Chapter 55: Chapter 54. The Empire’s Grand Wedding
The morning of the imperial wedding began with a brilliant red sunrise, which painted the spires and domes of Erengrad, the beating heart of the Empire, in fiery hues.The air is thick with anticipation, filled with the clamor of bells tolling across the city and the distant roar of crowds. Streets had been scrubbed clean overnight, every archway draped with rich silks of scarlet and gold, the colors of House Erengrad, the ruling dynasty.
It’s to be the grandest wedding in a century, a union meant to symbolize strength and unity, to bind the Emperor to his chosen Empress Consort. Yet beneath the pomp and splendor, there lay a bitter truth: Emperor Dietrich de Erengrad, the Empire’s proud alpha sovereign, had not chosen his bride. For him, this day is nothing more than a mere obligation as an emperor.
The first horns blared, and the massive gates of the Imperial Palace swung open. A roar surged through the streets as soldiers in armor marched in rows, their crimson cloaks trailing like rivers of blood behind them. The Imperial Guard surrounded a colossal golden carriage, its surface encrusted with jewels and reliefs depicting past emperors’ victories.
On the carriage sat Liselotte de Rothschild, the omega bride, clad in a gown of shimmering silver thread. Her pale hands clutched a bouquet of moonlight lilies, her expression serene despite the oppressive weight of thousands of eyes upon her. Her beautiful brown hair is crowned with a circlet of diamonds, glittering like frost under the morning sun. She had been raised for this moment, trained to smile, to bow, to embody grace even as the world judged her.
Beside her sat Dietrich, the Emperor, a tall, towering figure, his broad shoulders filling the space even in the ornate imperial uniform of black and gold. His face is a mask of unreadable expression, sharp and regal, but his eyes burn with cold fury.
He never looked at Liselotte. Instead, his jaw remained clenched, his hands gripping his knees as though to restrain himself from tearing the whole carriage apart. The crowd didn’t see his loathing. To them, this is a day of glory.
"Long live the Emperor!" "Long live the Empress!" the people cried, throwing petals into the air.
Musicians on raised platforms played triumphant marches, while dancers spun through the streets with flowing ribbons, embodying prosperity and joy. Children perched on their fathers’ shoulders, waving miniature flags of the Empire, their laughter lost amidst the deafening celebration.
Liselotte forced herself to wave, her smile perfect and warm, while her heart pounded in her chest. She stole a glance at Dietrich, wondering if he would do the same, but he remained a statue of ice. To the world, they’re a perfect couple. To her, he’s a storm she couldn’t understand, a nightmare she soon will face.
The procession moved its way through Victory Avenue, the grand boulevard that cut through the heart of Erengrad. Enormous banners hung from every window, depicting the Imperial crest. Merchants and nobles alike lined the street, bowing deeply as the Emperor passed.
Priests swung censers heavy with incense, the sweet smoke curling into the cool autumn air. Behind the main carriage followed additional ones carrying high-ranking dukes, margraves, and foreign dignitaries who had come to witness this historic union.
Dietrich’s closest aides rode on horseback beside the carriage, exchanging uneasy glances. They knew why their Emperor despised this marriage: his heart belonged to Vivianne de Borgia, the wife of his cousin, and his hatred was over the omega Roxanne de Borgia, whose betrothed had been Dietrich’s love since the first time he saw him, before the two of them ever came of age.
And his rage against the truth of Vivianne was marked by another alpha than him staying even until the very eve of the ceremony. His resistance had nearly derailed the entire affair. His feelings aren’t a romantic tale; it’s an obsession, and this marriage with Liselotte de Rothschild isn’t a beautiful tale, as everyone knows; it’s planned. so he has support from the house of Rothschild and the McKellen family, Genevieve’s family.
Every cheer from the crowd is like salt in Dietrich’s wounds. To them, he’s the mighty alpha ruler, a symbol of strength. But in his mind, he’s being paraded like a puppet, his life shackled to a woman he had not chosen. He will never be the mighty alpha as long as Roxanne de Borgia is still alive, because he can’t even get the woman in his dream to marry him.
As they neared the Grand Cathedral of Saint Verena, the bells rang louder, echoing across the city. The cathedral loomed ahead like a mountain of white marble, its spires reaching toward the heavens. Stained-glass windows glittered in a thousand colors, depicting saints, heroes, and emperors past.
