Gavriel Sterling watched two men prepare for a wedding and understood, with the slow clarity of a knife turning, that one of them was marrying the love of his life and the other was handing him the rings.
The corridor outside the ceremonial hall was wide enough for four men to walk abreast, lined with pillars carved from white stone that caught the morning light and fractured it into geometric patterns across the floor.
Tristan Aelindor was pacing. The pacing was unnecessary, because the prince was ready and had been ready for six hours, but his body required movement the way his mouth required words, and both were operating at capacity.
Lucian Moon leaned against the opposite pillar with his arms crossed, watching the pacing with the quiet patience of a wolf who had watched this man pace many times before.
"You are going to wear a trench in the floor," Lucian said.
"The floor can handle it. The floor has handled worse."
