Getting ready was a quiet, focused affair. Orion helped Abel into his formal clothes—a deep blue jacket with silver embroidery at the cuffs, dark trousers, polished boots. Abel stood patiently, but Orion could feel the tension humming through him. It was in the tight set of his shoulders, the way he kept glancing towards the door.
"It’ll be crowded," Orion said softly, smoothing the jacket over Abel’s broad back. "Loud. Lots of people. But I’ll be right beside you. If it gets too much, squeeze my hand twice. We can step out for air."
Abel nodded, his throat working as he swallowed. "Okay." His eyes found the small wooden horse on the mantelpiece. Without a word, he walked over and picked it up, holding it securely in one large hand.
Orion didn’t stop him. If a toy horse gave him courage, then so be it.
He dressed himself in the most formal of his own grey outfits—a high-collared shirt, a charcoal waistcoat, and a darker grey jacket. It was simple, severe, and unmistakably his. He looked like a shadow next to Abel’s vivid blue.
When they were both ready, they stood for a moment by the fire. They looked like any other aristocratic couple, if you ignored the clenched jaw of the Omega and the way the Alpha was white-knuckling a child’s toy.
"Ready?" Orion asked.
Abel took a deep breath, then reached out and took Orion’s hand with his free one. "Ready."
The walk down the main corridor to the Grand Hall felt endless. The stone walls were lined with flickering torches, casting dancing shadows. Servants in full livery stood stiffly at intervals, their eyes forward. The sound of music and conversation grew louder with every step—a low, buzzing hum that seemed to vibrate in the floor.
Orion’s heart hammered against his ribs. Abel’s grip on his hand was almost painful.
They turned a final corner, and the massive double doors to the Grand Hall stood open before them. Light, music, and the smell of perfume, wine, and roasted meat spilled out. The room was a sea of color and jewels and glittering fabrics. Dozens of people, maybe a hundred, milled about, talking, laughing, sipping from crystal glasses.
The music stopped. The buzz of conversation died away. Every head in the room turned towards the doors.
A profound, waiting silence fell.
Orion felt frozen. Abel had gone completely still beside him, his breath shallow.
Then the Duke’s voice rang out, clear and cold as a mountain stream, from the far end of the hall where he stood on a low dais beside the Duchess.
"Lords and Ladies," Duke Valerius announced, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before landing on the two figures in the doorway. "Honored guests. It is my privilege to present my son and heir, Abel Valerian, and his newly wedded husband, Orion Valen."
There was a beat of silence. Then a wave of polite, practiced applause rippled through the room.
The herald gestured for them to enter.
Orion forced his legs to move. He stepped forward, pulling Abel gently with him. They crossed the threshold into the full glare of attention.
The murmurs started immediately, soft but everywhere.
"...the Omega looks stern..."
"...is that a... toy in his hand?"
"...they say he’s quite simple now, poor thing..."
"...the Valen boy is prettier than I heard..." Find the original chapter at g.com.
"...such a waste of a prime Alpha..."
Orion kept his chin up, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above the crowd.
They reached the foot of the dais. The Duke gave a curt nod. The Duchess offered the ghost of a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. "You look presentable," she murmured, her voice only for them.
For the next hour, Orion existed in a strange, tense dream.
He shook hands. He accepted shallow congratulations. He made bland, polite replies.
"A strong alliance, your families."
"Indeed, my lord."
"We wish you every happiness."
"Thank you, you are too kind."
"Your husband seems... quiet."
"He prefers to observe, my lady."
Through it all, Abel stood beside him. He held Orion’s hand tightly with one hand and the wooden horse with the other.
It was exhausting. A performance more draining than any physical labor. Orion could feel the brittle mask he wore beginning to crack. He could feel Abel trembling beside him, the sensory overload of the crowd, the noise, the smells pushing him towards the edge.
Orion was just about to suggest they find that promised pocket of air when a liveried servant approached him, bowing low.