The carriage halted at the foot of the cathedral steps, where a sea of clergy awaited them. The High Priest, robed in white and gold, stepped forward, holding a staff tipped with a sunburst of pure crystal. "Your Majesties," the High Priest intoned, bowing low. "Today, before the eyes of the heavens and the Empire, your union shall be sanctified."
Liselotte descended first, her train carried by four attendants. The crowd gasped at her beauty, whispering praises of her poise and elegance. She looked every bit the perfect empress, her smile radiant even as anxiety twisted within her chest.
Dietrich followed, his mere presence commanding silence. His boots struck the marble steps with the weight of authority. Even in his fury, his bearing is majestic and awe-inspiring. The people saw a godlike figure, untouchable and divine. Together, they ascended the steps, though they didn’t touch. Liselotte longed to take his hand, to bridge the growing chasm between them, but she dared not.
Inside the cathedral, light streamed through the stained glass, bathing the altar in colors of blood, gold, and azure. The air is heavy with incense and the low, haunting chant of the choir. Nobles filled the pews, their jewels glittering like stars, while soldiers stood at rigid attention along the walls.
Dietrich’s eyes then caught Roxanne and Vivianne standing side by side in the front row as the royal family, an image both striking and unsettling. Roxanne de Borgia, the powerful alpha, stood tall and commanding in a flowing black ensemble adorned with golden embroidery that shimmered like starlight beneath the cathedral lamps.
Her powerful presence exuded strength and defiance, the dark fabric of her attire a sharp contrast to the vibrant splendor of the wedding. By her side is her wife, Vivianne de Borgia, the omega who radiated ethereal beauty. Vivianne’s breathtaking light violet gown with elaborate golden accents gleamed like moonlight entwined with sunlight, its skirts cascading gracefully with each movement. Her silver hair spilled down her back like the moonlight bathed her directly.
Roxanne’s protective arm curled around Vivianne’s waist, a declaration of their bond for Dietrich to see. Together, they’re a living portrait of House Borgia’s power and unity. The sight of them stirred something bitter and wild within Dietrich, for his obsession with Vivianne and the unresolved storm of his hatred and insecurities toward Roxanne had once nearly undone him, even now burning beneath the surface as he stood ready to vow himself to another.
The Grand Priest began the sacred rites, speaking of unity, duty, and the divine bond between alpha and omega. His words carried through the Grand Hall inside the Cathedral, stirring tears from some and reverent silence from others.
Liselotte’s hands trembled slightly as she held the ceremonial chalice. She repeated her vows with a clear, unwavering voice, pledging her loyalty, love, and obedience to her Emperor. Though her heart ached, she meant every word, for she truly wished to serve him, not just as a ruler, but as a husband.
When it was Dietrich’s turn, the entire hall seemed to hold its breath. His voice is deep and resonant, filling every corner of the cathedral. Yet there is a sharp edge to his words, a coldness that only those closest to him could sense. "I, Dietrich de Erengrad, pledge to uphold my duty as Emperor and husband. I shall protect this Empire and its Empress Consort... with all the strength the gods have granted me." It’s the vow of a ruler, not a lover. Liselotte’s heart sank, though her face never betrayed it.
Once the vows were spoken, the Grand Priest brought the sacred crown for the empress consort, not the Empress crown. The crown is smaller than the empress, but it still holds power with it. Then he gives it to Dietrich, who quickly places the Empress Consort’s Crown upon Liselotte’s head. The choir swelled, the bells outside pealed, and the people erupted into thunderous cheers.
"Behold your Empress Consort!" the Grand Priest proclaimed.
Liselotte stood radiant beneath the soaring dome, tears shining in her eyes, not of joy, but of hope mingled with despair. She glanced at Dietrich, searching desperately for some sign of warmth. But he stared straight ahead, keeping his eyes on the beautiful omega, Vivianne, his expression carved from stone.
The ceremony concluded with a final procession through the city, now beneath the glow of sunset. Torches lit the streets, and fireworks burst above the rooftops, their brilliant light reflected in the river that cut through Erengrad.
The people rejoiced, drunk on celebration, believing this marriage heralded a new golden age. Yet inside the carriage, silence reigned. Liselotte sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, her crown heavy upon her head.
In that moment, she understood: this is not the beginning of a fairy tale. It is the start of a war, a silent, private war of hearts and wills, waged beneath the glittering mask of imperial splendor. And outside, the Empire cheered, blind to the storm that brewed within its new royal couple.