Chapter 52: THE BACHELOR PARTY

"You need a bachelor party," Halric said.

"I don’t," Vael said.

"It’s tradition."

"Whose tradition?"

"*Everyone’s* tradition." Halric counted on his fingers. "The capital. The coast. The —" he gestured vaguely, "— the *mountains*. Everywhere has bachelor parties."

"What happens at a bachelor party?"

Halric opened his mouth. Closed it. "Ale," he said finally. "Stories. —" He thought. "Questionable decisions."

"I make enough questionable decisions at work."

"That’s the *point*. You get them out of the way *before* the wedding." Halric clapped his shoulder. "Trust me. I’m divorced. I know about traditions."

Across the inn, Morrigan was having a parallel conversation.

"You need a bachelorette," she told Lyria.

"I don’t," Lyria said.

"It’s tradition."

"Whose tradition?"

"*Mine*." Morrigan unrolled a scroll. "OPERATION LAST NIGHT. I’ve planned exercises."

"Exercises."

"Bonding exercises." She tapped the scroll. "And cake. I’ve requisitioned cake."

Lyria looked at the scroll. Looked at Morrigan’s earnest face. "Fine," she said. "But no —" she searched for the worst possibility, "— no *drills* at midnight."

"..." Morrigan rolled up the scroll. "I’ll revise."

---

Vael’s bachelor party was — by Halric’s standards — restrained.

Ale. The back room. Halric, Pell, two of Halric’s cousins (the non-terrible ones), and — to Vael’s surprise — Aunt Corvina, who’d invited herself.

"I’ve been to forty bachelor parties," she said, taking a seat. "All terrible. This one —" she accepted an ale, "— has potential."

"What happens at bachelor parties?" Vael asked her.

"Terrible things," Corvina said. "Don’t do terrible things."

"That’s the whole tradition?"

"That’s the whole tradition." She drank. "Also: advice. The married ones give advice. The divorced ones give *warnings*."

Halric raised his cup. "I’ll go first. Warning." He looked at Vael — and the joking left his face, the way it did when he was being serious, which was rare enough that everyone listened.

"I wrote her a poem," Halric said. "Forty lines. Rhymed ’heart’ with ’chart.’" He stared into his ale. "But the poem wasn’t the problem. The problem was —" he paused, "— I thought the wedding was the finish line. I thought: get married, done. Rest." He shook his head. "It’s not the finish line, Vael. It’s the *starting* line. Everything before —" he gestured vaguely, "— the doves, the proposals, the — that was the easy part. The hard part is Tuesday. Ordinary Tuesday, ten years from now, when the roast burns and the baby’s crying and you —" he looked up, "— you have to choose her. Again. On a Tuesday."

Silence.

"That’s —" Vael said quietly, "— that’s actually good advice."

"It’s a *warning*." Halric drank. "Don’t be me. Be better than the chart."

"I’ll be better than the chart."

"Good." Halric grinned — the grin returning like sun through clouds. "Now. Stories. Pell — tell the one about the ferry."

"I’ve told that one—"

"Tell it again."

Pell sighed — the sigh of a man who knew resistance was futile — and began.

"So there’s a ferry," he said. "And there’s a goat—"

"There’s always a goat," one of the cousins muttered.

"—and the ferryman says: no goats. And I say: it’s not a goat, it’s —" Pell paused for effect, "— it’s *emotional support livestock*."

The table erupted. Even Corvina — the sternest face in three counties — made a sound that might have been a laugh.

"Did it work?" Vael asked.

"The goat rode free," Pell said solemnly. "First class."

"And the moral," Halric said, raising his cup, "is: confidence. Pure, unearned confidence." He looked at Vael. "You’ll need it. Marriage is —" he thought, "— 40% love, 40% roast, 20% pretending the goat is emotional support livestock."

"I’ll remember that."

"Write it down. It’s the best advice tonight." Halric leaned back. "Second-best. The Tuesday thing was first."

Corvina — who’d been quiet — spoke up. "I’ve been to forty bachelor parties," she said. "The worst one —" she counted, "— the groom cried. Before the wedding. Not after. *Before*." She looked at Vael. "You’re not crying."

"Should I be?"

"No." She drank. "The ones who cry before — they’re scared. You’re not scared." A beat. "You’re *ready*. There’s a difference. I’ve seen both."

Vael looked at her — this undefeated duelist, this aunt-by-marriage, drinking ale in his back room.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don’t thank me." She stood — the evening’s stories done, for her. "I have an 11pm drill to avoid." She left — pausing in the doorway. "Boy."

"Yes?"

"Tuesday," she said. "Choose her on Tuesday."

"I will."

She nodded — once — and was gone.

---

Lyria’s bachelorette was — by Morrigan’s standards — also restrained.

No midnight drills. (There were 11pm drills. Morrigan had compromised.)

