Not the usual kind — not maps and siege plans and casualty projections —
but the kind that made even hardened veterans of the Crimson Legions think:
Maybe we should go back to fighting undead. That was easier.
The long table was cleared of tankards and dice, replaced now with scraps of parchment, mismatched quills, half-drunk mugs, and one weasel sitting in the bread basket like a minor god.
Snowlight filtered through the windows, laying pale strips of morning across shoulders and steel. Outside, townsfolk went about their day, unaware that inside, the most dangerous thing in the Vale was currently happening:
A group of traumatized adventurers were planning a wedding.
Elaris stood at the head of the table, hands resting on the wood like it might bolt if he let go. The candle at his elbow burned low, dripping slow lines of wax that matched the slow-drop heaviness of his thoughts.
He had stared down liches and devils.
He had rewritten the rules of death.
He had resurrected the woman he loved.
None of that had prepared him for this.
Sereth sat to his right, one leg hooked over the other, posture relaxed in the way only rangers and predators mastered. Her hair was braided back, white streak woven through auburn in a pattern Elyra had started and she’d left in place out of sheer sentiment.
Her fingers, without thinking, drifted to her stomach. A small, unconscious motion — a palm resting there, gentle, protective. A thought that hadn’t yet turned into language.
Elaris noticed. His eyes softened, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
She caught him looking, arched a brow.
Sereth:
“Eyes on the battlefield, Shepherd. We’re under attack.”
She gestured pointedly at the table.
Technically, she was right.
Because around them, the rest of the Crimson Dice… were already arguing.
Arden was the first to lay claim, because of course she was.
She planted both hands on the table, sun-disc holy symbol glinting at her throat.
Arden:
“I’ll officiate.”
Silence for a half-heartbeat. Then—
Vex:
“I object.”
She didn’t even look up from where she was idly sketching lace patterns in the condensation of her wine glass.
Arden:
“You what?”
Vex finally raised her eyes, ember-red irises glittering with theatrical exasperation.
Vex:
“Dearest Dawn’s Mercy, the last wedding you mentioned was some Radiant Rite of Binding where you called down literal pillars of fire and someone’s veil caught alight.”
Arden’s cheeks flushed.
Arden:
“That was a symbolic cleansing—”
Laz (feet kicked up on another chair):
“Was it symbolic when the groom passed out?”
Arden:
“He was… spiritually overwhelmed.”
Borin:
“He was unconscious.”
Garruk (thoughtful):
“Can pillars of fire be part of this wedding?”
Sereth:
“No.”
Elaris:
“Absolutely not.”
Pancake (telepathically, to everyone at once):
I vote yes.
Kaer had been standing at the back, arms crossed, listening with the expression of a man who’d realised he was about to love and hate every second of this.
He cleared his throat.
Kaer:
“Before anyone burns anything, we need structure. Roles. Responsibilities. Security.”
Everyone groaned.
Vex:
“Oh gods, the wall is talking again.”
Garruk:
“Let the man speak. He looks like he’s about to assign someone the role of ‘door.’”
Kaer didn’t even blink.
Kaer:
“There will be doors. They will be guarded.”
He looked at Elaris and Sereth — that quiet, steady regard that had seen them through ambushes, sieges, and things that didn’t even have names.
Kaer:
“You two are not lifting a finger beyond saying vows and staying alive. We handle the rest.”
Elaris opened his mouth to argue, then stopped as Sereth nudged his leg under the table.
Her look said: Let him have this.
He nodded.
Elaris:
“Very well. We… accept your terms.”
Garruk slammed a fist into his palm, eyes bright.
Garruk:
“I want something heavy.”
Arden:
“You mean a role?”
Garruk:
“I mean I want to carry something heavy for the ceremony. A statue. A door. The bride. A ceremonial boulder. I am flexible.”
Sereth snorted.
Sereth:
“You’re not carrying me down the aisle.”
Garruk (crushed):
“…what if I carry Elaris?”
Pancake made a noise so close to a laugh it almost counted as a cackle.
Borin leaned forward, beard braids clinking as the beads shifted.
Borin:
“I’ll forge the rings. Dwarven craft. Made in the Tankard forge. Blessings o’ Moradin on every hammer strike.”
His molten-amber eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
Borin:
“Ye’ll no’ get flimsy elf circlets from me. These’ll outlast the Hells themselves.”
Vex rested her chin on her hand, tail idly swishing.
Vex:
“Will they sparkle?”
Borin eyed her.
Borin:
“They’ll glow when the two of ye hold hands. How’s that?”
Sereth blinked. Looked at Elaris.
Her voice came out softer than she meant.
Sereth:
“I… like that.”
Elaris’s throat closed. He gave Borin the smallest, but truest nod.
