Chapter 184
Beneath a ceiling so high ten men stacked could not reach it, an immense [censer] hung, filling the air with fragrance. (T/N: A censer is a vessel for burning incense during religious or spiritual ceremonies like a wedding.)
Though spring flowers had yet to fully bloom, the temple was lush with many kinds of incense wood. Sunlight refracted through stained glass rested on crimson camellias in bloom.
The bride’s white veil was gossamer-thin, like cicada wings. A masterpiece that would take a craftsman years to create.
A circlet of pearls no larger than beans crowned the veil, which draped from her chest in front to farther than the hem of her gown behind.
The gown itself gleamed, its hem and bodice dazzling with countless white jewels. Her shoes, made of the same fabric, were set with pearls and diamonds clustered like flowers in bloom.
Any one of these things would have been spoken of for decades in Ulevis. Yet even draped in such treasures, the bride made them seem pale, unbowed beneath their weight.
Through the veil, glimmers of platinum-blond hair caught the light, and beyond it, deep eyes of Tyrian purple fixed on the altar.
Those present were so few that even counting the two young acolytes assisting, the witnesses could be numbered on one’s hands. The pipe organ, adorned with gold and crystal, stood silent.
And yet none thought the ceremony meager or lonely.
Barely half an hour after his election, the new Pope—soon to be called [Renus I]—stood with a holy smile. Beside him waited the groom. (T/N: It seemed like Ren’s name turned to ‘Renus I’ after being ordained as a pope. )
Hair black as a raven’s wing, eyes pale as white diamonds. A face like the ideal beauty sculptors dreamed of for saints.
Tall, solid, yet not oversized—more like a beast, powerful but composed. His white uniform glittered with twisted golden cords across the chest, belted at the waist, black velvet trousers falling to reveal hard muscle beneath.
His combed hair framed a face intent upon his bride, not allowing even a breath of her to escape his gaze.
Her steps down the aisle were stately, graceful, perfectly measured. Yet to the man waiting, they felt too slow. Far too slow.
In truth, he felt he had been waiting alone for years already.
At last, the bride stood at his side before the Pope, bowing her head modestly.
Ren touched the holy water and began the formal words: ‘Beloved children of God, you stand here to form a household pleasing in His sight…’
Though abbreviated, each word was laden with blessing and prayer. The senior priests fortunate enough to witness the sacrament felt unexpectedly moved.
They knew Renus I was not merely pure-hearted. A man could not rise so high without power. Yet still, within their hearts they shared a sacred stirring, agreeing this humble ceremony was one worthy of record.
His first command, after the vote and before showing himself to the city, had been to prepare this wedding in the small chapel of the Lily Palace.
Some muttered that a Pope should preserve dignity, not flatter a duke with a wedding so soon. But this did not feel like politics, nor the settling of debts.
“Cledwyn Maindulante, will you treat your wife with faith, respect, love, and devotion, putting her above all else, in sickness and in hardship, before yourself…” (T/N: Damn. I feel really bad for Ren. Imagine, you are officiating the wedding of the love of your life to another man. )
The priests blinked. Was that truly part of the rite? Usually, the vows spoke of “faith and respect” before moving on to the wife’s duties. This went further—*that should you falter even briefly, you must kneel in confession before God, or face excommunication…*
Never had they heard such words.
Ren spent long minutes stressing the husband’s duties and the divine punishment should he fail them, while the wife’s obligations were glossed over with a mere, ‘to visit the papal state now and then with devotion.’ The priests fought to keep their faces calm.
Yet aside from that unusual passage, it was a blessed moment indeed.
“From this moment, before God, you are husband and wife.”
Cledwyn lifted Nerys’s veil. As it slid back, she closed her eyes until she met his gaze. She felt the faint tremor of his hand. She grasped it gently, steadying him.
Their faces drew near. Cledwyn kissed his bride.
Hot breath, an arm wrapping firmly at her waist. In her past life, Nerys had never known such a kiss, nor imagined she ever would. That had always belonged to others.
The tenderness.
The drowsy eyes that seemed to ask if she wished this too.
The slow movements, savoring, exalting.
They had kissed before, but never had her breath quickened like this. She blushed, flustered, unsure how to respond to the deepening kiss.
Embarrassed at her inexperience, her chest swelled with something new—like a ball stuffed full until it crowded out every other feeling.
