"You look like a queen," a voice says from the doorway.
I turn. Rina stands there. She is no longer in the drab gray of a Lliandor house slave. She wears a tunic of soft blue, and herhair is loose, gray streaks shining in the light. We sent for her the moment we had the coin. Imas paid a mercenary guild to extract her from the ruins of his estate before the other Houses could claim the spoils. She arrived three days ago, weeping not from fear, but from the shock of seeing the sky without a filter of smoke.
"I look like a woman who is about to make a choice," I correct her softly.
Rina smiles, the expression crinkling the corners of her eyes. She hands me a bouquet of Paradise blossoms, their bright yellow petals vivid against the white of my dress.
"He is waiting," she says. "And if he paces any more, he will wear a trench in the Duke’s courtyard."
I take the flowers. My fingers brush Rina’s calloused palm. I feel her affection, a warm, steady hum like a hearth fire.
"Let’s not keep him waiting," I say.
We walk through the stone corridors of the Stronghold. Unlike the weeping walls of Lliandor, Emberforge feels solid, baked dry by the sun and the heat of the forges. We step out into the main courtyard.
It is crowded.
Humans and dark elves stand shoulder to shoulder, a mingling that would be heresy in the north but is simply life here in Ter. The Zagfer innkeeper who gave us our first bed is there, wiping her hands on her apron. The guildmaster Imas advises stands near the front, looking smug in his velvet coat. Even a few orcs from the camps near the Orclands border are present, their tusks gleaming.
The crowd parts as I step into the sunlight.
At the end of the aisle stands Duke Gheshei. He is an older miou warrior, his face a landscape of scars, his presence commanding but not cruel. He stands not as a ruler, but as a witness.
And in front of him stands Imas.
My breath catches, a sudden constriction in my lungs.
He is wearing a tunic of deep charcoal, simple and unadorned, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the corded muscle of his forearms. His platinum hair is tied back with a leather thong. He bears no sigil. He wears no heavy rings of obsidian. He is Dfam, stripped of every title the world ever gave him.
And he has never looked more noble.
He watches me approach. I look at his hands—those long, elegant fingers that once wove agony out of the air. They are clasped in front of him, perfectly still. But as our eyes meet, I feel the tremor in the air between us.
It isn’t the jagged static of anxiety. It is the deep, resonant vibration of awe.
He looks at me as if I am the only source of gravity in the universe.
I reach him. He takes my hand. His skin is warm, calloused from the quill and the ledger.
"Leora," he breathes.
"Imas."
We turn to the Duke. Gheshei nods, his expression solemn.
"We stand here today under the gaze of The Arbiter," the Duke rumbles, his voice carrying over the crowd. "Not to seek justice, but to witness balance. Two souls, forged in the dark, seeking the light of the common day."
He looks at Imas. "Do you come of your own will, free of coercion and the chains of the past?"
"I do," Imas says. His voice is clear, lacking the cold modulation of the High Lord he used to be. It is a man’s voice. "I come as a dark elf who has learned that power is not control."
He turns to me. He takes both my hands in his.
"Leora," he says, loud enough for the wind to carry his words to the sea. "I once sought to own you. I thought the world wasmade of masters and slaves. You taught me that the world is made of those who break and those who heal."
He squeezes my fingers.
"I vow to you my silence," he says. "Not the silence of the void, but the peace of a home. I vow my strength, not to conquer, but to build. And I pledge my freedom. I choose you, every day, until the stars burn out and the Aether goes dark."
