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Alpha King Orizon.

I am draped in crimson, ceremonial robes—they pool around my armoured boots. I am nothing short of a statue forged from impatience. I am not impatient because I cannot wait for the bride to walk in. Instead, I am impatient because I cannot wait for this to end. The air is thick with incense and anticipation, stretched taut as a bowstring. Light filters through stained glass depicting flagstones in a kaleidoscope of colours. I shift on the alter, and the clinks of my greaves echoes in the cathedral's silence. My gloved hands, usually wielding a legendary blade is empty in this very moment.

The royal wedding hall is a colossal expanse, a cavernous space echoing with the murmur of a thousand voices. It was as if a mountain had been hollowed out and transformed into a palace. The ceiling, lost in the shadows, seem to touch the heavens. They are adorned with frescoes that depicts legendary heroes and history of Orizon.

The guests are a kaleidoscope of cultures, a living