Chapter 64: a Proposal Before the Seige

Word spread like wildfire.

Not just of the assassination attempt at Seamus Matteo's memorial—but of the disrespect, the blood spilled on sacred ground. The people of Puerto Cuidad, already wary of the Church of Saintess Yidali, began to turn their backs in droves.

The tide was shifting.

Weeks spilled into months. The unrest only grew. Towns once considered loyal to the Church now flew the sigil of House Matteo—black and silver banners shimmering with enchanted embroidery, a lion surrounded by arcs of flame and lightning. The House had become a paragon of rebellion, a stronghold of resistance.

And with every passing week, more refugees poured into Puerto Cuidad.

Farmers. Practitioners. Runaways. Broken families. They came from all corners of the continent, escaping inquisitors and crusaders, some limping in with burn marks and missing limbs. Elena welcomed them all with open arms.

Niegal tended to them.

Aurora fed and clothed them.

The Behike blessed them.

Hope lived here now.

But hope had another name on everyone's lips.

"When will the Viscountess marry?"

"She's grieving still, but surely—surely love will bloom again?"

"The prodigal healer and the widow warrior… oh, it's like something out of an epic!"

Whispers and poems spread across the territories, fueled by the tension between war and romance. Children sketched hearts around the names Elena & Niegal in chalk on alley walls. Recruits lined up outside the barracks, some saying plainly: "I joined because of them."

Their story became legend before it was even complete.

Behind closed doors, Niegal and Aurora spoke in hushed voices over cups of dark coffee and dusty scrolls.

"It's time," Aurora said, tapping her finger against the rim of her cup. "She deserves joy again."

Niegal looked down at his hands, scarred from years of healing, of violence, of rebuilding.

"She deserves more than joy," he replied softly. "She deserves what she was robbed of… love that lasts."

They summoned the Behike quietly.

Plans were set in motion.

A surprise, worthy of the woman who had become a symbol of justice and rebirth.

A few more weeks passed.

It had been a year and a half since Seamus Matteo's death.

The pain had dulled, but never disappeared.

It lingered like fog in the early hours, like shadow in candlelight.

Elena stood at the head of a long oak table, surrounded by delegates—military leaders, magical tacticians, and spiritual guides. Their maps were spread before them, red ink marking the final stronghold of the Church of Saintess Yidali.

Their headquarters.

Their last fortress.

"We storm it at dawn," Elena said firmly. "We take it back. For Seamus. For the fallen. For us."

When her eyes met Niegal's across the room, a slow smile curved her lips.

His silver gaze softened, crinkling at the edges. Dear heavens, he thought, what did I ever do to deserve such an amazing woman?

He waited patiently at the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame as her voice rang clear and commanding.

Ten minutes later, the meeting adjourned.

One by one, the delegates bowed and filed out, offering Niegal quiet words of reverence and respect. He responded with nods and warm handshakes, eyes never leaving Elena.

When she finally reached him, her face lit up with exhausted joy.

"We're so close!" she laughed, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Two years," she breathed, "and we're finally seeing justice!"

"Walk with me, mi señora?" he asked, offering his hand.

Elena smiled, fingers intertwining with his. "Always."

He led her through the stone halls of WindSwept Manor, past portraits of past Matteo rulers and ancient stained glass windows depicting forgotten saints.

They snuck past patrolling guards, giggling like teenagers.

"We're better at sneaking around than anyone here," Elena whispered with a smirk.

"Don't tell the Behike. She still thinks I'm dignified."

She laughed. Niegal's heart squeezed at the sound.

He dragged her behind a towering bookcase in the estate library, their favorite retreat. The scent of old parchment and mana-ink lingered in the air.

Elena wrapped her arms around his neck, her curls brushing his jaw.

His hair had fallen into his eyes, and she reached up, brushing it gently aside.

Her eyes glowed garnet in the dim light.

He stared at her; bare, beautiful, alive.

"Elena…" he whispered, voice breaking the stillness.

"What is it, love?"

He held up one finger, asking her to wait.

He fished through the inside pocket of his long coat, breath hitching.

A small blue velvet box appeared.

Elena tilted her head, brow furrowed.

"What… what's that?" she asked, laughing nervously.

He didn't answer.

He just kissed her, slow and firm, bathed in the amber light of a dying day.

Then he opened the box.

Inside lay a ring of gold and carnelian, laced with glimmering mana-stone, the inside engraved with the crest of House Matteo.

Her breath caught.

"Niegal…"

"Elena," he said, voice trembling with emotion, "I love you. Please… marry me. Be my wife." A trembling hand placed the ring on her shaking finger.

Her lips parted. Her body froze.

Her heart pounded far too loud.

Memories flooded her—Seamus' proposal, the lost wedding that never came. The dream snatched from her once. Twice. A ring. A promise. A body buried beneath war.

She opened her mouth-

BOOM

The manor shook violently.

Books toppled. Windows cracked. Screams echoed down the halls.

Niegal's head whipped toward the sound, his instincts immediately on edge.

Guards sprinted past the library door, shouting for buckets, fire lines, water.

Screams echoed in the hallways, the smell of burning wood grew sharp.

Elena and Niegal ran to the nearest window.

What they saw nearly stole their breath:

The Church of Saintess Yidali had surrounded the estate.

Cannons.

Rifles.

Archers on rooftops.

All pointed at WindSwept.

Their home.

Elena and Niegal looked at each other.

"We need to evacuate," she said, already moving.

"The tunnels," Niegal agreed. "We use the old escape routes."

The ring still glimmered on her finger, pulsing faintly with enchantment.

There would be no time for tears.

No time for regret.

Only the fire ahead-

and the shadows beneath.