The grand cathedral of Lockwood blazed with a thousand candles, their light reflecting off gold and crystal decorations that transformed the sacred space into something out of a fairy tale. I smoothed down the silk of my gown—deep sapphire blue, befitting my status as confidante to the Queen—and watched as the musicians readied themselves for the bridal procession.
"Nervous?" Alaric's voice came from beside me, his hand finding mine with practiced ease.
I smiled, feeling the familiar warmth of our connection pulse between us. "Not nearly as nervous as the bride, I imagine."
Across the cathedral, Princess Lyra Valerius stood half-hidden behind a columned archway, her royal attendants making final adjustments to her elaborate gown and veil. At twenty-two, she was the image of her mother, Queen Seraphina—the same golden hair and regal bearing—though she had inherited King Theron's quick wit and occasional impulsiveness.
