The drummers are setting up their instruments, massive things that look like they could double as small boats, while Father McKenna hovers nearby, clutching his rosary and muttering what I hope are prayers rather than profanity.
"It's going to be beautiful," my mom says, though she's eyeing the war drums with visible concern.
"It's going to be loud," Elena corrects, but she's grinning.
Getting ready takes twice as long as planned because every orcish female relative wants to contribute something to my appearance. Ursa braids tiny bells into my hair "for good fortune." Cousin Greta insists on painting traditional blessing symbols on my wrists in washable gold paint. Great-grandmother Urka, who must be pushing ninety and moves with the careful dignity of an oak tree, gifts me a necklace of carved jade that's apparently been in the family for three centuries.
"You are pack now," she tells me in heavily accented English, cupping my face in hands the size of dinner plates. "Irontongue women strong. We protect our own."
I might cry and ruin my makeup, but it would be worth it.
The ceremony itself is an experience.
Half the cathedral is filled with my family and friends of normal-sized humans in their Sunday best, chatting quietly and checking their phones. The other half contains what looks like a small army of orcs in formal wear, their deep voices creating a constant rumble of conversation that makes the stone walls vibrate.
When the processional music starts, a carefully negotiated blend of traditional organ and ceremonial drums. The sound is magnificent and slightly terrifying. I feel it in my chest, in my bones, in the soles of my feet.
Then the doors open, and I see Ursak waiting at the altar.
He's magnificent in his tuxedo, the clan colors making his eyes impossibly green, but it's the expression on his face that takes my breath away. Pure joy mixed with wonder, like he can't quite believe this is really happening.
Neither can I, honestly.
The walk down the aisle feels eternal and far too short all at once. The orcish guests begin a low, rhythmic chant as I pass, some kind of traditional blessing, according to Ursa, and the human side rustles with nervous appreciation.
Then I'm standing beside him, and nothing else matters.
The ceremony is beautiful, if unconventional. Father McKenna manages to incorporate several orcish traditions into the Catholic liturgy, including a blessing that involves us drinking from a shared cup of something that tastes like liquid campfire but apparently symbolizes the joining of two clans.
"Do you, Maya Ruiz, take this orc to be your husband?"
This orc.I catch Ursak's eye and see him fighting laughter at the phrasing.
"I do."
"And do you, Ursak Irontongue, take this human to be your wife?"
"With all my heart," he says, and his voice carries to the back of the cathedral without amplification.
The kiss is accompanied by thunderous cheering from the orcish side and polite applause from the humans. Also, apparently, ceremonial horn blowing, which makes several elderly relatives jump.
But we're married. We're actually, officially, legally married.
The reception is held at the downtown convention center because literally nowhere else could accommodate our guest list and dietary requirements. The space is transformed with more of those elegant green and gold decorations, round tables that can actually support orcish weight, and a dance floor large enough for traditional clan celebrations.
Everything goes smoothly until the cake cutting.
The wedding cake is a masterpiece of four tiers of ivory fondant decorated with sugar flowers and delicate gold piping. It's positioned on a table at the center of the room, surrounded by smaller dessert tables laden with both human treats and orcish traditional sweets.
We're posing for photos, my hand over Ursak's on the cake knife, when cousin Grok attempts to navigate between two tables while carrying three plates of appetizers and a tankard of ale.
Time slows as I watch it happen. Grok's hip catches the edge of the cake table. The beautiful, expensive, four-tier masterpiece wobbles. Tilts. Begins its inevitable journey toward the floor.
"No!" I shriek, lunging forward uselessly.
But Ursak moves like lightning. One enormous hand shoots out and catches the entire cake mid-fall, four tiers and all, balancing it on his palm like it weighs nothing.
The room goes dead silent.
