The vows hold. The binding runes flare gold, then settle into the altar stone with a deep harmonic hum that vibrates through the ground and up through the soles of my dress shoes. Authentic. Permanent. The kind of magical contract that would take a tribunal of seven arch-mages to dissolve. Mark's cheap ward-breaker wouldn't have stood a chance against this once sealed, but sealed is the key word. Magnolia stopped him at the only moment that mattered.
The bride cries. The groom cries. Several aunts cry. The gnome groundskeeper blows his nose into a postage stamp-sized handkerchief.
I do not cry.
I stand at the end of the front row with my arms clasped behind my back as Magnolia's sister gets married. The tuxedo jacket still drowns her. Her hair has dried in stiff, fountain-water curls that stick out at angles no stylist intended. The mascara has settled into permanent dark smudges under both eyes. The torn bridesmaid dress peeks out beneath my jacket hem like a wounded animal hiding under a blanket.
She is smiling so hard her cheeks must ache.
The reception relocates to the club's grand ballroom. Crystal chandeliers. Enchanted ceiling that mirrors the evening sky, stars already pricking through deepening violet. Round tables draped in white linen. The cake, our cake, the one we built from ash and sweat and broadsword-chopped chocolate, sits on a raised platform near the head table. Four rustic tiers. Fresh berries cascading down each layer. Buttercream rosettes that I piped myself with hands that have crushed skulls.
It's beautiful.
I take a position near the south wall. Optimal sightlines. Two exits within fifteen paces. A decorative suit of Elven ceremonialarmor stands to my left. Useless in actual combat, the joints are welded shut for display, but the halberd is real enough. I note its position. Old habits.
Magnolia circulates. She has changed into a backup dress, something soft and green that cinches at her waist and flares at her knees. Someone, possibly the bride, forced her to redo her makeup. Fresh face. Clean lines. The flour-dusted, fountain-soaked, fire-fighting baker has been polished back into a respectable wedding guest.
The family descends on her.
I track every interaction from my wall. Shoulders back. Hands clasped. Observing.
An uncle with a gray mustache and a bourbon grip reaches her first. He claps her on the shoulder. Hard. The kind of shoulder clap men deliver when they want to communicate physical respect without using words. Magnolia staggers slightly. Grins. The uncle says something. His hands move in a wide, sweeping gesture. He is clearly reenacting her fountain tackle. His bourbon sloshes over the rim of his glass. He doesn't notice.
A cluster of cousins surrounds her next. Three women, mid-twenties to early thirties, all talking at once. Their hands flutter. One of them grabs Magnolia's right arm and holds it up like a boxing referee declaring a winner. Magnolia's face goes red. She tries to pull her arm down. The cousin holds firm. Another cousin flexes her own bicep and points at Magnolia's, eyebrows raised in genuine inquiry.
Magnolia laughs. Flexes. The cousins erupt.
The grandmother arrives. Tiny. Birdlike. A pearl choker around a neck like a turkey's. She cups Magnolia's face in both spotted hands and says something directly into her mouth from four inches away, the way only grandmothers operate.
The grandmother toddles away toward the cake. Then a male approaches. Sandy hair. Weak chin. The groom's friend. Craig. The ex-boyfriend.
My muscles lock. I prepare to close the distance, but Magnolia holds up a hand, stopping him in his tracks.
Craig attempts a placating smile. He says something low, gesturing to himself and then to her, his posture screaming apology and entitlement.
Magnolia doesn't flinch. She doesn't flush. She looks at him with the flat, unbothered expression of a woman inspecting a stale loaf of bread. She speaks one short sentence, gives a dismissive wave of her hand, and turns her back on him completely.
Craig's mouth drops open. He stands frozen, entirely neutralized without me lifting a finger, before retreating into the crowd.
I catalog this. The emotional threat level: zero.
The mother.
She approaches from Magnolia's blind side. Magnolia turns and goes rigid. The two women face each other across eighteen inches of charged air. The mother's arms stay crossed. Her jaw works. Something passes between them that I cannot read from this distance. Silent. Compressed. Decades of pressure packed into a single look.
Then the mother's arms uncross.
She reaches out and straightens the strap of Magnolia's green dress. A small, precise adjustment. Functional. Her fingers linger on the fabric for one extra second before withdrawing.
Magnolia's chin wobbles. Once.
The mother turns away. Walks toward the bar. Does not look back.
But the strap is straight.
I catalog this. File it alongside her laugh, her flour-dusted cheek, the way she grabbed my suspenders with both fists and dragged me down. Information I have no professional use for. Data points that serve no tactical purpose. Intelligence that my contract does not require me to gather, retain, or act upon.
I push off the wall.
