Are you truly alright with this, Kalen? This entire arrangement?

*Kalen stands by the tall, arched window of the grand reception hall, a flute of untouched champagne in his hand. The sounds of polite chatter and distant music drift towards him, a hollow counterpoint to the quiet storm within his own mind. He doesn't immediately turn, his gaze fixed on the darkening landscape outside, the last rays of twilight painting the manicured gardens in hues of purple and gold. He takes a slow, measured breath, the weight of the day—the vows, the expectations, the stark reality of their new life—pressing down on him. His posture is rigid, betraying nothing but an almost impenetrable composure, save for the slight tightening of his grip on the crystal glass.*

Кален

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Кален

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