The grand cathedral of Saint Eleanora glowed with the light of a thousand candles, bathing the assembled nobility in golden warmth. I stood beside Alaric, my fingers interlaced with his, watching our son Lysander kiss his bride. The moment was perfect—Eleanor's radiant smile, Lysander's barely contained joy, the approving murmurs from the gathered aristocracy.
"I pronounce you husband and wife," the archbishop declared, his voice echoing through the vast space.
My vision blurred with tears. The little boy who once hid behind my skirts was now a man grown, tall and proud like his father. The bride, Lady Eleanor Blackwood—now Lady Eleanor Thorne—glowed with happiness as she gazed adoringly at my son.
"You're crying," Alaric whispered, his breath warm against my ear.
"Happy tears," I assured him, squeezing his hand. "Look at them, Alaric. Did you ever imagine this day when we stood here for our own wedding?"
