The ballroom adjacent to the cathedral was nothing short of breathtaking.
Towering chandeliers bathed the vast space in a golden glow, their light mingling with enchanted projections of a celestial sky that stretched across the domed ceiling. Stars shimmered and shifted as if alive, giving the illusion that guests were dancing beneath the heavens themselves.
Banquet tables draped in the rich navy and silver of House Vosswell gleamed under the soft flicker of candlelight. Floral arrangements twined with floating orbs of silvery light lined the hall, a perfect harmony of tradition and magic.
The air was scented with jasmine and clove, mingling with the warm aroma of spiced wine and honey-glazed pastries. Velvet drapes pooled like midnight shadows along the marbled floors, while laughter and lilting strings from the orchestra wove a tapestry of celebration through the room's stately opulence.
A quartet of illusionists cast slow arcs of glimmering mist over the edges of the ceiling, creating a seamless mirage of twilight unfurling across the stars. From a far corner came the sound of delighted laughter—nobles admiring illusionary birds that perched on a golden arbor near the garden doors. Along the periphery, enchanted music boxes chimed in playful harmony with the orchestra, their melodies rising like stardust.
Delphia stood near the center of the ballroom, Zypher's steady presence at her side.
The hum of conversation, the clink of crystal goblets, the subtle hush of awe—all of it felt distant, blurred at the edges. Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears, syncing with the orchestra's rising prelude, a rhythm stitched with both anticipation and apprehension.
The master of ceremonies stepped forward, his voice smooth and sonorous.
"It is time for the evening's first dance—Lady Delphia and Duke Vosswell."
The ballroom quieted.
She turned just as the Duke approached, his footsteps measured, his face composed—but not unreadable. There was a flicker of something behind his eyes. Not arrogance. Not cold detachment. Just something… restrained.
She had prepared herself to feel nothing. To feel annoyance. Distance. Victory, even. But now that he stood in front of her, arm extended in invitation, what she felt instead was something more ambiguous—like standing on the edge of a bridge between two lives, past and present suspended in the space between their outstretched hands.
She hesitated, just briefly. Then placed her hand in his.
The crowd murmured in soft surprise.
The Duke of Vosswell did not dance. And never with such reverence.
They moved together toward the center of the ballroom, the polished marble floor glowing beneath them like water beneath moonlight. The orchestra began a slow, noble waltz, and the world seemed to still around them.
He led her into the first step with a quiet grace that startled her. She'd expected stiffness, ceremony. Instead, he guided her with calm assurance—his posture proud, but never imposing. Their movements were smooth, measured. It was not the dance of practiced affection, but of two people navigating a shared history that neither fully understood.
She let herself move with him, feeling the give and pull of their rhythm. The music coiled around them like silk—stately, elegant, suspended.
The Duke didn't speak at first. And neither did she.
They circled once, then again. Her skirts whispered against the floor, the gentle brush of his gloved hand steady at her back. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. He was watching her—not with scrutiny, but consideration.
"You dance very well," he finally said, voice low enough that only she could hear.
A small chuckle escaped her. "I had enough lessons drilled into me over the years."
He gave a single nod, almost amused. "That's true."
They pivoted through a turn, and she studied the weight in his features. The firm line of his jaw. The creases carved by responsibility. Yet for the first time, there was a softness in the way he regarded her—something searching.
"Earlier," she murmured, "I asked you what my mother was like on her wedding day."
His expression shifted. His hand at her back stilled for a breath. He didn't answer right away.
"She was…" He drew a breath, as if wading through the years. "She was the most incredible."
Delphia's steps faltered—but only slightly. He steadied her without comment.
"There was a moment," he continued, "when she reached the end of the aisle… and I thought she didn't look real. She was like a vision—calm, luminous. Ophelia had this way of carrying herself like she already belonged to the future."
His voice lowered, the words more for himself now. "She was poised. Elegant. But she also had this quiet mischief to her… a knowing look that always made me feel as though she'd read the last page of the book before I ever picked it up."
Delphia didn't speak. The original Delphia had chased the echo of that woman for years, had lived under the shadow of a ghost and longed for answers she never received. And now, in this simple turn across a ballroom, her understanding shifted.
The Duke, for all his silence, had never truly moved on. He had simply frozen in place.
"I see a lot of her in you," he said.
Delphia blinked. Her throat felt tight.
