Chapter 48: HOW

Vael decided on a Sunday.

He was peeling potatoes — the innkeeper’s meditation — when the decision arrived, fully formed, the way battle plans used to: before the Valcrest visit. He would open the box and ask *before* they came, so he could tell Lady Valcrest himself, standing straight, like a man reporting a completed operation.

He set down the peeler. Went upstairs. Picked up the box.

And stood there, holding it, for ten minutes.

"You’re stalling," Lyria said from the doorway. She’d come up silent, as always.

"I’m — contemplating."

"You’re stalling." She leaned against the frame. "It’s okay to stall. The fortune-teller said soon, not today."

"She said the cards are impatient."

"The cards aren’t the ones opening it." She crossed the room, kissed his cheek, and left — because she knew, the way she always knew, that some things a man had to do alone.

Vael sat on the bed. Looked at the box.

Opened it.

Inside, on worn velvet, was a ring.

It was simple — gold, unadorned, with a single small stone the color of Lyria’s eyes in firelight. No engraving. No inscription. Just a ring that had waited, through a grandmother and a mother, for a boy who’d given up a throne.

Vael stared at it for a long time.

Then he closed the box, put it in his pocket — the pocket that DINGed — and went downstairs.

The crystal DINGed.

[The host opened the box.]

[The module has been waiting for this.]

[The module wishes to offer congratulations. And assistance.]

[The module has prepared 12 proposal scenarios. Ranging from "simple" to "extremely elaborate." Scenario 7 involves doves.]

"No," Vael said.

[The module has also prepared talking points.]

"No."

[The module—]

"*No.*"

[...Noted. The module will stand by. The module is standing by *excitedly*.]

---

He asked everyone. This was his first mistake.

Morrigan’s advice came with a scroll.

"OPERATION PROPOSAL," she announced. "PHASE ONE: RECONNAISSANCE. Determine the optimal location, time, and atmospheric conditions." She unrolled the scroll. It had a map of the inn with twelve marked positions. "I RECOMMEND THE PLUM TREE AT DUSK. ROMANTIC COVER: EXCELLENT. ESCAPE ROUTES: ADEQUATE."

"Why would I need escape routes?"

"CONTINGENCY." She tapped the map. "PHASE TWO: THE ASK. Keep it under thirty seconds. Longer proposals have a 40% higher rejection rate."

"Where did you get that statistic?"

"THE MODULE." She pointed at the crystal. "IT HAS CHARTS."

Vael looked at the crystal. The crystal DINGed innocently.

Seraphina’s advice came with footnotes.

"Historically," she said, "the great proposals fall into three categories: the grand gesture, the quiet moment, and the disaster." She turned a page. "The grand gestures —" she read, "’— including but not limited to: the Skywrite Proposal of 1243 (illegible due to wind), the Dragon-Back Proposal of 1311 (the dragon objected), and the Siege Proposal of 1402 (she said yes to stop the siege).’"

"Those all sound terrible."

"They were." She turned another page. "The quiet moments, however —" she smiled, "— have a 94% success rate. Under a tree. In a kitchen. During a rainstorm." She looked up. "The data supports simplicity, Vael."

"Thank you," he said. "That’s — actually helpful."

"I’m always helpful. It’s my least documented quality."

Halric’s advice came with ale.

"Don’t do what I did," he said.

"What did you do?"

"I wrote her a poem." Halric stared into his cup. "Forty lines. It rhymed ’heart’ with ’chart.’ She married me anyway —" a beat, "— then divorced me for the chart."

"That’s —" Vael paused. "That’s the worst advice anyone’s given me."

"It’s *cautionary* advice. There’s a difference." Halric raised his cup. "Just — be honest. That’s all. The rest is decoration."

Toma’s advice came with charcoal.

"Just ask!" the boy said, like it was obvious. "Like ruffling hair but with words!"

"Proposals are more complicated than hair-ruffling."

"Are they?" Toma drew a picture: two stick figures, a ring, a heart. "You like her. She likes you. You want to —" he searched for the word, "— *keep* her. Forever." He held up the drawing. "See? Simple."

Vael looked at the drawing. Two stick figures. A ring. A heart.

"...Huh," he said.

---

That night, Vael stood in front of the bedroom mirror — the same mirror where he’d practiced "I do not have horns. This has been established." — and addressed his reflection.

"Lyria," he told the mirror. "I —"

He stopped.

"Lyria. Will you —"

Stopped again.

