Fifty years ago, Brand hadn’t known what to ask for. He’d been young, at his first Occurrence, and unable to care about anything other than surviving his responsibilities as Straelon’s Imperial Son.
This time, staring into the night, the twin moons hovering overhead…
“Help me,” he whispered, so quiet that his own ears could barely hear the sound. “Remake me. Bring me peace, and easemy spirit. Please, I want to be morethan my weaknesses.I want to be able tobreathe.”
In the deep dark,where no mortal creature had ever stepped foot, there was a snap.
Not the rending of twigs, or the crack of bones.
No, it was a falling into place. A soft sigh of relief. A laugh in the silence.
She’d almost forgotten that this was why she was here, that this moment was the true start of it.
The young Demon had been heard, though he didn’t know it. Not yet.
He wouldn’t appreciate the answer, not at first. He wouldn’t grasp its nuances, or see the light of it amidst his own shadows. He wouldn’t understand the mess of beauty and pain that was coming for him, ready to carve its name in blood upon his soul.
But he’d get exactly what he asked for.
Eventually.
Maybe.
If she was cunning and focused, and played her part well. If the pieces all listened and stopped fighting her.
Stars, help him.
Help all of them.
Aldiat dippedhis fingers into the golden vessel Brand held—his arm now very much healed thanks to a lot of begging and even more gold—and lifted the crimson paste to Frida’s face. “In the way of Solyrian, I mark my mate and ask for the Sisters’ continued blessings.” He drew a thick line from her forehead, over the slope of her nose, her lips, her chin, and down the column of her throat. “I am hers as I am yours. Shine on us both, and grant us your power and protection as we move forward in this life as one.”
On the cusp of every Occurrence, Demons the realm over murmured a similar prayer. Legend had it that a lucky few in their history had been especially blessed by the sunstar and granted real markings of favor by the Sisters—a perfect, permanent match to their fated mate, whether they’d found each other yet or not.
Most only received the deep red paint at their mating ritual. Made from ground stone and perfumed oil, it was drawn inmatching patterns however the pair wished as a way to mimic the stories of their people. Since the bond was there regardless, it was more than enough.
Frida grinned, her teeth stark against the stain as she repeated Aldiat’s actions. Tears in both of their eyes, they pressed their heads together, and Brand’s chest twisted. The way they looked at each other, it was like the two of them were the only two creatures in all the world.
Lyriat’s voice was a distant muffle, the cheering of the crowd and fanning of their evergreen branches little more than a whisper in the face of his own overwhelm. His sheer fuckingwant.
Brand craved a mate and that safety in another so intensely he was practically choking on it. To have someone who understood him, without the need for cursed words…
Fuck. It would be everything.
He hardly noticed the hand-shaking and well-wishing, or the vibration of the wooden planks beneath his bare feet. Barely acknowledged when Lyriat clapped him on the shoulder and sauntered away, taking the ceremonial bowl with him. Didn’t register a single face as he chatted and hoped the smile he’d plastered on wasn’t nearly as fake-looking as it bloody felt.
Hundreds of shouts and whistles saved him. Those nearest spun to watch as Aldiat and Frida devoured one another, smearing the paste across their mouths and cheeks amidst raucous laughter, and finally giving him the escape he needed. It was the most natural thing in the world to slip away, silent and unnoticed, his shoulders sagging in time with his sigh of relief.
Hopping down off the back side of the platform, he wound behind the empty merchant tents and into the food pavilion, heading straight for Magnus.
“I’m so bloody hungry, I could die,” Brand said.
Frida had gone all out. Slabs and slices and legs of meat crowded each other on their platters, crusted with herbs and salt. Smoked fish rested in beds of sliced lemons. Roasted vegetables and crispy potatoes beckoned. Clouds of steam danced over tureens of soups and stews. Breads and cheeses, olives and pickles, bowls of fruit and fresh cream—anything he could ever want, laid out before him and begging to be tried.
Mag tipped a ladle of brown sauce over everything on his plate. “You and me both,” he grumbled. “Pet has been howling since I walked through the damned portal.”
Brand chuckled and popped a chunk of cheese into his mouth. “Don’t even try to pretend this is your first serving.”
Wolflords were hungry at the best of times, but he supposed that’s what happened when one was essentially eating for two.
