Cassian Vale hated paperwork.
Not with passion, but with a quiet, enduring fury. The kind that didn't reach his face, only settled into his bones like an old, unhealed wound. He would rather stand knee-deep in mud with arrows skimming past his throat than sit behind a polished desk drowning in reports, treaties, requisitions, and letters stamped with seals that weighed more than men's lives ever seemed to.
But he sat anyway.
The study was spare and disciplined, a reflection of its owner. One wall was consumed by maps—creased, scarred, bristling with pins that marked past campaigns and unresolved borders. Ledgers lay stacked with exacting precision. Orders waited for his signature: troop rotations, supply routes, patrol schedules, disciplinary rulings.
Cassian's hand moved steadily across parchment.
Vale.
Vale.
Vale.
Each stroke was controlled. Exact. Detached.
This was the work of a high-ranking official. Not a warrior, but a functionary of power. The Empire demanded not only blood and steel, but ink.
And Cassian complied. He always did.
The door opened without ceremony.
"Still alive in here, I see."
Cassian didn't look up. "You're loud for a man who claims to be a diplomat."
A laugh followed. Warm, irreverent, entirely wrong for the room.
General Lucien Marrow stepped inside, tailored uniform immaculate, insignia gleaming. Where Cassian was all sharp restraint, Lucien carried himself with ease earned through words rather than blades. Dark hair loosely tied back, eyes quick, smile forever hovering on the edge of trouble.
They had survived the academy together. That kind of bond never truly faded.
Lucien dropped into the chair opposite the desk and propped his boots up without asking.
"Gods," he said, surveying the paperwork. "I've seen mass graves that looked more inviting."
Cassian signed another document. "You're welcome to leave."
"And miss this?" Lucien gestured grandly. "The great War General buried alive by parchment? Never."
Lucien leaned forward, grin sharpening. "You know your wedding's in a week."
Cassian's pen didn't pause. "So I've been informed."
Lucien arched a brow. "That's it? No panic? No escape plan? No dramatic refusal at the altar?"
"I have duties," Cassian replied evenly. "They don't stop for ceremonies."
Lucien laughed, but the sound faded too quickly.
He studied Cassian more closely now. The stiffness. The bruises long gone but not forgotten. The way his gaze never lingered anywhere too long.
"…Cass."
Cassian looked up.
The shortened name—rare, familiar—shifted the air.
Lucien folded his hands. "What are you going to do about Seraphine?"
The question settled between them like a blade placed gently on a table.
Cassian's expression didn't change. Something behind his eyes did.
Of course Lucien knew. He always had. He'd seen it years ago. The way Cassian went quiet at her name, the way he tolerated gardens and balconies he otherwise despised, the way a man famed for brutality learned gentleness exactly once.
"She is no longer my concern," Cassian said flatly.
Lucien didn't smile.
"That's not true," he said quietly. "And you know it."
Cassian returned his attention to the parchment. "Feelings are irrelevant."
Lucien leaned in. "Cass, I've watched you carry men off battlefields with half your own blood soaking through your uniform. I've seen you hold dying soldiers like you could keep them alive by force of will."
Cassian's jaw tightened.
"You don't give yourself easily," Lucien continued. "But when you do—"
"I will handle it," Cassian cut in, voice cold and final. "The same way I handled it when Lieutenant Rowan died in my arms."
Silence fell.
"I closed my eyes," Cassian said, not looking up. "I gave the order to advance. And I never spoke his name again."
Lucien swallowed.
"That," Cassian continued calmly, "is how soldiers survive. We bury what cannot be carried forward."
Lucien stared at him, grief flickering nakedly across his face.
"…You loved her," he said softly.
Cassian said nothing.
Lucien stood, boots touching the floor at last. He adjusted his coat, the diplomat returning like armor.
"I hope," he said quietly, "that what you bury doesn't claw its way back out."
Cassian resumed signing.
Vale.
Vale.
Vale.
Outside, the Empire stood unbroken.
Inside the War General's chest, something long restrained waited. Silent, patient, unforgiving.
---
The capital woke dressed for celebration.
Banners draped marble balconies. Bells rang from dawn until noon. Nobles filled the streets in silk and polished boots, whispering with anticipation edged by envy—and unease.
The War General was to be married.
Some watched with admiration. Some with calculation. Some with quiet dread.
And some—though they never said it aloud—watched for disaster.
The hall of vows overflowed. Gold and white drapery softened ancient stone, flowers arranged in careful excess to disguise the truth: this union was not born of love, but command.
Cassian Vale stood at the altar long before anyone else arrived.
He wore ceremonial uniform instead of armor. Perfectly tailored, medals aligned, sword removed in deference to sanctity. He stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward.
He looked like a man awaiting orders.
When Marienne entered, the hall stirred.
She was radiant by every courtly measure. Pace and silk cascading like sunlight, veil embroidered with imperial sigils, smile flawless. Whispers followed her steps.
She looks victorious. She looks proud. She looks like she won.
She saw Cassian, and her smile widened... then faltered.
Because he did not look at her the way men looked at brides. He acknowledged her the way he acknowledged reinforcements: with awareness, not emotion.
She reached the altar, took her place beside him. He did not offer his arm.
The ceremony unfolded. Vows, blessings, promises of unity and legacy and the Empire's endurance. Cassian answered when prompted, voice firm, respectful, precise.
Marienne answered with warmth. With hope. With brightness that strained against the immovable presence beside her.
Then the final words.
"You may now seal this union."
Marienne turned to Cassian, heart lifting despite herself. This was the moment, the symbol. The proof.
She tilted her face upward. Waited. Cassian looked down at her.
And did nothing.
The hall held its breath. A heartbeat passed. Then another.
He did not lean forward. Did not touch her cheek. Did not kiss her lips, her brow, her hand.
He simply stood there, composed, distant and unmoving. Like a man awaiting applause at an award ceremony.
The silence stretched until it became unmistakable.
The priest shifted, and cleared his throat. Moved on, voice strained, declaring the union complete.
Polite applause followed. Too polite. Too careful.
Marienne's cheeks burned beneath her veil, but she smiled. She always smiled. She told herself this meant nothing. That affection came later. That Cassian was simply reserved.
The celebration continued.
Cassian fulfilled every obligation: standing beside her, accepting congratulations, bowing to the Emperor.
But he never touched her. Never leaned close. Never whispered. Never smiled.
By night's end, whispers followed Marienne like shadows.
"He didn't even kiss her."
"He looked like he was being decorated for service."
Some pitied her. Quietly. Some laughed—soft and cruel, behind fans and goblets.
Cassian left the hall without looking back.
He did not search for Seraphine. He did not search for anyone.
Marienne did not yet know it but as the bells rang and the Empire celebrated, her marriage had already begun exactly as it would continue.
Dull. Loveless. And watched by a world that would never let her forget it.