When Iver and Isabel embraced, the people below broke into applause.
The Old Duke applauded just as hard. Even with his lips pressed tightly together, his irrepressible smile was clear to see, along with the rare warmth in his deep-set eyes.
The next part was cutting the cake—not a gift or blessing from any god, but a dessert made by the elves of the Theocracy.
It was a massive cake standing three meters tall, with nine layers. Iver embraced Isabel from behind and cut it open with the Crystal Sword, which shone with radiance and cold, specially crafted for cutting cakes. The act itself was also a blessing.
The Mist Demons, whose bodies were hazy and translucent, approached with faint light shimmering around them and cut the cake into individual portions. Two servings were placed before every guest. One was cut and plated, while the other was wrapped up as a gift, with the passage of time within it temporarily frozen by preservation magic.
As Pope Grey raised her staff and gently lowered it, signaling for everyone to sit down,
the guests settled into their seats in twos and threes. Quite a few were eagerly anticipating the cake—they had already realized how grand a ceremony they had witnessed. If nothing unexpected happened, this might well be the most glorious moment of their lives.
When the Old Duke took his seat, he casually grabbed Albert, who was sitting on the table, and placed him on his lap.
"How is it? Pretty good, right? Your daughter and my granddaughter... They're both good children."
The Old Duke spoke in a low voice as he brought his thick, powerful hand down on Albert's backside with a solid smack. Although he looked skinny, his fur concealed a surprising amount of flesh.
"—At least they're much