More than a hundred aristocrats arrayed in silk and glittering diadems crowded the western terrace of the Sun Temple. Emissaries from every city stood with the members of her court. They all turned to witness her entrance as the orchestra began to play. Queen Byleth allowed herself a small sigh.

Yes, look upon me, you vermin. I am Byleth, the last queen of the et'Urdrammor dynasty, delivered into the hands of my enemies.

She had spent the entire day being bathed, dressed, and made up. She wore the traditional bridal gown in gold silk and damask. Her hair was pinned up and festooned with a fortune in jewels. She might look like a goddess, but inside she felt like the biggest fool in the empire. She should have heeded Astaptah's advice. She should have removed the Sun Cult from the city long ago when she had the chance, but she had chosen the path of patience, hoping to wait them out. Tomorrow, Erugash would belong to the priests in all but name. She had failed herself and her people.

She almost wished Lord Astaptah were here now. A smile spread across her lips as she imagined the scene he would create, with the priests struggling between their opposing desires to see her wed off as soon as possible and putting her apostate vizier to a gruesome death. However, she had met with him this morning before the sun rose. He hadn't said much as she gave her final instructions. Whatever happened to her, she would not allow the storm engine to fall into the priesthood's hands. With much regret, she had commanded Astaptah to dismantle his life's work and destroy all records of its existence. He had taken the news in silence and then departed her chambers for the last time. Theirs had been an odd relationship, tempestuous at times, but at the end she had to concede that he had been one of her most loyal servants. She did not envy his chances for survival once her new husband sat on the throne.

As custom demanded, she arrived first to the altar with her train of attendants. Xantu stood beside her in the place of her ceremonial father, wearing a stern expression, but she knew him well enough to see the anxiety in the way he stood, the way he looked about, as if searching for an assassin.

There will be no need for assassins after this night, my protector. After tonight, I am merely the wife of a king.

Thousands of citizens filled the temple grounds beneath the terrace. Their voices rose like a wave of sound as she arrived. Byleth smiled back at them despite her fears. They were still her people for this moment, and she had loved them all her life. It had been a day much like today fifteen years ago when her father had introduced her to the city at her official “arrival” ceremony. Her throat tightened as she recalled walking out on the lower balcony of the unfinished palace for the first time, and the sea of faces staring up at her.

I was overwhelmed that day, and today my people remind me that I love them still, more than ever. Please forgive me.

Four priests of the Sun Lord entered behind her, led by Kadamun. The high priest looked like he had aged ten years since the last time she'd seen him. His back bent almost into a shepherd's crook, the skin of his bald head wrinkled and pale, tattoos faded. Menarch Rimesh followed him with two acolytes. Byleth glared at the envoy with every ounce of loathing inside her, which was substantial. His face was perfectly neutral, but she could imagine his smugness. He had beaten her. This wasn't her special day; it was his. The day he would make a queen of the blood grovel before the entire world. The zoana bubbled up inside her, wanting an outlet, and she was sorely tempted to unleash it. It wouldn't do her a bit of good, not with a dozen hounds of the Order seeded among the honored guests, ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

Everyone turned as Tatannu stepped onto the terrace. The prince of Nisus was resplendent in a coat of silver scales that shimmered like snakeskin in the failing daylight. Gold adorned the sword at his side, his fingers, and the large sunburst medallion hanging from his neck.

How touching that he wears the favor of his true love over his heart. I wonder if he will pray before he attempts to consummate our union. Or perhaps during?

Behind her groom marched an honor guard of famed Nisusi White Sphinxes, soldiers of fearsome reputation for both their skill at arms and unwavering loyalty. Statuettes of their mythological namesake perched on the crests of their tall helms.

The last members of the entourage were more priests, one from every faith as was also traditional in a marriage of such high status. The final members, votaries of Nabu the Keeper of Ancient Knowledge, closed the doors behind them as they entered. With deep voices chanting in unison, they pronounced the portals sealed. No one would be allowed to enter or leave until the ceremony was complete.

While Byleth eyed the doors with a powerful desire to be on the other side, the prince came to stand beside her wearing a small smile, and her heart sunk. His wasn't a smile of happiness or even of anticipated post-nuptial bliss; it was the self-satisfied smirk of a cat about to swallow the bird it had caught. The absurdity of the situation weighed down on her. She was standing in her own city, facing a man so much weaker in the zoana that she could kill him without much difficulty if she tried, but once their lives were joined in marriage, he would become her lord and master. She would be trapped for the rest of her life, which she presumed would be cut short unless she came up with some scheme. Pregnancy was the first thing to come to mind. Few men, especially those of the zoanii class, would willingly give up the chance to have a legitimate son. If she conceived right away, that could buy her nine months. And by the time she delivered—Kishar, make it a son—she was confident she could have the prince wrapped around her finger. She had ensnared far more willful men into her web.

Although the savage proved immune to your charms, didn't he?

Thinking of Horace evoked a warm rush of feelings. She'd thought he would be her salvation, but he had disappeared along with Lord Mulcibar, just like every other man in her life.

Father, why did it have to be this way?

Rimesh cleared his throat. High Priest Kadamun lifted a hand slowly to the height of his chest. His fingers shook a little as he intoned the blessing of the Sun Lord, which Byleth automatically repeated as she had at so many rites before.

“Homage to thee, O Lord of Light. He who sails across the sky, blessing all the world with His warmth. Watch over us, Great Lord…”

Even as the words fell listlessly from her lips, Byleth felt her spirit—her qa—shrivel up. Her legs began to tremble as she saw a glimpse of her future extending before her, an endless landscape of scheming and deceit punctuated by moments of mortal terror until the day she was quietly dispatched. Her chest began to ache as she had to fight for each breath. She blinked and caught herself before she tumbled against the altar. She glanced up, ashamed at this sudden weakness, but no one else seemed to have noticed. Tatannu was piously reciting the prayers in response to the high priest's droning. Rimesh watched the crowd, oblivious to her.

I'm just a prop. I could collapse on the floor and I doubt old Kadamun would even break cadence.

Byleth put out a hand to steady herself and found herself thrown against the hard granite altar block. The air rushed from her lungs in a painful gasp as a burning heat saturated her back through the thin material of her gown. She tapped into her zoana and raised a ward of hardened air around herself as she twisted around. Where the doors to the temple had stood, now only an empty space remained. Their smoldering remains sagged on broken hinges amid a cloud of smoke. The stench of sorcery laced the air. Those witnesses who had not been knocked flat by the blast were quickly hurrying away from the sundered entry.

Shouts rang through the chamber as something flew through the smoke and landed on the terrace floor. It was a person wrapped in black rags. Byleth steadied herself as she peered closer. No, not black rags. Deep crimson robes like those worn by the men of the Order, seared nearly to charcoal.

Her heart almost stopped as a tall figure stepped through the broken doorway, wisps of smoke curling around his shoulders.