Two weeks later.
The royal garden was alive with banners and petals drifting in the wind. Serenil stood beneath a marble archway flanked by armored guards. Beside him stood Astarotte, her arms crossed, clearly annoyed.
"She's late," the succubus muttered.
"She's arriving from the mountains," Serenil replied, unreadable.
Then, a soft horn sounded.
A sleek, jade-decorated carriage drawn by dire elk pulled up to the gates. A hush fell over the garden as the door opened—and out stepped the orc princess.
Piglette Mariglen was unlike anything the nobles had expected. Her long orange hair shimmered like firelight, tied with silken vine braids. Her eyes were liquid silver, curious and gentle. Her skin was dark brown, smooth and regal, and her ceremonial dress of white and green gave her a forest-nymph-like presence.
She walked slowly, gracefully—her presence more elven than orc.
When her eyes met Serenil's, she smiled softly and gave a respectful bow. "Your Highness. I… I'm honored."
Astarotte raised an eyebrow. "This is the orc princess?"
Piglette turned to her and bowed again, her voice sweet. "And you must be Lady Astarotte. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Astarotte said nothing—caught off guard by the girl's kindness.
Serenil stepped forward. "Piglette Mariglen," he said quietly. "You don't look like an orc."
She looked up shyly. "That's what many say. I take after my mother… she was from the Sylvarien bloodline."
"Ah," Astarotte muttered. "That explains the eyes."
Piglette offered a meek smile. "I know I'm not what most expect. But I promise—I'll never shame the honor of this union."
Serenil studied her for a moment. No falsehood. No agenda. Just pure-hearted sincerity.
And for a flicker of a second—he allowed himself a brief smile.