracks of the city."

"Transfer?" Heron realized he'd raised his voice more than it was appropriate. The guard looked at him confused, probably ready to apologize.

"Go and see. It must be important," Elana said.

Heron stood and the room did spin around him. He was surprised that after steadying himself and waking the first few dreaded steps, he was able to keep his balance just alright—suspecting he could vomit at any moment, but still. "Where is he?"

"Near the third chapel in the gardens, Lord," said the guard.

They left the palaces together, the guard at his heels until they arrived at the line dividing bushes and gardens. "You can leave now, Heron said." Amid all the preparations for the wedding, Heron hadn't found time to disclose Arai's discovery to Davir. There had been a mistake, surely. Davir remained his guard and a transfer could not happen without his permission.

Moved by a sudden rush, Heron ran. He ran along the cobblestone, along the raw paths below the grove, through the darkness of a moonless night. And when he spotted the chapel from afar, still flame-lit, he smiled for a reason he didn't entirely grasp.

Davir was standing at the door. It was strange to see him in clothes other than the dark blue uniform of the royal guard. He was dressed as a common man, in a white tunic and dark trousers. His hair had been trimmed to shoulder length.

"I was convinced you wouldn't come. Was preparing to leave." He came forward. "You're married now. How is she?"

"You are transferred to the city?" Heron asked. He wanted to manifest anger, but he was at the height of liquor-induced euphoria. He laughed instead. "I have things to show you about you. I read everything in the Onus. Your statue isn't in the domain. It wasn't supposed to be there in the first place. Because the war happened before."

Davir knitted his brows at him, puzzled. "You've been drinking, Lord."

"No. I mean, yes, I have been drinking," he said. "I must see the librarian. We must see him. Come with me. I'll show you."

"I don't have permission to stay in the domain any longer. I should leave right away. Brigadier Kerm offered a chariot ride to the barracks that departs in no time. I have a citizen's address in the city. Here." Davir extracted a small piece of paper from his pocket hand it to Heron. "You're clearly not at your best. Write to me, alright? I will, too. The Ancients pay you for all you did for me. Count on my help whenever you need it."

Heron nodded.

"Come on." Strange that, despite his rush to leave, Davir accompanied Heron back to the entrance of the palace. There was no use that Heron had insisted he was alright. "Of course, you are," Davir muttered.

When he was back inside the main room, Heron didn't know why he suddenly felt like he'd lost a member. He blamed it all on the liquor. And to quench fire with fire, he drank more.