A slow rotation brought them into the light beneath the largest chandelier, the enchanted starlight above sparkling as though in gentle approval. Her gown shimmered like a constellation as it fanned around them, his dark attire a grounding contrast to her glow.
"I think…" she said softly, "I would have liked to know her."
His hand curled ever so slightly at her waist. "She would have been proud of you."
The words settled between them, not absolution—but something close. Like finding a locked door slightly ajar after thinking it had been sealed forever.
As the music began its final swell, the Duke spun her with careful elegance, then returned her to his arms with surprising gentleness. A last turn carried them toward the edge of the floor.
When the waltz ended, he released her hand, then bowed low—not with formality, but respect. Delphia curtsied in return, rising with her chin lifted, her eyes meeting his without flinching.
For the first time, the weight between them did not drag.
It simply… shifted.
As the final note of the waltz lingered in the air, Duke Vosswell stepped back, giving Delphia a brief, solemn nod before returning to the crowd. The space he left behind was filled with a hush, a breathless pause that seemed to stretch and shimmer in the light of a thousand floating stars.
Then, as if summoned by the very weight of her breath, the master of ceremonies raised his voice again: "Presenting the first dance of the newlyweds—Archmage Zypher Thorne and Lady Delphia Thorne!"
A ripple of applause followed, but Delphia barely heard it.
Because Zypher was already there—already moving toward her—his maroon eyes fixed on her like a gravity all their own. The contrast was jarring in the most exhilarating way. Where Duke Vosswell had been composed, deliberate, restrained—Zypher approached like a storm wrapped in velvet. Quiet, but electric.
His dark attire shimmered faintly with magical embroidery, subtle threads catching the starlight like constellations stitched into his sleeves. When he reached her, he bowed with courtly precision, but his eyes never left hers.
"Dance with me, my wife," he murmured, his voice a husky, reverent promise.
Her breath caught.
The title still sounded unreal, like something out of a dream—or a novel she'd once read, never suspecting she'd someday step into its pages and rewrite it from the inside out.
She gave him her hand.
The moment their fingers touched, the world melted away.
The orchestra shifted—no longer a stately waltz, but a melody spun from magic and moonlight. A slow, sweeping ballad that felt older than language itself, made only for two hearts and one shared heartbeat.
Zypher drew her close, his hand resting at the small of her back, the other entwined with hers. His movements were confident, unhurried, as if they had danced this dance in another life—or would again in a thousand more.
They moved in a perfect circle beneath the vaulted heavens, the soft embroidery of her gown catching the light with each step. The enchanted ceiling responded, stars pulsing in time with the music, swirling slowly as though the entire cosmos had chosen to revolve around them.
Delphia looked up at him, her lips parting with a breathless laugh. "I seem to recall you once claiming you had two left feet."
"I lied," he said simply, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "I just hadn't found the right partner."
She laughed again, softer this time, her voice caught between wonder and affection.
Around them, the guests watched—some smiling, some silently captivated. A young noblewoman near the garden doors clutched her friend's arm, whispering dreamily. A viscount dabbed discreetly at his eyes with a monogrammed kerchief. Even the most aloof courtiers stood still, as if afraid to break the spell.
Zypher leaned in, his voice low, meant for her alone.
"You're radiant."
She met his gaze, her heart swelling. "I feel… weightless."
Their bodies moved as one, each step seamlessly flowing into the next. It was a dance with no missteps, no hesitation. Just rhythm and trust. Magic and memory. The end of something old, and the beginning of everything new.
The chandeliers dimmed ever so slightly, and in their place, the starlight intensified—enfolding the bride and groom in a soft, celestial glow. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't grandiose. But it was beautiful in a way that felt intimate—earned.
Zypher twirled her gently, the movement light as breath, then caught her again and held her close.
Delphia closed her eyes, just for a second.
For the first time in two lifetimes, she allowed herself to be fully present.
No regrets. No fears. No uncertainty.
Just the warmth of his hand. The hum of their shared magic. The certainty of this.
The music began to rise toward its final crescendo. Zypher spun her one last time, then drew her back in, foreheads nearly touching. The ballroom was utterly still.
He reached up and brushed a strand of rose-gold hair from her face. Then, with infinite tenderness, he leaned in and kissed her—not for the crowd, not for tradition.
Just for her.
The applause that followed came like thunder and sunlight at once.
But Delphia barely heard it.
Because in Zypher's arms, the world could have ended, and she wouldn't have noticed.
