The Sage woke up before the dawn had fully broken.
To be precise, she hadn't really slept much at all.
It wasn't because she was nervous—she had nothing to be nervous about.
She had simply tossed and turned a few times during the night, her mind drifting through unknown thoughts. By the time she came to her senses, a sliver of grayish-white light was already leaking through the gap in the curtains.
She sat up and glanced at the dress at the head of the bed.
The gray-blue fabric looked very pale in the morning light, and the dark patterns around the collar lay quietly within the folds.
She stared at it for a few seconds.
Then she stared for a few more.
Only then did she lift the covers and get out of bed.
The process of changing clothes took a bit longer than she had expected.
It wasn't because the dress was difficult to put on—Lillian's tailoring was a perfect fit, and the cuffs and waistline aligned exactly where they should.
The problem was the tie.
She reached for the tie at the back twice but couldn't quite catch it. By the third attempt, her arm was starting to feel sore. She paused for a moment and lowered her hand, her expression remaining flat.
A thin wisp of wind magic drifted from her fingertip, circled behind her back, threaded the tie through the buckle, and tied a neat, orderly knot.
She looked down to check herself. The hem of the dress reached just above her ankles, so she wouldn't trip while walking. The sleeves ended right at her wrists, revealing just the tips of her fingers.
She turned around, and the fabric moved with her, free of any unnecessary wrinkles.
She didn't have a mirror.
To be more accurate, there was a mirror in the room, but she didn't walk over to look in it.
At two minutes to six, when Margaret knocked on the door, the Sage was already standing by the window, fully dressed.
The black robe was folded into a perfect square and placed at the head of the bed. It was folded even more neatly than usual—every edge was perfectly aligned, as if it had been folded and refolded several times.
The door opened.
Margaret's first reaction was to freeze.
It wasn't for long, but it certainly wasn't short either.
Her gaze swept over the Sage's face, then back again, lingering on those golden eyes.
The gray-blue dress accentuated the girl's silhouette—her shoulders were narrow and her waist was slender, yet her posture as she stood there was unexpectedly steady.
Without the black robe to obscure her, her features were fully exposed to another person for the first time.
Margaret had worked at the manor for many years.
She remembered the first time she had seen Lady Ophelia—it was at Daisy's wedding. Her golden hair had been blindingly bright in the sun, and her face was both exquisite and heroic, causing all the maids to steal several extra glances.
The person before her was not Ophelia.
But those eyes were far too similar.
It wasn't just the color—the shape of the eyes, the curve of the corners, and the way the pupils reflected a bright gold in the light were almost cast from the same mold. Yet, looking further up, the slope of the brow was different. It lacked the sharpness of a knight; the lines were softer, more like—
Margaret cut the thought short.
It wasn't that she lacked the ability to think it through; it was that she must not.
Some thoughts, once formed, could never be taken back.
“Are you ready?” she asked, her tone devoid of any ripples.
“Yes.”
Margaret didn't ask any more questions. She stepped aside to make way. The two of them walked down the corridor one after the other, their footsteps alternating in a light and heavy rhythm.
At the turn at the end of the corridor, Martha was carrying a tray toward the dining room. The moment she saw the Sage, she nearly dropped the tray.
“Whoa—”
The word had barely jumped out before Margaret turned and glared at her.
Martha immediately swallowed the rest of her exclamation, her throat moving visibly as she forced it down.
But her expression was impossible to hide.
Her mouth was shut tight, but her eyes were wide, her gaze sweeping back and forth over the Sage three times.
From head to toe, then toe to head, then head to toe again.
The Sage walked past her without any expression.
Martha stood there for two seconds before scurrying to catch up with Margaret, leaning in to whisper, “Sis, I have a question—”
“No.”
“I haven't even said it yet.”
“Don't ask what shouldn't be asked,” Margaret replied without looking back.
“...Just one.”
Margaret ignored her.
Martha pouted and headed toward the dining room with her tray.
However, she stole another look at the Sage before quickly turning her head back.
After turning away, she muttered something secretly to herself, causing the cutlery on the tray to clink.
The wedding venue was set in the garden behind the manor.
Raymond had arranged everything impeccably.
Low tables were placed on both sides of the aisle, covered with white cloths and decorated with several bouquets of roses.
At the end of the aisle stood a simple wooden arch entwined with ivy, devoid of any superfluous decorations.
It was simple, yet clean and sharp.
There were only two rows of guest seats.
This was likely the part that had given Raymond the biggest headache—not the procedures or the decorations, but the numbers.
The guests attending the wedding could be counted on one hand.
Nonetheless, the two rows of chairs were arranged perfectly, with identical spacing, and the orientation of each chair had been adjusted. Even if they were empty, they had to be empty with dignity—that was simply Raymond's way of doing things.
The Sage was led to a seat in the middle of the first row. An extra cushion had been placed on the chair, and a small table beside it held a glass of water and a plate of snacks.
She sat down.
Her skirt spread across the seat, the gray-blue fabric possessing a quiet texture in the morning light. Her hands rested on her knees, and her posture was very upright.
A breeze blew from the direction of the garden, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the light dampness left by the evaporating dew on the grass.
