The change in the clan is a palpable thing. The suspicious stares from Grak’s followers have been replaced by looks of grudging, then genuine, respect. Warriors who once saw me as a liability now raise their horns of ale to me, their deep voices booming my new name.“To the Sun-bringer!”they roar, and the name, which once felt like a heavy cloak, now settles on my shoulders like a mantle of honor I am finally willing to bear.
The war is over. The next day, I watch from the battlements as Lord Jildred and his surviving warriors, stripped of their fine armor and their arrogant pride, are led in chains to the cells deep within the mountain. Their fate will be decided by theclan council, by the very Orcs they deemed brutish animals. It is a quiet, profound justice, a final closing of a dark and painful chapter of my life.
In the days that follow, a new, peaceful rhythm settles over the stronghold. A rhythm of rebuilding, of healing, and of preparation. The date of our mating ceremony is set, and the entire clan seems to be swept up in a joyous, bustling energy.
On the day of the ceremony, Helga and two other Orc women come to my quarters. Their faces are wreathed in warm, happy smiles. “It is time, little sister,” Helga says, her voice a gentle rumble.
They lead me to a private chamber, warm and fragrant from the steam rising from a large, copper tub. They help me bathe, washing my hair with water infused with mountain herbs, their touches gentle and respectful. This simple act of kindness, of women caring for one another, is a thing I have never known, and I have to bite my lip to keep the tears from falling.
Afterward, they prepare me. They do not dress me in the cold silks and hard jewels of the Dark Elves. They dress me in the traditions of the Fire Sun. The tunic is of the softest, cream-colored wool, so finely woven it feels like a cloud against my skin. It is sleeveless, leaving my arms bare, and embroidered along the hem with intricate patterns of suns and mountain flowers in thread of spun gold. Over it, they place a vest of supple, dark brown leather, decorated with beautiful, geometric patterns of polished beads.
They brush my hair until it shines, letting it fall in its natural waves down my back. Then, with soft, reverent fingers, they begin to weave small, vibrant mountain wildflowers into the strands—deep blue frostbells, bright yellow sun-dazzles, and the small, white, star-shaped petals of a flower they callseren’s-tear. The scent of them is a sweet, clean perfume that fills the air around me.
When they are finished, they turn me to face a large, polished silver mirror that hangs on the stone wall. I stare, my breath catching in my throat.
The woman who stares back at me is a stranger. Her eyes, my familiar brown eyes, are clear and bright, free of the shadow of fear that has haunted them for a lifetime. Her skin, once pale and sallow, now has a healthy glow from our time in the sun and mountains. The brand on my neck is still there, a faint, puckered scar, but it no longer looks like a mark of ownership. It is a symbol of a battle I have survived, a past I have overcome.
I see not Dina the slave, the worthless, frightened thing from Lord Jildred’s kennels. I see a woman, strong and whole, adorned in the flowers of the wild and the honest, beautiful craft of a proud people. I see a woman who has found her home. I see a chieftain’s mate.
A single, happy tear traces a path down my cheek.
The heavy oak door to the chamber swings open. I turn, my heart a soaring, frantic bird in my chest.
Xylon stands in the doorway. He is dressed in his own ceremonial attire—a simple, sleeveless tunic of black leather that leaves his powerful, olive-skinned arms bare, the sun tattoo on his shoulder a bold, proud declaration of his lineage. His black hair is damp, freshly washed, and his dark eyes… they are fixed on me.
He does not speak. He does not have to. The look in his eyes is a symphony of every promise he has ever made, of every battle he has ever fought. It carries such profound, soul-deep love, of such absolute, reverent awe, that it steals the very breath from my lungs.
He is the beginning and the end of my world. My warrior. My prince. My home.
He steps into the room and holds out his hand, a silent, beautiful invitation to our forever.
38
XYLON
The night sky above the stronghold is a vast, bottomless ocean of glittering stars. In the great courtyard, a massive bonfire rages, its flames leaping toward the heavens, a single, defiant sun in the cold mountain darkness. My entire clan, my family, is gathered in a great, silent circle around the fire, their faces painted in the flickering, dancing light. The air is still, heavy with the weight of ancient tradition and the scent of pine smoke and sacred herbs.
I stand before the fire, beside the ancient shaman Zora, and I wait. I am dressed in the ceremonial leathers of my clan, my chest bare, my heart a thunderous drum against my ribs. Tonight is not a battle of axes and shields. It is a battle of vows, of souls, and it is the most important one I will ever fight.
Then, I see her.
The crowd parts, and she walks toward me, escorted by my father. And the world, the fire, the stars—they all cease to exist. There is only her. She is a vision, a goddess of the mountain wildflowers she wears in her wavy, brown hair. Her ceremonial tunic of cream-colored wool seems to glow in the firelight, and the simple, beaded leather vest she wears does nothing to hidethe fierce, beautiful strength of her spirit. She walks with a quiet, steady grace, her eyes, those deep, brown pools of courage and compassion, fixed on mine. She is not a slave. She is not a fugitive. She is a queen, and this is her coronation.
She comes to a stop before me. My father places her hand in mine, and his grip is firm, a silent blessing from a chieftain to his son. Her hand is so small, so delicate in my own, but her grip is strong, unwavering.
Zora raises her gnarled, wrinkled hands to the sky. “We gather tonight under the eyes of the ancestors and the gaze of the War God,” her voice is a low, raspy chant that carries in the silence. “We are here to witness a weaving. Two threads, one of iron and fire, one of earth and light. Two souls, to be bound as one.”
She takes a long, braided cord of twine from the leather pouch at her belt. It is woven with sweet-smelling mountain herbs and the same wildflowers that adorn Dina’s hair. “A life is a single thread,” Zora chants. “Weak on its own. But when woven together, it becomes a rope that cannot be broken.”
She begins to wrap the twine around our joined hands, her movements slow and deliberate. With each wrap, she knots a new herb into the cord. “With this root, I bind your strength, that you may be each other’s shield,” she rasps. “With this leaf, I bind your hearts, that may build a home. With this flower, I bind your souls, that you will be one another’s anchor, in this life, and in all the lives to come.”
The magic is a palpable thing, a warm, golden energy that flows from the twine, sinking into my skin, into our joined hands, a current that connects us, heart to heart, soul to soul.
“Speak your vows, son of Borin,” Zora commands.
I turn to Dina. I look into the eyes of the woman who faced a hideous monster and saw a man. The woman who was my only light in a decade of darkness. “Dina,” my voice is a low, roughthing, thick with an emotion too vast for any words. “I have no home but you. I have no honor but the honor you have given me. I have no soul but the one you saved.” I raise our bound hands. “With this hand, I will build your home. With this arm, I will be your shield. With this heart, I will love you until the stars themselves burn out. I am yours, Dina. In this life. And in the next.”
Tears stream down her beautiful face, glittering like diamonds in the firelight. She takes a breath, her voice a clear, steady bell that rings in the silent night. “Xylon,” she says, and my name on her lips is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. “I was a slave who had nothing. You have given me everything. A home. A family. A future. I was a ghost, and you saw me. I give you the only thing I have ever truly owned.” She places her free hand over our bound ones, over my heart. “I give you me. I am yours. Always.”