"Master Orion," the servant said quietly. "A word, if you please?"
Orion nodded, excusing himself from a vapid conversation with a baroness about lace imports. He pulled Abel a few steps aside, into a slightly quieter corner near a pillar. "What is it?"
"Your family’s carriage has arrived, sir," the servant said.
A flicker of something—hope? dread?—stirred in Orion’s chest. His parents. His brother. A familiar face in this sea of hostility. Maybe they had come after all. Maybe seeing them, even if they were part of the problem, would be some small anchor.
"Have they been shown in?" Orion asked, trying to keep the eagerness from his voice.
The servant’s expression was carefully blank. "Only a scribe has entered, sir. He bears a message from House Valen."
The flicker died, replaced by a cold, heavy stone. Of course. They hadn’t come.
"Bring him to me," Orion said, his voice flat.
A moment later, a thin, nervous-looking man in dusty travel clothes was ushered over. He clutched a leather folio to his chest and bowed deeply. "Master Orion. I am Scribe Corvin, sent by your lord father." Get faster updates on NovelPing.
"Where is my family?" Orion asked, cutting straight to it.
The scribe shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the opulent, watching hall. "My lord regrets that he and the Lady Valen are unable to attend. Your brother, Master Elian, has taken ill. A sudden fever. They felt it imperative to remain at his bedside."
Orion stared at him. Elian. Of course. Always Elian. A ’sudden fever’ that conveniently prevented them from having to witness their discarded son’s wedding celebration.
"I see," Orion said, the words tasting like ash. "And my parents? They are staying with him because of this fever?"
The scribe nodded vigorously. "Yes, sir. Their devotion to their son’s health knows no bounds. They send their deepest... regrets." He fumbled with his folio. "They have, however, sent the agreed-upon dowry, to be presented to the Duke, as is customary."
Orion closed his eyes for a second. So that was it. They couldn’t be bothered to come, but they’d sent the payment. The transaction was complete.
Before he could say anything, the scribe, perhaps misunderstanding his silence as permission, raised his voice. He wasn’t speaking to Orion anymore; he was announcing to the room.
"House Valen," the scribe declared, his reedy voice carrying in a momentary lull in the music, "presents the dowry for the union of Orion Valen to Abel Valerian!"
Conversation nearby stuttered and stopped. Heads turned.
The scribe opened his folio and read from a list, his voice growing more confident with the attention. "One chest of southern silks. One pair of matched bay geldings. A sum of five thousand gold crowns. And a deed to the eastern vineyard estate on the borderlands."
He finished and snapped the folio shut with a sense of ceremony.
A beat of silence followed.
Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a snort of laughter. Another person chuckled behind a gloved hand. The whispers were no longer subtle.
"Five thousand? For a Ducal heir?"
"The borderland vineyard? That rocky plot is practically worthless..."
"That’s less than a third son’s portion..."
"They really did just pawn him off, didn’t they?"
The cold stone in Orion’s gut turned to burning shame. He stood perfectly still, feeling every pair of eyes on him. He saw the Duke’s face on the dais, impassive, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. The Duchess had gone pale, her lips pressed into a bloodless line. This public display of his worth—or lack thereof—was an insult to them as well.
He was a cheap purchase. And everyone in the room now knew it.
Abel, beside him, had gone rigid. He didn’t understand the numbers or the lands, but he understood the tone. He heard the chuckles. He felt Orion’s hand go ice-cold in his own. He looked from the smirking faces in the crowd to Orion’s stiff, expressionless profile.
His grip tightened. The wooden horse in his other hand creaked under the pressure.
Orion finally moved. He turned to the scribe, his face a calm, empty mask. "Thank you," he said, his voice miraculously steady. "You may convey my... gratitude to my family for their thoughtful gifts. And my hope for my brother’s swift recovery."
The scribe bowed again, looking relieved his duty was done, and scurried away, leaving Orion standing in the center of the silent, judging circle, holding the hand of his husband..