She had never imagined a day when she would wish to keep kissing someone, even in front of others.
Then a commotion rose outside. Aidan, in knight’s uniform, strode to the door grimly. Moments later, it burst open.
Armed knights poured in, dozens strong, fully equipped for battle. It was no wonder the doors had given way.
‘They could have been stopped… but why bother? The truth would come out anyway.’
Ren’s face darkened with open displeasure. The other clergy likewise frowned. For secular knights to storm into the Pope’s palace armed—such insolence was unthinkable unless one intended to die.
At their head, Count Barom, red-faced and bellowing:
“Your Holiness! Stop this ceremony at once! That woman is a murderer and a criminal! She has no permission from her family to marry! She profanes this holy place!”
Most priests knew little of Nerys and Cledwyn’s situation, and looked confused. The Count gestured sharply.
“Seize her!”
His men charged. But before they reached halfway across the nave, Nerys straightened and cried out:
“How dare you! Who are you, to slander and insult the Grand Duchess of Maindulante?”
Barom’s eyes fell on the ring upon her hand. His face crumpled in despair.
He had known from the moment he entered—the light, lifted air of the chapel was that of a wedding already done.
Nerys fixed her gaze on the knights.
“I am of age. My mother yet lives. I require no one’s permission to wed! And I have never taken a life—who dares call me murderer? Who speaks lies before the Lord Himself?”
Her solemn rebuke made the knights falter. They knew little of the details, but instinct told them their master had already failed.
A Grand Duchess was near to royalty. None would dare seize her without proof of treason. Especially when the Pope himself had blessed her marriage.
Ren addressed the trembling Count gently.
“You must have had reasons, bringing armed men into my presence so soon after my enthronement.”
The Count’s face went white. His aim had been Nerys Truydd. Everyone saw it. But to call his force an “army”? That changed everything.
Ren’s tone made it clear—that was how he meant to frame it.
“Your soul has fallen into grave ruin. To barge into a holy wedding with muddy boots, to insult the noble Grand Duchess… surely it is my failing, but I cannot overlook this.”
The high clergy stared at Barom with contempt.
None would testify in his favor. Despair filled him.
Aidan strode forward, yanked the sword from the Count’s belt, and struck him unconscious with a blow to the neck.
His men, seeing him collapse, did nothing. What could they do? Their lord would rot in prison, or worse—be excommunicated, a man no land would accept.
❖ ❖ ❖
“Got your things packed?”
“There wasn’t much.”
“As the Pope’s first duty, the wedding should have been far more grand.”
Ren glared at Cledwyn. “You’re disappointing.” (T/N: HAHAHA. I will always love their banter.)
Nerys smiled wryly. The two of them always bickered pointlessly, even though they had cooperated perfectly when it mattered—Cledwyn intercepting the letter about Aidalia’s supposed death, Ren ordering the hasty ceremony the moment he was elected.
Now, with the vows complete and departure for the capital imminent, their rivalry flared again.
Best to ignore them, she thought. She leaned in to hug Ren farewell. She managed it, though Cledwyn never released her right hand, forcing her to embrace with one arm.
Ren growled, “Want to die?”
“If I die by the Pope’s hand, do I go to heaven?”
“I’ll pray you fall to the lowest hell.”
While the men exchanged nonsense, Nerys climbed into the carriage. Cledwyn helped her up, then joined her.
Aidan shut the door. Ren waved broadly.
“Travel safe!”
The driver cracked the reins, and the carriage rolled forward. Nerys waved lightly through the window until Ren and Father Adams were out of sight.
Inside, her husband kissed her hand. It was not the first time, but this kiss felt different—deeper, promising something more.
Her ears burned. She turned the subject in a hoarse voice.
“Did you send Aidalia back to her father?”
“I did. With Heather Rayling in the carriage, and a letter saying not to bury what is not dead.”
“Well done. The Marquis won’t trouble us for now.”
Cledwyn’s lips slid slowly from her hand to her wrist. Nerys’s eyes widened.
He smiled knowingly. He had seen through her attempt at distraction.
“My wife, once we stop briefly in the capital for business, we’ll go home.”
Our land.
She liked the word “home.” Nerys nodded.
“Yes. Let’s go home.”
The carriage gathered speed under the bright spring sunlight of Ulevis.
(T/N: What a rollercoaster of an emotion this chapter gave us. From that emotional wedding to their banter. Peak!)