The Ember Tankard fell into sacred silence as Elaris broke the crimson wax seal.
The parchment crackled between his fingers.
The firelight painted gold across his face.
The entire Dice leaned forward —
Arden gripping her holy symbol.
Garruk halfway done standing.
Vex perched like a gargoyle on the edge of her chair.
Laz frozen mid-sip.
Kaer arms crossed, but eyes narrowed.
Elyra hugging her knees, brows knit.
Elaris scanned the letter.
His brows shot upward.
He inhaled sharply.
And then —
He turned away dramatically, one hand flying to his forehead like a stage actor struck by divine revelation.
Elaris:
OH GODS!
The whole room erupted.
Chairs went flying.
Weapons drawn with a chorus of metallic hiss.
Borin’s tankard hit the floor with a clang.
Arden:
“What is it?! Are we under attack?!”
Kaer:
“I knew this peace was too short—”
Garruk:
“Say the word and I’ll crack their skulls—!”
Elaris staggered for effect, clutching the paper like it was a death sentence.
Elaris:
“It can’t possibly be—!”
Sereth was instantly at his side.
She scanned the letter over his shoulder—
—paused—
—and her lips curled into a slow, wicked grin.
Then she slapped a hand over her mouth, gasping dramatically.
Sereth:
“No… no no no… this is… this is impossible!”
Everyone:
“FOR THE LOVE OF SAREN — JUST TELL US WHAT IT IS!”
Elaris and Sereth turned.
Perfect unison.
Perfect timing.
Two smiles so radiant the fire dimmed in jealousy.
Elaris raised the letter like a royal decree.
Elaris & Sereth (in harmony):
“We have to prepare…”
Everyone leaned in.
Everyone:
“PREPARE FOR WHAT?!”
A beat of silence.
Two heartbeats.
Three.
Sereth grabbed Elaris’s hand.
They said it together, voices ringing like bells:
“OUR WEDDING!”
The room exploded.
Vex shrieked.
Laz threw his mug in the air.
Garruk roared loud enough to shake the antlers on the wall.
Borin collapsed into his chair laughing and crying simultaneously.
Arden’s hands flew to her face, glowing with divine joy.
Even Kaer cracked a smile — the rarest treasure in Thornmere.
Elyra launched herself across the room and dove into both parents at once.
Elyra:
“WE’RE HAVING A WEDDING?! A REAL ONE?! AN ACTUAL—OH GODS—MUM—DAD—YOU TWO ARE FINALLY—!”
The Tieflings were already planning the party.
Vex:
“Dibs on organising the fireworks!”
Laz:
“Dibs on organising the chaos!”
Garruk:
“I’LL COOK THE FEAST!”
Everyone:
“NO!”
Garruk blinked.
“…Fine.”
Arden sniffed back tears, radiant warmth spilling off her like sunlight.
Kaer approached Elaris quietly, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and nodded — a gesture that meant more than any words.
Borin was scribbling on parchment already.
Borin:
“I can start forging the wedding bands tonight!”
Elaris finally released Sereth’s hand long enough to read the letter aloud:
“Lord Aurelthane of Silvercrest Hall formally invites the Crimson Dice to celebrate the nuptials of Sereth Vorn and Elaris Vorn.
It would be our honor to host the wedding during this rare moment of peace.”
Sereth leaned against Elaris, eyes shining, cheeks flushed with excitement and disbelief.
Elaris kissed her forehead.
Elaris:
“It’s happening, love.”
Sereth whispered back, voice trembling:
Sereth:
“It’s really happening.”
The room cheered again — louder, wilder, filled with love so fierce it drowned out every shadow.
A wedding.
A real one.
A moment of peace they’d bled for.
A future they’d clawed from the jaws of despair.
The Dice embraced, shouted, celebrated, and the fire roared higher as if blessing the moment.
The Hearth of Planning
Thornmere could withstand blizzards, siege engines, and ancient horrors rising in the dead of night.
It had not been designed for wedding planning.
The Ember Tankard was in full uproar.
Parchments covered every surface—guest lists, sketches, maps of Noble District gardens, half-written vows, and a rather dramatic diagram from Laz titled “How To Prevent Elaris From Thinking Too Much At His Own Wedding.” Someone (likely Vex) had added horns and sparkles to the diagram.
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Amid the chaos, Elaris sat at the head of the long table, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from running his fingers through it too many times. He was staring at a parchment titled:
“Ceremony Security, Magical Wards & Potential Interplanar Interruptions — Draft 7.”
He already hated Draft 7.
