There lay the wedding bouquet on the floor. Now trampled, withered, a symbol of ruined innocence. He stopped. He looked at the bouquet, and a faint smile flickered beneath his mask.
At that moment, something broke in the hall. The initial shock of Friedrich's fall evaporated, replaced by something older, darker, and far more dangerous. Their pride had returned. They were Architects. They were von Riese. Rulers who had shaped the world to their will for centuries. The idea that they should bow to a single man—no matter how powerful he seemed—was unbearable to their egos.
"He is alone!" flashed through the crowd like an electrical discharge. The thought spread through glances, gestures, quickened breaths. They realized the brutal, simple mathematics of the situation. His silence might have taken their spells, his mask might have taken their courage, but he had not taken their hands. He had not taken their muscles. And above all, he had not taken their crushing numerical superiority. They were a pack of wolves realizing that the lion in the center of the ring, though strong, was burdened with prey.
Their faces twisted into masks of hatred and offended supremacy. If they couldn't burn him with magic, they would trample him. They would tear him to pieces. They grabbed whatever was at hand. One of the uncles hefted a heavy, massive silver candelabra, hot wax still dripping from it. Others broke the wooden armrests of the pews to make blunt clubs. Younger men gathered sharp shards from the broken vases and fragments of ice left over from Friedrich's barrier, gripping them in their palms like daggers until they bled. They drew ceremonial swords, which, though blunt and meant only for decoration, turned into deadly iron in the hands of an enraged mob.
They were like a tidal wave—loud, chaotic, and deadly—driven by a single thought: to destroy the one who had dared humiliate them. They lunged at him with a fanatical determination to devour him.
The man didn't even turn around. He merely tilted his head slightly toward the bouquet.
In that second, the lights went out. Every candle, every chandelier, every single glimmer of light in the hall died in an instant. An absolute, tangible darkness fell.
And into that darkness, the bouquet on the floor exploded with life. It was a pure, aggressive whiteness. Brilliant white tendrils shot forth from the bouquet. Pure, pearlescent thorns that glowed with their own inner light. They grew at an unimaginable speed, cracking the paving stones, tearing the carpets. They spread in all directions like an avalanche, creating an impenetrable rampart between him and the attackers.
Hell broke loose in the hall. People screamed.
The white thorns filled the aisles. They formed a labyrinth of death. In their panic, people crashed into each other, trampled one another. They smashed into pillars, cracking their heads. They barreled into the white bushes, the thorns tearing their expensive gowns and their skin. "Move! Move!" "Help me!" "God, it's growing! It's growing everywhere!"
It was a picture of perfect ruin. The elite of the nation, powerful mages, had been reduced to a terrified herd of animals fighting to escape in the dark, while the white bushes mercilessly barricaded the exits and the paths to the altar.
And Viktor? Viktor moved through that chaos with absolute, machine-like certainty. He walked through the dark as if it didn't exist for him. Ema pressed herself against him.
He dodged left exactly a second before a massive chandelier crashed down, its chain severed by a growing tendril. The chandelier shattered on the floor a meter away from him, shards flying through the air, but they didn't touch Viktor. He turned right into a narrow aisle between the pews that no one else could see in the dark. A man ran past him, screaming in terror, hands over his head. He missed Viktor by centimeters without even noticing him. Viktor merely angled his shoulder slightly to protect Ema. He moved with the grace of a dancer in a minefield. As if someone were whispering coordinates into his ear. Three steps forward. Now left. Watch out, pillar. Two steps right. His movements were fluid, economical, perfect. He was an island of calm in an ocean of madness.
Viktor, with Ema in his arms, left the main hall, but that was only the first step. Before him opened a labyrinth of corridors that had transformed into arteries of pure panic. The space roared with noise. This wasn't the silence of the hall; a deafening human roar reigned here. The corridors were flooded with people. Two wild, opposing currents had formed. One consisted of terrified guests fleeing away from the hall, colliding and trampling each other in an effort to reach the exit. The second current was smaller, but all the more dangerous—the castle guard and latecoming Architects running toward the hall, drawn by the noise and duty, with hands on sword hilts or spells at the ready.
Viktor moved through this human surge like a phantom. He didn't run blindly. Every step was calculated, as if he possessed a detailed mental map of every person's movement in the building. He ducked into an alcove exactly a second before a group of heavily armored guards rushed past, their armor clattering to the rhythm of their run. When a crowd of screaming maids surged toward him, he didn't stop; he fluidly changed direction, slipping through a narrow gap between the wall and the running bodies without touching anyone. He was like a rock in a river—the water flowed around him, but he remained impassive, dry, unstoppable. Ema clung to his chest, her face hidden in his coat, shielded from the elbows and impacts of the surrounding world. Viktor carried her as if she weighed nothing, his arms firm and steady, even as a storm raged around them.
He turned into an inconspicuous, narrow servants' corridor that most guests didn't even know existed. The noise of the main uproar was instantly muffled to a distant rumble. Here he encountered a pair of guards looking confusedly toward the noise. Viktor didn't slow down. He used the shadows and the element of surprise. He walked past them right as one turned to the other with a question on his lips. Before the guards realized a masked man carrying the bride had just walked by, Viktor was already around the corner, vanishing down a spiral staircase.
He reached the heavy oak doors of the servants' entrance. He kicked the ironwork, the lock gave way, and Viktor stepped outside.
But instead of a bright, sunny morning, something ominous welcomed them.