Chapter 156  Lysa and Rowan’s Wedding

The garden looked so beautiful.

White flowers draped every surface; the arch, the chairs, the fountain’s edge. The morning light caught the dew on the petals, making them sparkle like scattered diamonds. Rows of wooden chairs faced a simple arch wound with ivy and jasmine, their sweet scent mingling with the freshness of spring. The guests were few: friends, family, those who mattered most. No nobles, no council members, no political agendas. Just people who loved Lysa and Rowan.

Seren stood at the front, wearing a dress of pale blue that matched the morning sky. Her hair was loose. She was Lysa’s witness. Across from her, Iris stood stiffly in a dark green gown, her arm still in a sling from her broken wrist. Her dark hair had been braided with white ribbons. She was Rowan’s witness.

Between them, the officiant waited; an elderly wolf with silver hair and kind eyes, who had married generations of palace couples.

The music began.

Not the grand orchestral pieces of royal weddings. A single fiddle, playing a melody that Lysa had hummed to herself for years. Simple. Honest. Perfect.

Lysa walked down the aisle alone.

No father to give her away. No mother to weep in the front row. Just her, in a simple white dress, her hair simply brushed loose, falling behind her back, her hands trembling around a bouquet of wildflowers; daisies and lavender and small white blossoms she had picked from the garden that morning.

Rowan watched her approach. His uniform was immaculate, his medals polished to a gleam. His dark hair had been trimmed. His boots shone. But his eyes—his eyes were wet.

“You’re crying,” Lysa whispered when she reached him.

“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”

“It’s spring.”

“Exactly.” He blinked rapidly. “There’s pollen everywhere. Very aggressive pollen.”

She laughed. The sound was bright, unguarded, nothing like the careful laughter she had learned in the servant quarters. He took her hands. His fingers were warm, steady.

“I’m not crying either,” she said.

“Your eyes are wet.”

“Pollen.”

“Very aggressive pollen.”

Iris made a gagging noise from the side. “Can we get on with it? Before they start writing poetry?”

The ceremony was simple.

The officiant spoke of love and commitment, of choosing each other every day, of building a life together. His voice was soft, unhurried, allowing the words to settle into the hearts of those gathered.

Lysa and Rowan exchanged vows—short, honest, imperfect. They had written them together the night before, sitting on the stone bench by the fountain, crossing out lines and adding new ones until the page was nearly illegible.

“I promise to be patient,” Lysa said. “Even when you leave your boots in the middle of the floor. Even when you come home covered in mud and track it across the carpets. Even when you forget that we have plans because you were too focused on training.”

“I promise to remember that you’re not my mother,” Rowan said. “Even when you remind me to eat, and to sleep, and to wear a coat when it’s cold. Even when you’re right about all of those things.”

“I promise to let you win arguments. Sometimes. When I’m feeling generous. Or when I’m too tired to fight.”

“I promise to admit when I’m wrong. Rarely. But occasionally. When the moon is full and the stars align and you’re looking at me with those eyes.”

The guests laughed. Iris rolled her eyes so hard her whole head moved.

Then came the binding.

A cord of braided silver thread was brought forward—woven from strands of wolf fur and human hair, blended together. Rowan had contributed fur from his winter coat. Lysa had cut a small lock from her own head. The officiant wrapped the cord around their joined hands. Three times.

The first time, for the past. The memories that had shaped them. The grief that had hardened them. The wounds that had taught them.

The second time, for the present. The choice they were making. The life they were building. The love they were declaring.

The third time, for the future. The years ahead. The challenges waiting. The joy they would share.

“By this binding, you are joined,” the officiant said. “Not as captives, but as partners. Not as owners, but as equals. Not because you must be, but because you choose to be.”

Rowan turned to Lysa. His eyes were no longer pretending about allergies.

“May I kiss you?”

“You’d better.”

He kissed her.

Iris made a gagging noise. “Get a room.”

Seren laughed. The garden erupted in applause.

The reception was small.

A table of food. A barrel of ale. A single fiddle player who knew three songs and played them with enthusiasm. Guests mingled, toasted, and told stories.

Seren stood with a glass of wine, waiting for her moment.

“Speech!” someone called. “Speech from the queen!”

Seren stepped onto a low stone bench.

“I’ve known Lysa for a long time,” she began. “Before she was an attendant. Before she was a lady. Before she was anything except a girl with flour on her apron who was hiding from the kitchen master.”

Lysa’s eyes glistened.

“I was hiding too. Invisible. Afraid. We found each other in the shadows, and we decided not to be alone anymore.”

Seren looked at Rowan.

“Love finds us in unexpected places. Across impossible divides. Between species. Between stations. Between grief and hope.”

She raised her glass.

“Lysa taught me that courage is not about being unafraid. It’s about being afraid and staying anyway. Rowan taught me that healing is not about forgetting. It’s about remembering and choosing to live.”

She looked at Iris.

“And Iris taught me that family is not about blood. It’s about showing up. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

She smiled.

“To Lysa and Rowan. May your arguments be short, your patience long, and your love stronger than fear.”

Everyone drank.

Lysa was crying. Rowan was blinking rapidly. Iris rolled her eyes—but she was smiling.

After the reception, Seren found Lysa alone by the fountain.

The guests were dancing. The fiddle player had moved on to a fourth song, which he was making up as he went.

“You’re not dancing,” Seren said.

“I’m hiding. Same thing.”

Seren sat beside her. “Happy?”

Lysa looked at the ring on her finger. The blue stone caught the light.

“Terrified. Happy. Both.”

“That’s marriage.”

“That’s what Rowan said.”

“He’s a smart man.”

“He’s an idiot. But he’s my idiot.” Lysa leaned against Seren. “Thank you. For being here. For being my witness. For being my friend when I had nothing.”

“You never had nothing. You had me.”

Lysa’s tears spilled over. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Now go dance with your husband.”

Lysa laughed and stood.

She walked back to the reception, where Rowan was waiting.

Iris approached Seren as the sun set.

“You gave a good speech,” Iris said.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“I know.”

Iris was silent for a moment. Then said: “Lysa is not my mother.”

“No. She’s not.”

“But she’s not terrible.”

Seren smiled. “That’s high praise.”

“Don’t tell her I said that.”

“Your secret is safe.”

Iris nodded and walked away, her head high, her shoulders straight.

The last set of guests left at midnight.

Lysa and Rowan stood at the garden gate, hand in hand. Iris had already gone to bed, muttering about emotional exhaustion.

“Mrs. Rowan,” Seren said, testing the name.

“Lysa. Just Lysa.”

“You’re a captain’s wife now.”

“I’m a human woman who married a wolf. That’s enough titles for me.”

Rowan kissed her forehead. “Ready to go home?”

“I’m already home.”

They walked into the palace together.

Seren watched them go.

Two people who had found each other.