Cake. The front room. Lyria, Morrigan, Seraphina, Lady Valcrest, Aunt Corvina (who’d left the bachelor party early — "The advice portion was over. The stories portion is always lies."), and — via express invitation — the baker’s wife, who’d brought *more* cake.

"To Lyria," Lady Valcrest said, raising her cup. "Who chose —" she looked at her daughter, "— *impossibly* well."

"To Lyria," everyone echoed.

Seraphina — who’d been quiet, writing — looked up. "Can I —" she said, "— can I say something? For the record?"

"Always," Lyria said.

Seraphina closed her notebook. "I’ve documented this family for three years. The roast. The doves. The —" she smiled, "— the *beige rock*." She looked at Lyria. "And the thing I’ve learned — the thing the history will say — is that the Demon King didn’t retire from war." A pause. "He retired *into* something. Into —" she gestured at the room, the cake, the women, "— *this*. And you —" she looked at Lyria, "— you didn’t tame him. You didn’t *fix* him." Her voice caught — just slightly. "You just — waited. Until he was ready to be —" she searched, "— *kept*."

Lyria’s eyes were wet. "Seraphina—"

"For the record," Seraphina said, opening the notebook again. "That’s for the record."

Lady Valcrest — who’d been quiet, watching her daughter — spoke up.

"Can I add something?" she said. "Not for the record. For —" she looked at Lyria, "— for *you*."

Lyria nodded.

"Your father," Lady Valcrest said, "was a good man. Not a simple man — the Valcrests are never simple — but good." She took Lyria’s hand. "And the thing I learned — the thing nobody told me at *my* bachelorette — is that you don’t marry the man. You marry the —" she searched, "— the *Tuesdays*. The ordinary days. The burnt roast." She smiled. "Your Vael —" she glanced toward the yard, toward the back room where the men’s laughter leaked through the walls, "— your Vael burns roast beautifully. I’ve seen the data."

"Mother—"

"I’m serious." Lady Valcrest squeezed her hand. "He’ll choose you on Tuesday. I can tell. The ones who choose —" she paused, "— they have a look. Your father had it. Vael has it." She kissed Lyria’s forehead. "You chose well, my girl. Impossibly well."

Lyria cried — quietly, the way Valcrests cried — and hugged her mother, and the baker’s wife pretended not to notice, and Morrigan —

"EXERCISES," Morrigan announced, standing abruptly. "BONDING EXERCISE ONE. EVERYONE —" she pointed at the yard, "— OUTSIDE. WE’RE DOING THE —"

"Morrigan," Lady Valcrest said gently. "It’s 11pm."

"THE REVISED SCHEDULE SAYS 11PM DRILLS."

"...Fine," Lyria said, standing. "But I’m wearing the ring. If I lose it in the dirt, you’re finding it."

"UNDERSTOOD, MY— LADY."

---

The two parties converged — as all things at the inn converged — in the yard, at midnight.

Vael’s group came out for air. Lyria’s group was mid-drill (Morrigan had them doing something involving linked arms and chanting).

They looked at each other across the yard — the bachelor and the bachelorette, ale-flushed and cake-dusted.

"Hi," Vael said.

"Hi," Lyria said.

"How’s the —" he gestured at the drill, "— the *operation*?"

"Revised." She broke formation — Morrigan protested — crossed the yard, and kissed him. Quick. Flour-dusted. Perfect. "How’s the party?"

"Halric gave me a warning."

"Seraphina gave me a history." She smiled. "We’re well-advised."

"Well-warned," he corrected.

"Well—" She took his hand. The ring caught the moonlight. "—loved."

Behind them, Morrigan’s voice rang out: "MY— MANAGER! MY— LADY! FORMATION!"

"They want us back," Vael said.

"They can wait." Lyria didn’t move. "One month."

"One month," he agreed.

"Tuesday," she said. "Ten years from now. The roast burns. The baby’s crying." She looked at him. "Choose me."

"I choose you." He said it simply — the way he’d said *yes* under the plum tree. "On Tuesdays. On every day."

"Good." She kissed him again — longer this time, while Morrigan’s drill dissolved into applause behind them. "Because I choose you, too. Even with the doves."

"The doves weren’t—"

"I know." She smiled — the smile that ended wars. "That’s why I choose you."

Above them, the moon. Around them, the family — the inn, the staff, the mothers, the aunts, the boy on patrol in the far garden (still at it, dedicated).

And inside — behind the counter — the crystal DINGed, soft, in the dark:

[The module has logged: two parties. One yard. Midnight.]

[The module notes: this is what "family" means.]

[The module has looked it up. The definition fits.]

[The module wishes to note: it is *family*, too. In a beige, DINGing way.]

[The module is not crying. Beige does not cry.]

[...The module is glowing. This is fine.]