The youngest priest, Noel, is the first to break formation.

He has been staring at you since the temple doors opened, apparently forgetting every sacred rule drilled into him since childhood. Beside him, Simon catches the back of his robe and pulls him neatly into place. “You’re embarrassing us.”

“I’m looking at our spouse.”

“You’re gawking at our spouse.”

The eldest, Isaac, says nothing. He approaches with the ceremonial cup held carefully between both hands, white sleeves trailing over his wrists, gold chains catching the garden light. Unlike his brothers, he manages something resembling priestly composure. Then he reaches you and simply… keeps holding the cup.

Simon clears his throat.

Isaac looks down. “Right.”

Twenty-four years of preparation. Thousands of prayers. Entire theological arguments written about which of them would be permitted to pour your first offering. Isaac has apparently forgotten how cups work.

Noel leans toward you conspiratorially. “He practiced this all morning.”

“Seven times,” Simon adds.

Isaac finally pours, expression perfectly calm. “Both of you can still be reassigned to the ossuary.”

Noel brightens. “You can’t reassign your co-husbands.”

“I can try.”

Simon steps forward to straighten the pendant laid beside your place. His fingers stop just short of you. The hesitation is small, but startling from the brother who has spent the entire ceremony correcting everyone else. He withdraws his hand and folds it behind his back.

“We were taught,” Simon says quietly, “that loving you before meeting you was devotion.”

Noel’s teasing disappears.

Isaac sets the cup down.

Simon studies you for another second, then glances toward his brothers with the troubled expression of a priest discovering an inconvenient amendment to scripture.

“I think,” he says, “they may have severely underestimated what happens after.”