"Lyria—"

"You’re terrible at this," Lyria said from the doorway.

Vael didn’t turn around. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough." She came in, closed the door. "You’re overthinking it."

"I’m *preparing*. There’s a difference."

"Morrigan gave you a scroll, didn’t she?"

"...Twelve positions."

"And Seraphina gave you statistics."

"Ninety-four percent."

"And Halric told you about the poem."

"’Heart’ rhymed with ’chart.’"

Lyria sat on the bed. Patted the spot beside her. Vael sat — heavily, like a man carrying something.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she said.

"Always."

"I don’t care about the how." She took his hand. "The plum tree, the kitchen, the mirror —" she smiled, "— I don’t care. I’ve known your answer for three years. I’ve known *my* answer for three years." She squeezed his hand. "So stop practicing. Just —" she shrugged, "— ask. When it’s right. You’ll know."

"How will I know?"

"You’ll —" She thought. "You’ll stop thinking about the how, and just — do it. Like the ruffle. Like the hug." She kissed his cheek. "Four tactical seconds, Vael. That’s all it takes."

He looked at her. Then at the mirror — at his reflection, still frozen mid-proposal.

"Under the plum tree," he said quietly. "At dusk. Before they come."

"Good choice." She stood, stretched. "Now come to bed. You’ve got potatoes to peel tomorrow. And a question to ask sometime."

"Not tomorrow."

"Not tomorrow," she agreed. "But soon."

---

He chose the evening — three days later, when the light was right and the inn was quiet and Toma had been bribed with extra dessert to "patrol" the far garden.

He put the ring in his pocket. The pocket DINGed.

[The module is excited.]

"I know."

[The module will be quiet now.]

"Thank you."

He found Lyria by the plum tree — she was always by the plum tree at dusk, like she knew, like she’d always known — and for a moment he just stood there, looking at her.

Then he knelt — one knee, the way the stories said, the way he’d never thought he’d do — and took the box from his pocket.

"Lyria," he said —

— and the back door banged open, and Morrigan’s voice rang across the yard at full parade-ground volume:

"MY— MANAGER! PHASE ONE IS COMPLETE! THE DOVES—"

There were doves. Twelve of them. Released — per Scenario 7 — over the yard.

Vael stared at the doves. He stared at Morrigan, standing in the doorway with an empty cage and an expression of triumph.

"THE MODULE SAID—" Morrigan started.

"THE MODULE SAID *NO*," Vael said.

[The module wishes to clarify: the module said "noted." Morrigan interpreted "noted" as "proceed."]

Lyria was laughing — helplessly, wonderfully, the laugh that ended wars — there among the doves, with Vael on one knee holding a ring.

"Is this —" she gasped, "— is this the proposal?"

Vael looked at the doves. He looked at the ring. He looked at her.

"...Yes," he said. "Eventually. Give me a moment." He turned to Morrigan. "The doves. Remove them."

"YES, MY— MANAGER." She began rounding up doves. "SORRY, MY— LADY."

"Don’t be," Lyria said, wiping her eyes. "It’s perfect. It’s *us*."

Vael waited until the last dove was caught. Until the yard was quiet. Until it was just the two of them, under the plum tree, at dusk.

He opened the box.

"Lyria Valcrest," he said — and this time his voice didn’t shake, because he’d stopped thinking about the how, and just — did it. "Will you marry me?"

She looked at the ring. She looked at him.

"Four tactical seconds," she whispered.

"What?"

"That’s how long you hugged Toma." She was crying — laughing, crying, both. "I’ve been waiting three years for you to —" She held out her hand. "Yes. *Yes*."

He slid the ring on. It fit — of course it fit; her mother had measured, probably years ago, probably while pretending not to.

Above them, the last dove circled — missed by Morrigan — and landed on the plum tree.

Behind the counter, inside the inn, the crystal DINGed — the brightest, warmest DING it had ever made:

[THE HOST ASKED.]

[SHE SAID YES.]

[The module is —]

[The module does not have words for this.]

[The module is DINGing instead. DING DING DING.]

[Bonus achievement unlocked: COMMITMENT.]

[The module wishes to note: the doves were Morrigan’s idea. The module takes full responsibility.]

Upstairs, in the campaign chest, the dead crystal sat dark among the maps.

And under the plum tree — where a chicken was buried, where a Demon King had learned to live — a retired innkeeper held his fiancée’s hand, and the ring caught the dusk light, and for once —

— Vael didn’t say "no."

He said: "Yes."

And meant it.