In the quiet hours before dusk, the upper solar of Valgard Citadel smelled of crushed dried lavender, melted beeswax, and sweet almond oil. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth, chasing the biting Arctic chill from the chamber where Freja stood before a full-length mirror of polished silver. Lady Sigrid and Master Alchemist Astrid moved around her with hushed, reverent efficiency, making final adjustments to the ceremonial bridal attire. "Stand…
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