Sereth was half-perched on the bench beside him, barefoot, braid slipping over her shoulder, leaning over a row of dress sketches that Arden kept pushing toward her. Every sketch had the angry notation in Sereth’s handwriting:
“NO CRIMSON. Absolutely not. Burn it.”
Around them, the Crimson Dice conducted the loudest, most affectionate war council in history.
Chaos, Assigned Roles & Outbursts
Borin slammed down a rolled schematic the length of the table.
Borin:
“I’ve designed rings, a ceremonial goblet, the altar, the hammer for the altar, backup rings, and a folding anvil—”
Vex:
“Are you forging them a marriage or a siege engine?”
Borin:
“Why choose?”
Garruk was in the corner arguing with the innkeeper about whether roasting an entire boar inside the tavern was “heroic” or “unlawfully stupid.”
Arden, serene amid madness, quietly sorted through candle colours and blessing rituals.
Kaer leaned against a pillar with the empty stare of a man who had fought undead horrors, dragons, and corruption—and still found this far more overwhelming.
And the twins, of course, were everywhere:
- switching out parchment stacks,
- sneaking extra cake to Pancake,
- enchanting quills to write “Kiss her!” whenever Elaris and Sereth got too far apart,
- and loudly insisting that tails made for “excellent ceremonial flair.”
The entire Tankard smelled of spices, ink, pine logs, and the faint underlying scent of panic.
And at the edge of it all, near the hearth—
Elyra by the Fire
Elyra had taken refuge on a bench closest to the flames.
Her boots were unlaced, toes flexing inside them as she warmed them by the fire. She rolled her ankles slowly, testing the movement, feeling that lingering echo from Northreach—the ghost of crystalline numbness Silvenna had left burned into her memory and muscles.
Not pain.
Not anymore.
But a stiffness, a coldness, like her legs sometimes needed reminding they were hers again.
She rubbed her calves discreetly, forcing warmth back into places that still felt slow to respond.
Sereth noticed instantly.
It didn’t matter the room was chaos; she always saw her daughter first.
Sereth slipped from her seat without a word, weaving through arguments about flowers and ring metals until she sat beside Elyra at the hearth.
She took Elyra’s hands gently, warming them between her own.
Sereth (soft):
“All right. What’s wrong?”
Elyra blinked, startled by how quickly her mother noticed.
Elyra:
“Nothing—just warming up. It’s nothing.”
Sereth’s eyes drifted down to the subtle way Elyra rubbed her calf.
Sereth:
“Is it your legs?
Tell me the truth.”
A slow inhale.
A tiny nod.
Elyra stared into the fire.
Elyra:
“It just takes time. After what she did—the glass… the feeling of being stuck—
sometimes my legs just… remember.”
Sereth’s jaw tightened, but her voice remained a soft blanket of warmth.
She reached down, thumb brushing Elyra’s boot.
Sereth:
“If it’s ever more than that—if you ever feel yourself slipping again—you tell us.
Immediately. No being brave alone.”
Elyra nodded.
Elyra:
“I will. Promise.”
Sereth leaned in and kissed her daughter’s forehead, smoothing her wild hair toward the white-streaked braid.
Then, the question Sereth feared:
Sereth:
“Do you… feel her?
The Queen.
In the Lattice.”
Elyra pressed her fingers to the faint glow at her collarbone—only silver now.
She shook her head.
Elyra:
“…No.
It’s quiet.”
Sereth let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
Sereth:
“Good. Me too.”
She cupped Elyra’s cheek, thumb brushing gently.
Sereth:
“If she ever comes back—
even a whisper,
you tell me and your father immediately.”
Elyra met her mother’s eyes, young and fierce and brave.
Elyra:
“I promise.”
Sereth nodded, then stood to return to the chaos—
But before she left, she paused…
placed a hand briefly against her own stomach in a motion so natural she didn’t notice it…
and smiled softly at Elyra.
Then the Tankard swallowed her in warmth and noise again.
For all their triumphs over undead horrors, mirror-witches, corrupted rangers, and armies of crimson zealots…
…nothing intimidated the Crimson Dice more than trying to write a polite letter to a noble.
The long table of the Ember Tankard looked like a battlefield of ink.
Sereth leaned over the parchment with her head in her hands.
Elaris held the quill like a man handling live venom.
Elaris (whispering):
“Do we say My Lord Aurelthane… or Lord Aurelthane, Esteemed Patron of the Nerindale Estates… or—gods help us—Your Elevated Radiance?”
Sereth:
“No. Definitely not the last one. We’re not writing to the Queen.”
Borin, Garruk, and Kaer stood behind them like an advisory council of varying intelligence.
