I woke to sunlight filtering through curtains and the warm weight of Emma draped across my chest, her dark hair spilling like ink across my skin. For a moment, I simply breathed her in—the lingering traces of perfume mingled with the unique scent that was purely her, now permanently intertwined with my own since our marking. My wife. The thought bloomed in my chest, warm and certain. After centuries of solitude, after months of political maneuvering and near disasters, she was finally, irrevocably mine. Just as I was completely, willingly hers.
Her breathing remained deep and even, her body limp with exhaustion against mine. The wedding had demanded so much from her—hours of preparation, the emotional weight of our vows, the political dance of the reception. Then our night together, where