Laz tapped his fingers on the table in a little drum roll.
Laz:
“Right then. Let’s discuss the most critical decision of all—”
Arden:
“The officiant?”
Kaer:
“The seating plan?”
Borin:
“The ale.”
Garruk:
“Meat.”
Laz (hand over heart):
“—Best Man.”
Vex’s eyes snapped to him.
Vex:
“No.”
Laz:
“I literally haven’t said anything yet.”
Vex:
“You said ‘Best Man’ with your face. That implies you.”
She sat up straighter, fixing an imaginary crown in her hair.
Vex:
“Clearly, I’m Best Man.”
Laz:
“You are, at best, Best Menace.”
Vex:
“My full infernal title is ‘Whispering Flame of Shadows and Lace.’”
She emphasised the last word with a finger tap on the table.
“I am legally and metaphysically required to be in all things aesthetic and central.”
Elyra (grinning, eyes dancing between them):
“Can’t you both be Best… People?”
Vex & Laz in unison:
“No.”
They turned to each other, offended they’d agreed with one another.
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Pancake chose that exact moment to stand up inside the bread basket, crumbs in his fur, and plant his tiny paws on his hips.
Everyone felt the telepathic broadcast like someone shouting into their brain with glitter.
Pancake:
Clearly, you are all missing the obvious.
He strutted forward across the table, stepping over parchment and nearly into Vex’s wine glass.
Pancake:
I shall be Best Weasel. Keeper of Rings. Master of Ceremonies. Arbiter of Snacks.
He pointed at his own chest.
Pancake:
Also I demand a tiny bowtie. Preferably purple.
Elaris pinched the bridge of his nose.
Elaris:
“We are not putting the rings on Pancake.”
Pancake (offended):
You trusted me with the fate of reality on a battlefield, but not with two small circular bits of metal?
Garruk wheezed a laugh.
Garruk:
“He has a point.”
Arden (sighing, but smiling):
“If we let him carry the rings, Vex—”
Vex:
“—and Best Man duties—”
Arden talked over her.
Arden:
“—then someone needs to ward him against ‘Steal Item (Comedic)’ at least until after the vows.”
Pancake:
I make no promises.
As the chaos raged, Elaris watched quietly.
Borin and Garruk argued over whether the ceremonial weapons should be “for show” or “fully functional.”
Kaer and Arden began drafting an actual duty roster for security, guest arrival, and escape routes (you never quite stopped being adventurers).
Vex and Laz were already debating colour palettes and dress code violations — Laz arguing that shirts were optional, Vex threatening to burn his wardrobe if he so much as considered it.
The noise swelled and dipped like the tide.
For a long time, their battles had been full of screaming, blood, the sound of bones breaking, spells cracking the air.
Now the shouting was about who got to announce “you may kiss the bride.”
It made his chest ache in an entirely different way.
Sereth’s hand found his under the table.
Her thumb traced slow circles over his knuckles, grounding him back into the moment.
He glanced at her. She gave him that small, sideways smile that always said: We’re really doing this.
He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
Kaer, above the din, spoke again — voice steady and low, like a drumbeat beneath the chatter.
Kaer:
“Listen up.”
It took a few tries, but eventually, everyone quieted, eyes turning toward him.
Kaer looked at Elaris and Sereth, then at the rest of them — this impossible collection of misfits, souls reforged by grief and laughter.
Kaer:
“We’ve fought for each other a long time. Bled for each other. Stayed when others would have run.”
He nodded toward the two at the head of the table.
Kaer:
“This? This is why. So they get this.”
He paused.
“We’re not just planning a wedding. We’re defending it. With everything we are.”
It hit like a soft hammer.
Garruk straightened, eyes suddenly bright with a different kind of fire.
Garruk:
“Then I will carry all the heavy things.”
Borin (lifting his mug):
“To the wedding.”
Arden (soft smile, hand over her holy symbol):
“To vows freely given.”
Vex & Laz (in a rare perfect unison, raising their glasses):
“To scandalous fashion and unforgettable gossip.”
Elyra (eyes gleaming, heart in her throat):
“To my mum and dad.”
Pancake lifted an entire bread roll like a toast.
Pancake:
To cake.
Laughter folded over them like a warm, familiar cloak.
At the head of the table, Elaris and Sereth shared a look that contained every battle, every lost night, every moment of almost losing each other—
and the fragile, stubborn, radiant decision:
To build something anyway.
Snow dusted the stone steps of Silvercrest Hall as the Crimson Dice approached, breath misting in the crisp winter air. Servants held the doors open, bowing deeply as the party entered the grand atrium—
a cathedral of marble, gold filigree, and chandeliers that glittered like suspended starlight.
