The wedding was announced at dawn.
No drums.
No banners.
A single notice affixed to the inner gate, written in careful script and sealed with the council's mark. The wording was precise, restrained, stripped of sentiment.
A union for continuity.
A measure for stability.
No one called it celebration.
By midday, the sect had adjusted.
Lanterns were cleaned but not replaced. Courtyards were swept but not adorned. The ritual hall was prepared according to precedent—correct spacing, proper seating, nothing excessive. The absence of color was deliberate. Joy would have looked like mockery.
Seo Yerin was dressed in ceremonial red all the same.
Tradition demanded it.
The fabric was heavier than mourning silk, layered and structured, its weight settling over her shoulders like a second spine. Gold thread traced the edges in restrained patterns—symbols of continuity, of binding, of cycles that did not end so much as repeat.
Her hair was arranged formally, pinned high and tight. The ornaments were old, taken from storage, their design outdated by several generations. They had belonged to women who had married for reasons no one bothered to remember.
She did not ask whose they were.
The attendants worked in silence.
They did not congratulate her.
They did not meet her eyes.
When she stood, fully prepared, she looked older than she had the day before—not in years, but in bearing. Whatever softness had once lingered in her posture had been pressed flat by layers of obligation.
Outside, the sect gathered.
Not in crowds.
In lines.
Disciples stood according to rank. Elders sat according to precedence. Visitors from subordinate halls were present but few, their expressions carefully neutral.
Whispers moved through them like wind through dry grass.
So it's true.
This is how they decided.
Poor thing.
Necessary.
No one spoke the groom's name.
***
He arrived just before the ceremony began.
Late again.
This time, there were murmurs.
He wore ceremonial robes as well, tailored to accommodate his broad frame, the fabric pulling slightly at the waist despite careful stitching. The red looked different on him—brighter, almost garish—less burden than costume.
He smiled as he entered, waving awkwardly at a disciple he recognized.
Someone hissed his name under their breath.
He stopped beside her at the altar and glanced sideways, eyes widening briefly.
"Oh," he said quietly. "You look… serious."
She did not respond.
The officiant began.
The words were ancient, recited without emphasis. Vows were spoken not as promises, but as acknowledgments of duty—to sect, to lineage, to stability. The groom stumbled once over a line and laughed nervously, then corrected himself when the officiant cleared his throat.
When it came time to bow, he bent too slowly, then too deeply, nearly losing his balance. An attendant steadied him discreetly.
Seo Yerin bowed perfectly.
Once to heaven.
Once to earth.
Once to the ancestors whose names no one had spoken aloud that day.
When they faced one another, the officiant hesitated—just a fraction—before instructing them to share the ceremonial cup.
The groom lifted it eagerly and drank first, draining more than tradition allowed. He coughed, then handed it to her with a sheepish grin.
"Sorry."
She took the cup and drank what remained.
The wine was bitter.
***
The ceremony ended without applause.
People dispersed quietly, conversations resuming only after distance had softened the moment. The elders withdrew first, their expressions unreadable. Some looked relieved. Others looked resigned.
A solution had been enacted.
Whether it would hold was another matter.
Seo Yerin was escorted through the inner corridors to the marital chambers prepared for them. The rooms had been refurbished hastily—new screens, fresh linens, a coat of lacquer not yet fully dried.
The groom entered first, looking around with open curiosity.
"This is bigger than my old room," he said. "Is this all ours?"
"Yes," she replied.
He nodded, satisfied, then turned to her again. "So… now what?"
The question was honest.
She answered it honestly.
"Now," she said, "we fulfill what has been arranged."
He blinked. "Right. Yes. Of course."
He laughed softly, uncertain whether he was nervous or pleased.
Attendants withdrew.
The doors closed.
Silence settled.
He wandered the room, touching things that did not belong to him yet, peering behind screens, lifting lids. He paused at the bed, frowned thoughtfully, then turned back to her.
"You don't have to look so… tense," he said. "I'm not in a hurry."
She regarded him steadily.
"That," she said, "is considerate."
He smiled, encouraged by the word.
She removed her ceremonial veil carefully and set it aside. The ornaments followed, placed in order. Each movement was deliberate, controlled.
He watched.
Not hungrily.
Curiously.
As if trying to understand what role he was meant to play.
When she finally faced him again, she was still fully dressed.
"This marriage," she said, "is not a reward."
His smile faltered slightly.
"It's a responsibility," she continued. "For both of us."
"Oh," he said. "I see."
He did not.
But he nodded anyway.
That would become a pattern.