Sophia had always wondered what her wedding dress would look like. A childish dream awoken by romance novels initially smuggled in by Beatrice, and later openly purchased out of her own allowance (embarrassment be damned, cheap thrills were literally five gold pennies per book these days); she had in more recent years always imagined something similar to her mother’s. Silver threads that made her some dazzling monument to the Imperium, an expansive yet humble crest to make her equal parts regal and beautiful; an admiration upon the court and common people.

But no luxuries would be given here.

So she stood within the Grand Church of Ensolia, wearing a drab, ceremonial gray military uniform beneath the scattering colors of the arching stained glass windows. Like an explosion of coloration the artwork that filtered into the chapel plays with the marble flooring as a constantly shifting alteration of thoughts, memories, and history. The image of the Goddess herself, face censored by the blistering early summer light, watches as this rushed matrimonial ceremony comes to fruition.

The uniform was itself fitted to her specifications, supportive yet uncomfortable in the usual Imperial Military drabness. Undecorated, with exception to only the silver rank insignias of Legion Commandant (her’s by tradition), as well as the royal purple stash across her chest and linings from the Fourth Legion (the color choice her only real contribution to her legion).

It was a message, as much practicality (getting a tailored royal wedding dress done in three days was nearly impossible even here in Capital) as was principal. This entire wedding was a reminder for the entire Imperium of the sacrifices needed for this new age; an era of lovers separated by the calls of the Crown, and by the unshakable sacrifices needed to reunite them.

Sophia had, while sitting in the chamber just a single door away from the grand cathedral, wanted to think; a luxury unabated as she’s interrupted by the traditional escort for a given bride.

Her father, whose news still hadn’t broken three days after the fact (traditionally the confirmation of a royal death or wounding was announced the moment it was known), was still missing. Tradition still, however, demanded that at least one given member of the paternal side be present.

She had hoped that somehow he would be there, that by some miracle her Father would step through the cedar doors in that stupid half-suit, half-exploration outfit of his; and take her to what seemed like her own execution.

But there were no luxuries for her, with the slightly middle aged woman stepping through the doors immediately recognizable. She had Father’s deep brown eyes and bright almond hair marred with gray, but stood out with a rounder nose and a much shorter height.

And that expression on her face… smugness?

Sophia almost cries her name. “Auntie Clarisse…”

Without hesitation her aunt holds her in a long hug, the itchy wool of the woman’s own command uniform lined with purple silk scratching the smoothed face of her niece. “Oh my dear Sophia. When I heard the news I came as fast as I could.”

There was comfort here, at least temporarily. It was warm, with what family she had. “Thanks Auntie.”

“Now don’t cry, it’s your big day today~”

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Clarisse Marchand, Viceroy-Heir to Montglace was, ceremonially, Sophia’s military subordinate by blood. As General Primus of the Fourth Legion, the final termination point for her own command structure was the Fourth Heir of the Silver Throne. At any point, if Sophia the Eighth desired, she could take control of it all.

But she could never, much preferring having her paternal aunt in this role.

Sophia’s father had told her a long time ago, when Sophia was born, that his older sister Clarisse Marchand had begged him to let her adopt the baby. Begged, in the most literal of terms, as she and her husband had turned barren after almost eight years of trying; and how she laid out the great unfairness of the universe in giving the ‘snotty younger brother’ all the family heirs.

Sophia’s parents refused, of course. But it never changed how the General saw that little girl.

“I’m not crying.” The Fourth Princess insists as she chokes slightly.

“If you’re worried about Arden, your father then…” The General catches herself, stopping her words as she almost reveals classified information. “I would keep my own hopes up. He’s very hard to kill.”

“Wha…?”

“If he could climb the Six Peaks without a scratch,” She adds such an uncharacteristic callousness that even Sophia takes a pause. “Ten pounds of plastic explosives is nothing.”

She picks the little girl, now a woman, up to her feet; the General secretly reaching into one of her numerous overcoat pockets. A wrapped pastry bag of slightly greasy parchment paper, filled by soft round shapes within, slipped into Sophia’s palm.

“Just for you my dearest. Don’t tell anyone.”

Sophia gasps as she takes one of them out from its container. Small, glazed donut holes; the leftovers of the usual production of donuts but still as delicious.

Smuggled into this most holy chamber by nefarious hands, for sure.

Not even a pause as she stuffs all five into her mouth, quickly chewing as Auntie Clarisse takes her arm. “Now come on, let's get you married.”

An attendance filling the first five rows; this ceremony private and secure to the highest degree. An audience split into two bisected halves based on blood, as with the traditions of the Ensolian Church. To her left flank sat the entire immediate royal family (minus the Empress herself, security reasons called by the imperacutta), consisting of all four siblings; Sophia’s own personal maid contingent of twenty two, a good two thirds of whom were all in the midst of some form of emotional breakdown over her somehow finding another human being to marry before all of them; and seventeen private teachers, lecturers, and minor family members that had crossed paths with the Fourth Princess (and happened to be in the Capital at the time the Imperial invitation came to their doorstep).

Prince Zai had three witnesses.

His father, one visible Royal Guardsmen, and the Tianci ambassador who herself looked extraordinarily nervous at this new state of affairs.

And he alone stood on the altar, beneath an alien goddess from a religion he barely knew of, and waited for the axe to fall upon his head.

The High Cleric himself spoke few words of prayer between the two, the most basic of vows released to two souls who had known of each other for just under one week.

Sophia wondered if this was the case for all those loveless blood marriages between nobility; that this sterile, graceless procedure would be spoken from the old gaffer in his silver robes to two unwilling participants. And how many had reluctantly crossed these halls, destined for such awful things just like she was. No trifling need for any physical contact like the commoners, no deep kisses or held hands between lovers; instead just the cold stares and a scowl on Sophia’s face. Not that she was raising many complaints with this arrangement; but with a social battery drained at the first word out of the old man’s mouth, her default mood shifted to simply exhaustion and mild frustration.

Even cut down, this ceremony was going on far too long.