Elaris and Kaer were immediately hijacked by Lord Aurelthane’s steward for “security briefings.”
Garruk wandered off after catching the scent of roasting boar.
Borin disappeared toward the forge with a speed that suggested dwarven teleportation.
Which left Sereth, Elyra, Vex, Laz, Arden…
And Pancake, who’d decided to ride in the hood of Sereth’s cloak like a furry shoulder demon.
The seamstresses—three elegant elven designers draped in soft silks and sharper judgment—waited in a sunlit chamber filled with bolts of fabric, mannequin stands, ribbon coils, and polished mirrors.
They were not ready for what was about to happen.
The lead designer, Mistress Lirael, approached with a serene smile.
Lirael:
“Lady Sereth Vorn, it is an honor. We have prepared designs to reflect your grace, your history, your—”
Vex (bursting forward):
“She needs lace.”
The elf blinked.
Lirael:
“Pardon?”
Vex:
“Lace. LACE. My infernal title has ‘Shadow and Lace’ in it. It’s fate. Cosmic law. You can’t fight that.”
Lirael blinked harder.
Laz appeared at his sister’s shoulder like a summoned spirit.
Laz:
“Also leg slit. High slit. Higher. Like—morally questionable. Heroic thigh.”
Sereth stared at them.
Sereth:
“Absolutely not.”
Vex put a hand to her chest as though personally wounded.
Vex:
“But imagine the photos—”
Sereth:
“No.”
Vex:
“The crowd gasps as you walk—”
Sereth:
“No.”
Vex (leaning closer, whispering like a temptress):
“The slit.”
Sereth:
“I have fought a demon queen. I will fight you.”
Laz raised a hand.
Laz:
“Counter-offer: two slits.”
Sereth:
“…I’m leaving.”
Elyra grabbed her arm before she could bolt.
Elyra:
“Muuuuum. Just try something on.”
Sereth groaned softly, rubbing her temples.
While Sereth was corralled toward the fitting curtains, Elyra stood near a small bench, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
She flexed her toes inside her boots.
Her calves tingled—
that same pins-and-needles echo of crystalline numbness she pretended not to notice.
She rubbed her legs casually, hoping no one saw.
Sereth saw.
Of course she did.
She knelt in front of her, hands warm around Elyra’s shins.
Sereth (softly):
“Trouble?”
Elyra hesitated.
Then nodded a little.
Elyra:
“It’s… still weird sometimes. Like they’re not all the way mine yet.”
Sereth’s eyes softened with a kind of fierce tenderness.
She brushed Elyra’s hair back behind her ear.
Sereth:
“Tell me the moment it gets worse. No being brave. No hiding. You hear me?”
Elyra nodded, throat tight.
Elyra:
“I hear you.”
Pancake, still perched on Sereth’s shoulder, placed a tiny paw on Elyra’s cheek.
Telepathically, with surprising gentleness:
We fix you. All of us.
Elyra smiled.
Sereth stepped out of the fitting curtains in the first gown.
And everyone fell silent.
Not because it was beautiful—
But because the gown was so aggressively not Sereth that reality itself seemed offended.
It was layers of shimmering ivory tulle, pearl-crusted sleeves, and a neckline that could double as a fruit bowl.
Sereth:
“…I look like a haunted meringue.”
Laz (nodding empathetically):
“I fear you may.”
Vex (pacing in critique mode):
“Okay yes, no. This is wrong. Everything is wrong. This dress offends my soul.”
Arden:
“You don’t look… that bad.”
Sereth:
“Arden, the sleeves are bigger than Garruk’s biceps.”
From across the hall Garruk yelled, “NOTHING is bigger than my biceps!”
Vex snapped her fingers.
Vex:
“Right. Burn it.”
Lirael nearly fainted.
Lirael:
“Burn—?! That is spirit-silk—”
Vex:
“It deserves to burn.”
Lirael threw her arms up in a dramatic Fashion
Lirael: FINE I GIVE UP SUIT YOURSELVES 20 YEARS EXPERIENCE! WHAT DO I KNOW!
The fitting chamber of Silvercrest Hall had never endured such a storm of personality.
Vex: A Little dramatic but okay (She shrugged in an exaggerated fashion)
LETS GET TO WORK GIRLS!
Four dresses. Four women. One Tiefling determined to enforce lace compliance.
Arden stepped from behind the curtain first.
And good gods—
Light pooled around her as if the sun itself had followed her inside.
Her gown was ethereal:
A soft golden-cream fabric
Flowing sleeves that drifted like prayer smoke
A silver breastplate corset shaped to her form with the symbol of Seren glowing faintly
A high, elegant slit that balanced grace and movement
Her braid fell over one shoulder, a halo of soft radiance casting the room in gold.
