The empathy floods me. It is a tidal wave of truth. There is no deception in him. No hidden agenda. Just a love so vast and terrifyingly vulnerable it makes my knees weak.
"Imas," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I was invisible until you saw me. I was a ghost until you gave me a name."
I look into his violet eyes. My pupils dilate, the Purna blackness bleeding into the sapphire, not from magic, but from the sheer intensity of the emotion swelling in my chest.
"I vow to be your anchor," I say. "When the silence is too loud, I will be your sound. When the world is too heavy, I will share the weight. I choose you, Imas. Not because you saved me, but because you let me save you."
Duke Gheshei steps forward. He holds a small, silver bowl and a simple steel dagger.
"In the old ways, we bind with magic," the Duke says. "But magic fades. Blood is life. And words are the seal of the soul."
He hands the dagger to Imas.
Imas does not hesitate. He draws the blade across his palm. It is a shallow cut, a thin line of bright red welling up against the charcoal skin. He hands the dagger to me.
I take it. The steel is warm from his grip. I cut my own palm, wincing slightly as the sting bites.
We clasp hands.
Our blood mingles, slick and warm between our fingers.
There is no spark of violet light. There is no roll of thunder or whisper of a god. There is only the biological reality of two lives touching, mixing, becoming one current.
"With this blood," Imas says, his eyes locked on mine, "I tether myself to you."
"With this blood," I answer, "I tether myself to you."
"Then it is done," Duke Gheshei declares. "By the laws of Ter and the witness of the Emberforge, you are Mated."
A cheer erupts from the courtyard. It is a raucous, human sound, filled with whistles and clapping. The innkeeper is wiping her eyes with her apron. Rina is beaming.
Imas doesn't look at the crowd. He leans down, his hand cupping the back of my neck, heedless of the blood on our palms.
He kisses me.
It is a kiss of reclamation. It tastes of salt and iron and the sweet, dizzying champagne of victory. He kisses me until the world narrows down to the pressure of his mouth and the beat of his heart against my ribs.
When he pulls back, he is smiling. It is a true smile, one that reaches his eyes and banishes the last shadows of Lliandor.
"Come," he says. "There is Ale to be drunk and music to be heard."
The celebration is a blur of color and sound. We sit at a long table laden with roasted Taura meat, bowls of Bahru stew, and platters of fialon berries. A musician is playing a Liya, the frantic, joyful screech of the fiddle setting feet stomping on the stones.
Imas sits beside me, his arm draped over the back of my chair, a protective, constant weight. He drinks the ale from a wooden tankard, laughing as the smith tells a bawdy joke about a Manticore and a Naga.
I watch him. I watch the way the tension has left his shoulders. I watch the way he interacts with these people—not as a god descending from on high, but as a man among men.
He catches me staring. He leans in close, his lips brushing my ear.
"You are quiet," he murmurs.
"I am happy," I say. "I am just... listening."
"To what?"
"To the noise," I say, gesturing to the laughter, the music, the clatter of plates. "It isn't screaming anymore."
He rests his forehead against my temple. "No. It is a song."
