Despite her reservations about the Church of Seiros, Dorothea had always imagined that she would get married in a cathedral. Assumed it, really, considering the men she went after: even the least devout nobleman was expected to say his vows beneath the goddess’s watchful eye, to show deference to the institution that legitimized his birthright. To call it a concession would be too extreme; if anything, Dorothea was indifferent to the idea. It didn’t matter where she was wed—only that the wedding did in fact happen.

But that was before the war changed how Fódlan’s people saw its faith, before anyone had considered challenging the archbishop’s divine authority. Before Dorothea could conceive of falling in love with a man who was wholly unafraid of flouting tradition, especially for her.

She stared up at one of the many stained-glass windows that graced Garreg Mach Cathedral, fidgeting with the ring fitting snugly around her fourth finger. Sylvain was speaking with the priest, just far enough away that she could tune the conversation out. There was little point in joining, she told herself; she was perfectly content admiring how the sunlight illuminated each carefully-wrought frame, a mosaic converging into the shape of a green-haired maiden wielding a staff. Cethleann, she was pretty sure. Kind-hearted, determined, a patron of love in all its forms. If Dorothea had to pick a favorite saint, it would be her.

After what seemed like an eternity, the cathedral fell silent. She took a breath, waiting for the footsteps to draw closer, each clack of boots echoing through the cavernous ceiling.

“Their earliest availability is Great Tree Moon,” Sylvain said, placing a gloved hand on her shoulder. He’d dressed formally for the occasion, in Gautier red and teal, the silver clasps on his cloak engraved with his family’s Crest. Dorothea matched him, of course—though it still felt like a costume to her, the entire day a dress rehearsal. But the role of margravine would, hopefully, be permanent.

“I think that would work,” she mused, pressing her palm to his chest, smiling at the sensation of his heartbeat thrumming against her skin.

“Would it?” Sylvain asked, flashing her a teasing smile.

“You would know better than me,” Dorothea said, ignoring the question hidden in his lilting tone, the hint of concern. “The weather here will be nice, but maybe the trip down from Gautier is rougher that early in the season. Should we consult an almanac for auspicious days? Is that something—”

“Dorothea,” Sylvain cut in. She only realized her gaze had dropped to the floor when he nudged the underside of her chin with his fingers, urging her to face him. “We don’t need to have the ceremony in a church if you don’t want to. No one will will bat an eye if we switch it up a little. Not now.”

Did he really believe that? “I don’t mind, really.” She craned her neck up, marvelling at the vaulted ceilings. “It’s a pretty venue. I didn’t spend much time in here when we were students, but…” Not even when they were soldiers, either, though she’d tried praying for victory once or twice. The world was at peace now, and they were still standing in it, so maybe someone was actually listening. “This is where we met, Sylvain. And more people will be able to make it if we have it here. It’ll be like a class reunion, in a way.”

Sylvain sighed. “You ‘don’t mind?’ That’s all well and good, Thea, but it’s not exactly the enthusiasm I’m looking for.” He took her hands in his, and she braced for a corny speech. “It’s your special day. You have a say in where it happens.”

“It’s our special day,” she corrected. And really, as much as Dorothea loved the idea of a wedding, she knew it was more for the people attending than anything. Another performance, with another audience to please. She’d already given a lifetime’s worth of those. “Where else would we have it? Certainly not the dining hall. And the training grounds are right out.”

“Again, we don’t have to restrict ourselves to Garreg Mach,” he said. “What about the Mittelfrank? I’m sure your old troupe members would be thrilled to put on a party for their Mystical Songstress.”

Her face warmed. “I suppose I don’t hate the idea…” Except she had as many unsavory memories in the opera house as she had good ones. And Sylvain had no connection to the place aside from watching her shows, no matter how devoted of a fan he’d become after the war.

“We could keep it small,” he said, catching on to her uncertainty. “A secret handfasting ceremony in the woods, with only our closest friends there to witness it. That’s how it was done in Old Faerghus, before the Church swooped in and set up a bunch of hoops for us to jump through.” Hoops that they’d been more than prepared to jump through for ages. They could do whatever they wanted now—and that was exactly Dorothea’s problem.

It didn’t make any sense. This was the event she’d dreamed of for as long as she could remember: the culmination of every love story she’d either read or played out on the stage, the romantic finale she’d stressed over. “Can’t we just skip to the part where we’re married?” she asked. “That’s all I care about, Sylvain.”

He blinked, looking entirely surprised by the admission. She was surprised, too—and only half-sure that she even meant it. All she knew was that this was a decision that she’d always believed would be made for her.

“We don’t need to decide right now if you’re still not sure,” Sylvain said, bringing her hand to his lips, kissing the space just above her engagement ring. “I’m not in any rush.”

Now it was her turn to be skeptical. “Really?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “After several years’ worth of proposals, you’re not in any rush?”

He chuckled. “If all those proposals have taught me anything, Thea, it’s patience.” His eyes were lit up in playful amusement. “And the fact that the woman I love is very picky about how these things are done.”

Well. At least there were worse things they could be worrying about. “That,” she sighed out, “is the opposite of what I’m telling you.”