Borin:
“In Dwarven tradition, ye begin with: To he who holds the hall and hearth—”
Garruk:
“Too poetic. Needs more punch. Start with: We fight beside you as brothers—”
Kaer:
“That sounds like we’re declaring war.”
Across the table, Vex was sprawled dramatically in a chair.
Vex:
“You’re all overthinking this. Nobles love flattery. Flatter him. Compliment his hair. Compliment his wealth. Compliment his gardens. Compliment the wine, even if it’s terrible—”
Laz:
“Or we write what we actually want to say: ‘Thanks for the invite, we’ll bring cake.’”
Arden:
“I feel compelled to point out that none of this is proper letter composition.”
Garruk:
“You’re proper letter composition.”
Arden flicked holy sparkles in his direction. Garruk yelped.
Three drafts lay in ruins:
Draft I:
Borin accidentally wrote in Dwarvish. No one else understood a word.
Draft II:
Vex took over and turned it into a romantic poem addressed to the entire noble lineage regarding their “most deliciously sculpted marble foyer.”
Draft III:
Elaris attempted sincerity, but his handwriting became progressively more anxious until Sereth declared,
“Love, you’re making it look like you were writing during a hostage crisis.”
Sereth’s correction draft didn’t fare better—
she wrote:
“We would be honoured to wed in your hall, Lord Aurelthane. We promise the event will not cause any explosions.”
Everyone agreed this was both untrue and suspicious.
Finally, they all stared at the empty parchment, utterly defeated.
Kaer:
“…So we’re doomed.”
A soft mrrrp? sounded at the far end of the table.
Pancake hopped up onto a stack of maps, his purple fur shimmering in the lantern glow.
He blinked at the mess.
At the ink.
At the quill trembling in Elaris’s hand.
Then he extended one tiny paw.
Pancake:
I’ll do it.
(Telepathically, with the confidence of a creature who has never once doubted himself.)
Sereth:
“…He wants the quill.”
Elaris:
“…Should we let him write to royalty?”
All Dice (simultaneously):
“Yes.”
Pancake seized the quill between impossibly dexterous paws,
stood on his hind legs like a furry scribal deity…
…and wrote.
The Letter of Legend
The quill glided like a silk ribbon.
Elegant. Perfectly measured. Remarkably articulate.
When he finished, Pancake flicked the parchment toward Elaris with a flourish, then held out a paw expectantly.
Elaris handed over a cube of honeycake.
Pancake devoured it in triumph.
The Dice stared as Elaris read the letter aloud:
To the Esteemed Lord Aurelthane,
Patron of the Nerindale Estates, Keeper of the Moonlit Halls,
and Honoured Friend of Thornmere—
We would be profoundly honoured to accept your gracious offer.
In this brief season of peace, the Ember Hearth finds joy in knowing
that such a sacred union may be celebrated beneath your roof,
surrounded by those who have stood with us through storm and shadow.
Your hall has long been a symbol of unity and refuge.
We would be humbled to mark our vows within it.
With our deepest gratitude,
Elaris Vorn & Sereth Vorn (to be)
By hand of the Crimson Dice
— Authenticated by Pancake,
Cosmic Weasel,
Thornmere’s Unofficial Archivist,
and Lord of Scribes.
Silence.
Deep, reverent silence.
Then—
Vex:
“That is the greatest letter ever written.”
Laz:
“By a weasel.”
Borin:
“I say we put ’im in charge of the invitations.”
Kaer:
“He is not writing my name with any titles.”
Garruk:
“You don’t have titles.”
Kaer:
“Exactly.”
Arden folded her hands reverently.
Arden:
“…He is anointed by fate. That’s the only explanation.”
Sereth wiped a tear from laughing.
Elaris sat there, staring down at the parchment, shaking his head in disbelief.
Then—
a whisper.
Not a voice.
Not a sound.
A memory.
Valthrix (echoing through the mind):
Save me a seat at the wedding, Shepherd…
A chill crept along his spine.
His hand tightened slightly on the parchment.
For a moment, the Tankard fell away.
But then—
A warm hand covered his.
Sereth’s hand.
Her other gently pressed against her stomach, thumb brushing absentmindedly. She eased herself down beside him and pressed her shoulder to his, the radiant steadiness of her presence pulling him from that infernal whisper.
He looked at her.
She looked at him.
And the tension uncoiled in his chest.
The world righted itself.
Sereth (soft, amused):
“Well…
one thing’s certain.”
Elaris:
“What’s that?”
Sereth:
“This wedding is going to be spectacular…
and we are already behind schedule.”
Pancake nodded solemnly, as if confirming that yes—
the chaos had only begun.