A Day to Remember

The heavy chime of the bell pulls you from the depths of sleep.

Six chimes.

The sound reverberates through the castle, each strike a stark reminder of the hours slipping away. Four hours to Persephone’s coronation. Six until you are to marry her, though she remains blissfully unaware.

As you sit up, stretching off the lingering haze of sleep, a knock rattles the door. Persistent.

“Enter,” you call.

A matronly woman steps inside, her hawk-like features sharp and unyielding. She curtseys slightly before speaking.

“Lady Katarina has requested I prepare you for the day’s festivities, my lord. Please follow me.”

The air in the private hot springs is thick with the scent of sulfur, the steaming water swirling lazily in the dim light of the chamber. It’s eerily silent save for the occasional drip of condensation falling from the ceiling.

You stand at the edge, your guards lingering nearby, and feel their eyes on you as you disrobe. The matron’s critical gaze doesn’t waver, even as you step into the scalding water.

For a brief moment, you lean back, intending to savor the heat that seeps into your muscles. But one sharp look from the matron reminds you this isn’t a reprieve. Grudgingly, you take the scrub cloth and begin methodically washing.

By the time you are returned to your chambers, freshly shaved and dressed in dark silk robes tailored to perfection, the bell chimes seven times.

Three hours remain.

You stand at the window, staring out at the city sprawled below. Its streets teem with activity, preparations for the grand event transforming the usually bustling town into a tapestry of vibrant banners and marching soldiers. You watch as merchants set up stalls, selling everything from trinkets to steaming skewers of spiced meat. Nobles arrive in gilded carriages, their entourages sweeping through the gates in choreographed displays of opulence.

As the moments tick away, doubt creeps in.

Viola’s face lingers in your mind—her words, her defiance, the subtle way her hand rested on her stomach. Was she carrying your child? And if so, was it right to stay? Would this marriage to Persephone truly bring the peace Viola believed it could? Or had you just traded one cage for another, binding yourself to a woman colder and more ambitious than any you’ve ever known?

The bell chimes eight times.

“It’s time,” a muffled voice calls from outside your door.

The cathedral looms above you as you’re led inside, the grandeur of the building almost oppressive. Massive columns stretch toward the heavens, supporting a gilded ceiling that gleams in the morning light. Stained glass windows bathe the interior in a kaleidoscope of colors, their depictions of the Goddess and her prophets casting divine shadows on the marble floors.

Row upon row of pews fill with nobles and clergy, their whispered conversations hushed by the sacred weight of the occasion.

A powerful voice cuts through the din behind you.

“So we finally meet.”

You turn to face a stern, beautiful woman whose commanding presence is immediately familiar. For a fleeting moment, you think it’s Victoria, but the fine lines around her eyes and the streaks of silver in her hair reveal her as Duchess Caldersmith—your adoptive mother.

“We have much to discuss after the ceremony,” she says curtly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “For now, take your seat.”

You bow slightly and settle into the pew she indicates, only to feel a delicate hand on your shoulder moments later.

Victoria stands behind you, her cheeks flushed. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

“Nor I you,” you reply honestly, memories of her soft skin and breathless moans flooding back.

A sharp look from Lord Caldersmith sends Victoria scurrying to a seat further back, her head bowed in feigned modesty. Simon, with his balding head and portly frame, claps you on the shoulder and settles in beside her.

“Good to see you’re still alive,” he says, his tone jovial despite the tension in the air. “Sorry for leaving so suddenly, but my safety was a condition of our mother’s support of House Valencia.”

You shrug absently, your attention drawn to the architecture of the cathedral. But your gaze falters when you spot her.

Viola.

Dressed in a low-cut purple bodice, her golden hair framing her striking features, she is a vision of restrained power. You drink in the sight of her until she takes her seat and vanishes from view.

The bell chimes ten times.

A hush falls over the room as trumpets blare and the grand doors swing open.

Fifty knights in gleaming armor march through the aisle, their movements precise as they line the path to the dais. Behind them, an ancient woman in a flowing white gown enters, leaning on a younger attendant for support.

“All rise in the name of the Goddess,” she commands, her voice defying the frailty of her form.

You stand, as does the gathered assembly, as Persephone appears at the threshold.

She is breathtaking. Dressed in a gown of blue and gold, her pale hair bound in an intricate braid that falls to the small of her back, she radiates authority and grace. Katarina and Mariana follow close behind, each exuding their own brand of power.

The ceremony begins as Persephone kneels before the ancient woman, who places a gnarled hand on her head. For over an hour, the High Priestess drones on about the duties of a queen and the history of the queendom. The weight of the moment presses down on everyone present, yet Persephone remains poised, unflinching.

Finally, the golden crown is placed on her head.

“And with this crown, I do hereby declare Duchess Persephone Alecton, High Queen of Askeria.”

Cheers erupt as Persephone rises, her gaze sweeping over the assembled lords and ladies.

“Lords and Ladies of the realm,” she begins, her voice commanding instant silence. “Today, I stand before you as your Queen. I understand that some of you may not welcome this, but I vow to unite the houses and bring a peace to this queendom that has eluded us for centuries.”

She calls Viola forward, extending an olive branch in a carefully worded gesture of reconciliation. Viola’s face is a mask of composure, though anger flickers briefly in her eyes.

The bell chimes twelve times, the sound hanging in the air like a held breath.

Persephone smiles.

“And now,” she declares, “we honor an ancient tradition of House Alecton...”

All eyes turn to Katarina as she steps forward to make her request.

“Queen Persephone,” she says, her voice rising to fill the cathedral. “I do hereby request that you take this male, Lord Bradley Caldersmith, to be your husband and king consort.”

The collective gasp of the crowd is deafening.

Persephone’s face pales, her composure momentarily shattered.

“Katarina,” she begins, her voice trembling. She glances at Mariana, betrayal flashing in her eyes, before turning back to her oldest friend.

“I…”