Vex’s reaction was immediate.
Vex:
“Oh, this is illegal. You cannot just appear like a holy sunbeam and expect the rest of us to compete.”
Arden blushed, flustered.
Arden:
“I—I didn’t choose the light; it just happens.”
Laz:
“You look like you’re about to marry the divine itself.”
Pancake (telepathically):
She looks crunchy. Like toast.
Arden jolted.
Arden:
“THAT IS NOT A COMPLIMENT—!”
Then Vex emerged.
And the room collectively forgot how to breathe.
Her dress was carved shadows:
Deep black lace coiling in infernal sigils
A plunging neckline bold enough to start wars
Sleeves of sheer embroidered lace fitted like second skin
A slit so high even Laz applauded
Her horns adorned with chain-linked jewels
Her tail coiled proudly behind her
She posed like a queen of the night.
Vex:
“Good evening… mortals.”
Laz:
“I helped.”
Sereth:
“Of course you did.”
Vex:
“And before anyone asks—
YES.
There is lace.
There is ALWAYS lace.”
She flicked the skirt, and the embroidered patterns shimmered like embers in darkness.
The seamstresses bowed.
Actual bows.
Elyra came next, shyly stepping forward.
Her dress was everything she dreamed she’d never be allowed to wear:
A soft ivory gown with leaflike lace flowing across her torso
Straps delicate as spider-silk
A skirt split just high enough for ranger movement
Fabric that shimmered with quiet starlight
Her braid loose, her white streak glowing under the candles
She looked older—
grown—
yet somehow gentler, like moonlight in motion.
Sereth’s breath hitched softly.
Sereth:
“Elyra… you look beautiful.”
Elyra flushed pink.
Elyra:
“Really? I… I don’t feel like I’m tripping over myself?”
She lifted the hem, checking her calves—
her toes flexed, testing sensation—
but for the moment, everything held.
Vex circled her like a predator appraising treasure.
Vex:
“You, my little hawk, are dangerous now.”
Elyra:
“I—I don’t think that’s—”
Vex:
“Hush. Wear it. Own it. Break hearts.”
Laz:
“Not too many, please. Your dads stress easily.”
From down the hall, Elaris sneezed violently for no reason.
And then—
Silence fell.
Even the enchanted fabrics stilled their drifting.
Sereth stepped out wearing the final design.
It was the dress you provided:
Ivory and gold lace
A bodice shaped like blooming frost
A thigh slit elegant, not bold
A skirt that moved like snowfall
Her braid draped over one shoulder, white streak gleaming
No heavy jewels, just simplicity and grace
She looked like herself—
the ranger, the lover, the mother—
not a queen, not a puppet, not a symbol.
Just Sereth Vorn
as she was always meant to be.
Elyra’s eyes filled instantly.
Elyra:
“Mum… you’re beautiful.”
Sereth swallowed hard.
Sereth:
“I… I feel like me.”
Arden clasped her hands.
Arden:
“Sereth… you look blessed.”
Vex:
“And HOT.”
Sereth:
“Vex!”
Vex:
“What? I mean it respectfully. And with admiration. And as your maid of honor—”
Sereth:
“You’re NOT my maid of honor!”
Vex:
“Well someone lied to me then.”
Laz shrugged.
Laz:
“It was me.”
The curtain rustled at the far end.
Elaris walked in mid-conversation with a steward—
and froze.
His words died.
His breath caught.
He stared at Sereth as though the world had narrowed to a single heartbeat.
His hand rose unconsciously to his chest, fingers curling where his bond flared warm.
Sereth held still, suddenly shy.
Elaris (soft, stunned):
“…Sereth.”
She shifted lightly on her feet.
Sereth:
“Do… do you like it?”
Elaris stepped forward.
Slowly.
As though afraid she would vanish.
He reached her, lifted her hand, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
Elaris:
“There is no word for what I feel right now.”
Her breath trembled.
Sereth:
“Say something.”
He leaned his forehead to hers.
Elaris:
“You look like hope.”
Sereth closed her eyes.
And every wound, every nightmare, every ghost of the Scarlet Huntress melted away under that single word.
Vex wiped an invisible tear.
Vex:
“I am so proud of us.
Look at this aesthetic cohesion.
Look at the SLIT CONSISTENCY.”
Arden:
“Vex, nobody agreed to theme it around leg exposure.”
Laz:
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
He gestured broadly.
Laz:
“Leg Day: Wedding Edition.”
Sereth groaned.
Elyra giggled.
Elaris blinked in bafflement but held Sereth close.
And Pancake, perched upon a pile of lace he had proudly conquered, declared telepathically:
This wedding will be glorious.