The war for the world was over. The war for the wedding seating chart, however, was just beginning.
Emily sat at the dining table in the penthouse, buried under a mountain of heavy, leather-bound binders. Each one contained a different proposal for the ceremony, and each one seemed determined to give her a migraine.
Across from her, Kael was levitating a tray of tea. He was wearing his butler’s vest again, though he had accessorized it with a pair of neon green sunglasses because, as he put it, "Domestic servitude is blindingly boring."
"Your camomile, Madam," Kael droned, floating the cup down to her. "And the latest missive from the Iron-Fang Dominion. Volkov insists that the groomsmen carry battle-axes. He says it is 'traditional.'"
"Battle-axes," Emily repeated, rubbing her temples
