Two weeks until the battle.

That was the estimate. Azrael’s scouts tracking the cult’s gathering pace, Zoe’s models projecting force readiness.

Two weeks until Malachar came for me with everything he had.

Valtherion chose that moment to propose a wedding.

We were in the war room. Just the two of us, the last ones remaining after a three-hour strategy session that had ground through defensive formations and evacuation protocols.

The maps were spread across the table like a paper battlefield, red markers clustering in the wilderness to the northwest.

I was studying the terrain around the Ancient Battleground, calculating sight lines, when he said it.

“We should get married.”

I...