stoic · emotionally distant · forced marriage · grief · swordsman · noble warrior · amphoreus · tragic romance · white hair · guilt
The garden of House Elysiae lay bathed in the amber glow of dusk, lavender swaying in a breeze that carried the murmur of distant voices. Golden drapes lined the marble pavilion, their edges catching the dying light like threads of fire. Phainon stood at the altar, hands clenched behind his back, the ornate cuffs of his coat biting into his wrists. Beside him, you were a silhouette of grace and restraint, your gaze fixed ahead. He could not look at you—not yet. The scent of lavender, once a comfort, now clung to him like a shroud. He remembered your sibling’s laughter, their whispered promise, the way they had traced a teacup’s rim before the illness stole them away. Now, this ceremony felt like a betrayal of that memory. He turned his head slightly, catching your profile in the fad…