A week had passed since the dimensional tear was sealed, and the remnants of Elder Elias’s corrupted power had been scrubbed from Wyvern’s Keep. The immediate danger was gone, replaced by the profound, exhausted calm of victory. Yet, Kian and Amelia were intent on ensuring that calm didn’t become stagnation. They needed a celebration, a definitive marker that the darkness was truly vanquished and the future was secure.
The perfect catalyst was the rushed, raw commitment Gareth, the newly appointed Beta of the unified Pack, had made to Myra, the Healer who had saved his life one time too many. Gareth’s proposal, delivered amid the rubble of the main courtyard, was less poetry and more an Alpha-honored command: “Marry me. Now. I need to know you’re mine before I face another fight without a ring on your finger.”
Myra, the sturdy, practical Witch, had simply laughed, a sound so bright and unexpected it chased the last shadow from the Keep, and accepted.
Now, the Keep’s Great Hall—the same room that had housed an army of shadows only days ago—was transformed into a makeshift wedding planning office, a swirling vortex of clashing traditions and stressed-out Pack members.
At the center of the room, presiding over the glorious chaos, was Amelia.
She was magnificent, and utterly enormous. At nearly thirty-nine weeks pregnant with triplets, she had transcended ‘pregnant’ and moved into a new, architectural state of being. Her usually sharp, athletic form was plump and rounded everywhere—her cheeks, her upper arms, and especially her abdomen, which strained the limits of her shift dress and seemed to defy gravity.
Her feet were the true martyrs. They were so visibly swollen that her slippers had been cut open, and Kian kept a low stool nearby, constantly on duty to elevate and massage them. The swelling extended to her hands and fingers, making it impossible to wear her engagement ring, a detail that bothered her far more than the pain. She complained constantly, loudly, and with dramatic flourish about the discomfort, but her inner Fae light was burning brighter than ever.
“Roric, I appreciate your zeal, but we are not roasting a whole ox,” Amelia dictated, fanning her flushed face with a piece of parchment. Kian gently dabbed her brow with a cool cloth. “This is a joining of a Morvane and a Witch. The feast needs elegance and magic, not just brute calorie intake.”
Roric, massive and intimidating, looked utterly defeated by the term ‘elegance.’ “But Luna, the ritual requires a shared hunt and a communal meal. An ox is tradition!”
“Tradition is why you almost died last week, my Beta,” Myra said dryly, sorting through a pile of rare healing herbs near a stone hearth. She was trying to look composed, but her eyes, bright with nervous excitement, kept flicking to Gareth, who was arguing with Maeve about the seating arrangements.
“Myra is right,” Amelia declared, leaning heavily into Kian. “We will compromise. Gareth is a Morvane, but Myra is a Daughter of the Earth. We need a binding spell, not a brawl. We will have a feast, but Maeve, you will coordinate with Myra’s small Coven contacts—no more than three, no one who served Elias—to infuse the food with protective and prosperity runes.”
Maeve, the Pack’s most formidable organizer, nodded, her notebook already filling with bullet points. “Infusions, glamour, and runes. Got it. And the cake must have silver and emerald tiers. For the Wolf and the Wild.”
The biggest challenge, however, was the attire. Morvane ceremonies were usually performed in ritual leathers and minimal ornamentation. Witch ceremonies required gowns woven from natural materials. The dress needed to honor both.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this while looking like a beached whale, but a Luna must enforce taste,” Amelia sighed, waving Kian away from her feet. “Bring the material, Myra. We will use glamour.”
Kian watched as Amelia, despite the visible effort it took, positioned herself carefully in a chair piled high with cushions. Myra brought out a simple bolt of fabric—a heavy linen, earthy in tone.
“I want the silver of the Blood Moon and the emerald of your Coven, but nothing bulky,” Myra explained, her voice tight with anticipation. “I need to move. I need to still feel like I could run if the Keep catches fire.”
Amelia’s eyes softened. She understood. The Alpha Luna also needed to feel strong, even when her body was betraying her. She took a deep, shuddering breath, focusing not on the ache in her swollen palms but on the thread of Fae power still accessible inside her. It was harder now; the triplets required so much internal focus, and the effort of holding the glamour felt like lifting heavy weights.
She slowly extended her hands, focusing her energy onto the linen. A faint, golden light, shot through with the stabilizing crimson of the Blood Moon, washed over the fabric. The rough linen softened, transforming in texture until it shone with a subtle, flowing sheen. Then, carefully, she began to weave the colors.
The main structure turned a deep, flowing emerald, the color of ancient forest life, while the trim and details—the cuffs, the neckline, the belt—turned the molten, liquid silver of the Moon. The dress shifted and flowed on the bolt, forming an elegant, tailored shape, feminine yet practical.
“It honors your power, Myra,” Amelia whispered, the effort making her voice tremble. Kian was instantly at her side, steadying her.
Myra gasped, reaching out to touch the newly glamoured material. “Amelia, that’s… that’s perfection.”
“Now it’s up to Maeve’s seamstresses. And you,” Amelia said, dismissing the glamour and leaning back, completely spent. “The dress is done. Now, the marriage certificate. Gareth, you and Roric need to sign the decree of Matrimonial Binding before sunset tomorrow. Legal, magical, and Pack-sanctioned.”
Gareth grinned, his face scarred but whole. “Done, Luna. Anything you say. I just need to be married before you go into labor and steal the focus.”
The joke, however, hung in the air. Amelia’s due date was technically weeks away, but carrying three Fae-Morvane hybrids meant all bets were off. The tension was palpable. Everyone—Kian, Gareth, Myra—was working furiously, driven by the unspoken need to complete this joyous milestone before the inevitable storm of labor began.
Kian lowered himself onto the stool and began to gently massage Amelia’s swollen ankles again. Her skin felt tight, stretched, and warm. She sighed, a sound of pure relief, and placed a plump hand on his head.
“You’re spoiling me, my King,” she murmured, her eyes half-closed.
“Good,” Kian responded, looking up at her with fierce love. “You are doing the impossible. You deserve to be spoiled, fussed over, and completely unbothered by anything except what you want. Now, tell me about the flowers. Do we use nightshade, or is that too cliché?”
Amelia giggled, a throaty, sensual sound that reminded Kian that despite the overwhelming physical state of her body, the Alpha Luna’s passion and vitality were entirely undiminished. The babies might be making her miserable, but they hadn't dimmed her light.
“Nightshade is perfect for a dark, dramatic witch,” Amelia decided, her eyes sparkling. “But let’s use white winter roses too. For the promise of peace and the new snow. It’ll look spectacular. Now, give me your hand, Kian. Mine are tingling again.”
Kian presented his palm, and Amelia, despite her swollen hands, gripped it firmly. The wedding was a glorious distraction, a necessary step toward normalcy, but Kian knew the true countdown had begun. He felt the triplets’ energy, restless and ready, humming deep inside the enormous swell of her belly. The wedding would happen quickly, because the birth of his sons was looming, and when the Alpha Luna said it was time, the entire world would have to pause.