Chapter 2 - The Eclipsed Throne
The wedding night arrived with a suffocating weight of opulence. The great hall of the celestial palace floated suspended in a sea of silver fire, its pillars carved from frozen starlight and draped in banners of shimmering silk. Gods, queens, spirits, and ancient mothers from the farthest reaches of the cosmos filled the room, their laughter ringing like crystal bells against the high vaulted ceilings.
Lysenne descended the crystal steps like a vision from a fever dream, her gown shifting from pearl-white to deep indigo with every step she took, woven entirely from the mist of weeping waterfalls. Every eye in the hall turned toward her in breathless reverence.
Then, she stopped.
She stopped directly beside Selmora, who stood quietly near the edge of the dais, draped in her traditional silver robes—garments that carried the unadorned, ancient dignity of the primordial moon.
Lysenne’s smile never faltered, but her eyes turned sharp as glass shards.
"You are too old," she murmured, her voice coated in a honeyed venom designed to sound like polite adoration, "and far too gloomy to stand beside a bride."
The great hall went utterly dead. The music stuttered and died. The murmurs of ancient spirits evaporated into the frozen air. All eyes shifted to Orion, who stood nearby, clad in his ceremonial armor. He stared intently at the polished marble floor, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. He did not look up. He did not speak a word in defense of the mother who had torn her own bone apart to build his path across the heavens.
Lysenne seized the silence. With a wave of her delicate hand, she ordered Selmora behind the grand throne and thrust a heavy, silver-plated mask into her hands—a mask shaped like a weeping, faceless automaton.
Selmora looked at her son one last time, her expression an unreadable mask of ancient patience, waiting for him to object. Waiting for him to remember. Waiting for him to say that his mother would not stand pouring wine like a nameless, disgraced servant at his wedding feast.
Orion only raised his head slightly, his eyes avoiding hers, and whispered across the quiet hall, "Please. Just tonight."
Just tonight. Two words that carried the weight of a thousand betrayals.
May you like
Selmora bowed her head. She lifted the cold metal mask and strapped it over her face. Stripped of her visible presence, she moved through the glittering crowd like a ghost, pouring fermented starlight and nectar into the golden goblets of gods who barely glanced at her hands.
Yet, each time she passed the elevated throne, Lysenne watched her with burning eyes. Humiliation before the court was not enough. The mere existence of the First Goddess—silent, enduring, and radiating a quiet power that defied illusion—felt like a standing accusation against Lysenne’s fragile throne.
