“No gold fountains,” she told the planners as they hovered nervously around their sketches. “No silk carpets or diamond chandeliers.”
Their quills stuttered to a stop.
“What do you want, Your Majesty?” one asked hesitantly.
Esther looked out over the garden, where staff and volunteers hurried about. Orcs argued cheerfully with bakers about oven space. Children chased each other between the hedges. Lanterns were being strung from tree to tree.
“A wedding everyone can attend,” she said. “Food for the people. No waste. I want them to feel like they’re celebrating with us, not watching from a distance.”
Relief and confusion mingled on the planners’ faces, but they bowed and hurried away to adjust their plans.
And so they placed long wooden tables instead of gilded ones, with simple lanterns strung overhead. White cloths fluttered in the breeze. Clay cups and mismatched plates lined the surfaces, already waiting for whatever dishes the guests would bring.
Children ran barefoot between the benches.
Farmers brought their best breads and preserves.
Orcs roasted entire boars in pits at the far end of the garden, smoke curling in the air.
Knights tuned their old instruments, testing strings and valves as if their armor had always come with sheet music.
Esther watched it all come together and felt her heart swell almost painfully.
This was not the kind of wedding she had been raised to expect.
It was better.
It was hers.
“Why is there bleating?” she asked aloud.
Lyssara, standing beside her with her arms folded, sighed deeply. “Because Vorrik.”
Esther turned.
Vorrik strode into the garden like he was entering a battlefield, proudly carrying a fluffy white goat in his arms. The goat wore a flower crown and what looked suspiciously like tiny leather shoes.
“Vorrik,” Esther said slowly. “Why do you have a goat?”
He grinned, tusks flashing. “This is the wedding goat.”
The goat bleated, tried to bite his tie, and then twisted to headbutt Lyssara in the hip. The little bells on its shoes jingled with violent enthusiasm.
Lyssara hissed and rubbed her side. “If that creature touches me again, I will turn it into a very festive stew.”
“You roast my goat,” Vorrik replied gravely, “you roast a family heirloom.”
Lucy popped into view from behind a stack of pastry boxes, eyes bright with delight. “Why is it wearing shoes?”
“These are ceremonial hoof covers,” Vorrik said, scandalized.
The goat stomped, bells ringing again.
Sylva, standing a few steps away, went rigid.
“No,” he said quietly. “Absolutely not. Remove it.”
The goat rotated its head, locked eyes with Sylva, and let out a challenging bleat.