The Sage's gaze slowly swept across the garden. The aisle, the white cloths, the wildflowers, the wooden arch.
Then she pulled her gaze back, letting it rest on the gray-blue fabric on her own knees.
Lyra and Karen arrived a bit late.
Lyra appeared first at the garden entrance. She had changed into clean clothes—not new, but carefully washed, with the collar and cuffs ironed. The silver anchor pendant around her neck was tucked inside her collar, with only a section of the thin chain visible.
Karen followed behind her.
His state today wasn't bad.
After lying in a hospital bed for so many days, he had recovered.
Though his gaze was still somewhat vacant, at least he wasn't talking to himself.
Lyra held his hand. As they walked down the aisle, Karen suddenly paused and looked up at the wooden arch.
“Pretty,” he said.
His voice was very soft and his tone was flat, but he was indeed speaking, and he was speaking about what was happening in the present.
Lyra's footsteps faltered for a moment.
She didn't look back at Karen; she only tightened her grip on his hand before continuing forward.
She walked half a step faster than before.
It wasn't out of haste, but more as if she were afraid that if she stopped, she would make some unnecessary expression.
The two had never met the Sage, but under Margaret's guidance, they sat in the seats next to her.
After Lyra sat down, she instinctively glanced at the Sage.
The Sage glanced back at her.
The two made eye contact for less than a second before Lyra gave a slight nod as a greeting.
The Sage gave a small nod in return.
Then both turned back.
The guest area fell silent.
Several servants of the manor stood in the back row—besides Margaret and Martha, there were the cook and the driver.
The driver wore a jacket that was clearly a bit too small, the buttons straining against his stomach, but his face was clean-shaven and his hair had been carefully combed back.
Raymond was the last to appear.
He stood beside the wooden arch, holding a thin booklet, his back ramrod straight.
The morning light shone from behind him, and while his angular face held no extra expression, he was wearing a brooch today—a silver one, very old, with its patterns worn nearly smooth.
Martha had never seen him wear that brooch before.
As he surveyed the group, his gaze paused on the Sage.
It was very brief, so brief that anyone standing beside him wouldn't have noticed.
But Margaret noticed.
She said nothing.
Everything was ready.
Raymond looked up, his gaze crossing the garden aisle toward the manor.
Klein came out first.
He wore a deep blue imperial dress of high-quality material and a perfect fit.
As he walked down the aisle, his pace was neither fast nor slow, and his expression was normal.
A bit too normal, in fact.
A smile played on his lips, his back was straight, and his gaze was steady as he looked forward—as if he had rehearsed it. But his hands hung at his sides, his thumb unconsciously rubbing against the side of his index finger.
Klein felt as if the path was quite long.
Even though the garden aisle was only so long—he had counted, no more than forty steps from the entrance to the arch—today, every step felt like the ground was a bit softer than usual, and time felt a bit longer.
He reached the arch and stood still, turning to face the aisle.
Raymond stood beside him and asked in a low voice.
“Nervous?”
Klein looked at him and smiled.
“I'm alright.”
He paused for a second before adding, “But why does this path feel longer than usual?”
Raymond didn't look at him, his gaze still fixed on the end of the aisle. “It's the same length.”
Klein said nothing more. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then put his hands behind his back.
Then Ophelia appeared.
The light at the garden entrance was just right at that moment—not too bright, not too dim. The early morning sun shone obliquely from the east, plating her entire figure in a thin layer of warm color.
She was wearing a white wedding dress.
It wasn't the kind of style seen at imperial capital noble weddings, piled high with lace and beads; it was very simple. The shoulder lines were clean, the waist was cinched with a ribbon, and the skirt flowed down naturally, swaying gently with her footsteps. Her golden hair wasn't fully pinned up; it was gathered into a loose bun at the back of her head, with the rest falling over her shoulders.
She wore the earrings. The ones Klein had made. Simple silver pendants, polished to a high shine, swaying gently beneath her earlobes.
Her left hand hung at her side, not intentionally hidden, nor was she wearing a glove.
The section of blackened skin and fine scales, though partially obscured by her sleeve, was faintly visible.
But she didn't hide it.
Ophelia walked down the aisle. Her speed was also moderate, each step steady and firm.
From the very beginning, her gaze rested on Klein and never wavered.
The wind caught her skirt slightly before letting it fall. A strand of golden hair slipped from her shoulder, resting against her collarbone.
Klein watched her approach.
His hands, which had been behind his back, unclasped.
In the back row, Martha was pursing her lips tightly, her eyes already starting to sting. She took a loud sniff, which earned her a glare from Margaret.
The Sage sat in the first row, her gaze fixed on the aisle.
The morning light shone on her profile, tracing a faint outline—the brow, the bridge of the nose, the jaw. Those lines were quiet, half-similar to the golden-haired woman at the end of the aisle, and the other half-similar to the deep-blue figure beneath the arch.
Her expression did not change.
Her finger moved slightly.
Very lightly, she curled it against the fabric of her dress on her knee, pinching the gray-blue material into a tiny wrinkle.
Then she let go.
The fabric slowly bounced back, the wrinkle disappearing as if nothing had ever happened.
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