The cottage had never been so alive with chaos and joy, its walls stretching to accommodate a whirlwind of wedding preparations that blurred the line between Corban’s crisp harbor winters and Kretia’s sun-drenched coastal summers. At 8:00 a.m., the kitchen table was a battlefield of fabric swatches, invitation mock-ups, and half-eaten pastries (frost-berry tarts from Clara Vale’s bakery, their filling glowing faintly with Eliza’s subtle runes).

Laken Voss stood at the ...