Enzo walked out like he owned the stage. He moved the way he did when a witness was about to crumble—slow, collected, his patience weaponized. The armor he wore wasn’t foam, but lookedreal. The Silver Creed’s crest gleamed on his breastplate. A sword hung peace-bonded at his hip. He wore it like he’d been born wearing it. Even the stage lights seemed to bow around him, haloing the edges of his armor in molten gold.
Had they dressed him, or had he had the costume made?
Dressed like this, hewasSer Thalos, the fan-art version made by artists in love, not the showroom model built on deadline by an overworked game developer. A perfect, ridiculous knight.
The crowd screamed. Seven did, too, but silently. Ever’s shriek cut through the top end of human hearing. Seven’s knees went weak. The stage tilted, and the world narrowed to a circle of light and the sound of his own heartbeat.
Enzo stopped a foot away from him, a smirk on his face as he went down on one knee.
Rowan Thorn Vale—Seven—forgot how to breathe. “What are you doing?” he wheezed under his breath.
The helmet shadowed Enzo’s eyes, but Seven could tell by the minute downturn at the corner of his mouth that he was fighting a smile. There was a mic attached to his costume, but when he spoke, it wasn’t Enzo’s closing argument voice. It was a cadence built under an oak older than entire kingdoms.
It was Ser Thalos.
“Rowan Thorn Vale of the Greenwood,” he began, “forged by winter, taught mercy by wolves. You hunted beside me when I was only a selfish blade, and you turned me from the worst of myself more times than the gods kept count.”
Seven’s throat tightened, his eyes stinging as he swallowed audibly. His pulse tripped over itself, drumming against the underside of his jaw. These words weren’t new. He’d heard them countless times, just never filtered through Enzo’s voice. He’d heard them as Rowan Thorn Vale, but never directed at him. Never as Seven.
Nico gasped somewhere beside him. “Oh, my God.”
“I have stood upon walls the moon once claimed,” Enzo went on, every word shamelessly over the top and perfect, “and sworn a hundred oaths that meant nothing because I did not know the shape of the one I needed. Here it is: your hand in mine; your shadow beside mine at dawn; your name in my mouth when the dark is loud.”
A sob rose from the mezzanine, and Seven blinked hard, his vision blurring, the stage lights smearing gold across the edge of his lashes.
“I was not a good man when I first took a blade for a creed,” Enzo continued. “I was a weapon others pointed. You”—his head tipped and he looked up—“made a man out of me.”
The Thalos actor stood near, smiling out at the crowd. “I think we’re missing something.”
He lifted a hand toward the mezzanine, and the lights chased his gesture. The camera followed. The audience turned as one and watched as two processions started down the side stairs, one on the left and one on the right.
As the faces sharpened under the light, recognition hit Seven like a lightning strike. Their families were here. All of them. His mom. Enzo’s Uncle Rocco. No,allof the Contis. Everyone. Jericho and Atticus. The entire Mulvaney clan. All there. All for them.
The air thickened with perfume, cologne, and the faint sweetness of popcorn and disbelief. His chest felt too small for his heart.
What is happening right now?
They came to the front row, but didn’t try to climb the stage; they just stood there, mouths pressed together, their mothers clinging to each other, both fighting tears. The sound that rolled through the hall was the purest “awww” Seven had ever endured.
Enzo’s gauntlet creaked as he reached under his cuisses and drew out a ring. It was understated, silver, and engraved with two crossed arrows and a tiny knight’s helm, which were only visible if you knew to look.
The lights caught on it as he lifted it for the camera. His hand shook. Enzo—the man who rarely even blinked—trembled. The sight gutted Seven. Enzo never shook. Not in court, not in bed, not even when the world seemed to come apart.
“In this world and any other,” he said, still fully in character, “I lay down my blade and my breath at your feet. If you will have me, I vow my strength, my counsel, my name, my home—such as it is and will be—to you and to the Greenwood we carry between us. What I have I will share. What I lack I will learn. I will be your shield where there are arrows and your calm where there is storm. I would be your husband, if you will have me.”
Air stung the back of Seven’s throat, sharp with tears, and something unlocked in him. Not a door; he’d lived in this house a while. A window? A skylight, maybe. Because light fell where it hadn’t before. He burst into tears, grateful when someone thrust a handkerchief—clean, thank God—into his hand to wipe his face.
“Yes,” he managed. The mic carried his voice to the rafters. “Yes.”
As Enzo slid the ring onto Seven’s finger, noise erupted around them. Ever screamed into Arsen’s shoulder. Shiloh made a strangled, delighted sound and clapped both hands over his mouth. Glitter rained down along the stage. Security glared at the audience, but Thomas whispered something to them that had their shoulders going lax. Probably an offer to write a check.
The Thalos actor clapped Enzo’s shoulder. “That,” he told the room, “is a natural twenty on persuasion.”
Backstage turned the roar into a hum as Enzo led Seven into a narrow corridor and around a stack of road cases. Enzo removed his helmet, setting it beside them, then lifted both hands to Seven’s face. His thumbs slid to Seven’s jaw. “Hi,” he said.
The word cracked the spell on Seven and sealed it at the same time. A hello and a promise in one syllable.
“Hi,” he whispered back. The word felt small and insufficient.