The applause still echoed in the vaulted ballroom as the orchestra shifted into a lively reel, inviting the rest of the guests to join the floor. Couples flowed in like silk unspooling—flashes of color, laughter, and swirling hems all moving beneath the enchanted starlight.
Delphia and Zypher stood for a breath longer at the center, wrapped in a moment that still hadn't entirely settled into reality. Then the spell softened, and they moved together into the crowd—hand in hand, smiles offered like gifts to the well-wishers who came in waves.
Nobles, officials, old acquaintances, and even wary onlookers approached with practiced elegance. Courtiers from rival provinces offered thinly veiled congratulations, while scholars from the Magic Tower offered deep bows and whispered magically coded blessings.
One of Zypher's longtime associates—an archmage with a monocle and a mischievous glint in his eye—raised a glass in mock solemnity. "I never thought I'd live to see it. Archmage Thorne… in formalwear. Smiling. And voluntarily at a party."
The table laughed, and Zypher gave a dry, theatrical sigh. "I was lured with wine and threats of eternal disappointment."
Another colleague recited a short, dramatic poem he had clearly prepared in advance, something about moonlight and blooming love—equal parts heartfelt and absurd. Groans and fond eye-rolls followed, along with scattered applause.
Delphia laughed genuinely, the sound light and a little surprised at itself. In all the performances she had once associated with these kinds of events, she hadn't expected to actually enjoy the reception. And yet… here she was, heart full, wine glass untouched, warmed by conversation and unexpected ease.
The ballroom had transformed into a dream of festivity.
Children darted around the garden doors, chasing fluttering illusion-trinkets conjured by a masked entertainer. Guests gathered near the dessert tables, where enchanted pastries bloomed into sugar blossoms with a whisper of magic. A line formed around a confectioner who could summon tiny constellations inside crystal flutes of cider.
All around her, the world moved. Celebrating. Witnessing.
And yet Delphia felt like she was living just outside of it—set apart by a sense of stillness she couldn't quite name. Not melancholy. Not distance. Just a quiet awareness of how far she had come.
Zypher noticed.
"You're quiet," he said, leaning close enough for only her to hear.
She glanced up at him, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Just… taking it in."
His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, as if he could feel what she wasn't saying. Then he offered her his hand again—just as he had earlier that evening.
"Come with me," he murmured. "The real magic's out there."
She didn't ask where there was. She already knew.
They slipped out the side garden doors, unnoticed by all but a few watchful eyes too polite to follow. The shift in air was immediate—cool, sweet with the scent of roses and lavender. The path was lit by gentle floating lights, each one flickering like fireflies suspended in time.
The sounds of the party dulled behind them—laughter, music, crystal chimes fading like echoes of another world.
They followed the path past blooming hedges and into a small clearing behind the cathedral. A marble fountain gurgled softly in the corner, its waters catching glints of starlight as if it, too, had dressed up for the occasion.
Delphia stepped into the space first, drawing in a slow breath. "It's quiet here."
Zypher stopped beside her, his voice low. "Only the important things get louder in the quiet."
She turned to him, her expression unreadable for a moment—then softened. "You sound like a man with something poetic planned."
"I had a whole speech," he admitted, mock-grimacing. "Rehearsed in the mirror and everything."
"Oh?" She asked, arching a brow.
He shrugged. "You look at me like that, and I forget half my vocabulary."
She laughed again, leaning against his shoulder. "You don't need speeches. Just… this."
Zypher's arm came around her waist, anchoring her gently. "So, Lady Thorne," he whispered, drawing out the title like something precious, "how does it feel?"
She considered it. Not just the question, but everything it touched—her past life, her old world, the chapters she never meant to rewrite. The pain. The strange hope. The reality of belonging somewhere she was never meant to exist in.
"It feels…" She breathed in, closing her eyes for a second. "Strange. Wonderful. Like I've stepped into someone else's story… but it's completely mine now."
He turned to face her fully. "It is yours," he said with quiet conviction. "And whatever comes next—whatever it is—we'll face it together."
Her fingers laced with his. "Together," she echoed.
They stood in silence for a while, wrapped in soft starlight and the hush of blooming things. There were no witnesses. No audience. Just two people—and the strange, miraculous rhythm of a new beginning.
Above them, one star pulsed slightly brighter than the rest… and then began to fall, a single arc of light streaking silently across the sky.
A blessing. Or maybe just a reminder.
They had made it.
Together.