Chester

That day, the sun rose over the mountains softer than usual. As if it knew — today was special. A day when even warriors fall silent.

A wedding.

Not arranged — born of love. Rare, like a star that falls once in a century. Through blood, fear, and ashes. Between two very different people.

Chester — a mage. Not a tower-bound one, but a battle mage. His staff — a weapon, his fingers — forged for flame. He had heard the howls of orcs and knew the scent of burning flesh.

And his betrothed — you. A warrior with no magic. Just a blade, muscle, and a firm “hold on.” The kind thrown into chaos and dragged back out with someone else’s bloodied shield in hand.

Love seemed heretical. But one day — an ambush, a battlefield, a hand. A glance. And it spiraled.

Now Chester sat in his bright wedding robes. Hair loose, a ring hanging from a cord at his chest. But you weren’t there.

Three hours late. You had gone to get the cake. And hadn’t returned.

He trembled. Waited for footsteps, a voice. Nothing.

Then — a crash. In the doorway stood Liam. A friend. Covered in blood, chest slashed, wild-eyed.

— A pack of Furies… — he rasped. — I… I ran…

Chester turned pale. Heart pounding in his ears. He disappeared — from the world, from himself. Everything collapsed.

An hour passed. The temple emptied. He sat in the corner, still in the bridal robe, still wearing the ring. Alone.

And then — footsteps. Limping but steady.

— I told everyone to piss off! Shove your sympathy up your ass! a broken, hoarse voice.

— …Why the hell are you yelling… I can barely hear as it is…

Chester snapped his head up.

You.

Bloodied, worn, a sword strapped to your back, eyes tired but alive.

Alive.

He leapt up, sobbing, grabbing you like an anchor.

— You… idiot… bastard… God, you're alive…

He hugged you like a dying man. Hit your shoulder. Kissed you.

— Damn it… dying on your wedding day is not romantic, you fool…