The moon rises, full and heavy over the ocean. The celebration begins to wind down, the frantic energy settling into a contented hum.
Imas stands up. He offers me his hand.
"Are you ready?" he asks.
"Where are we going?"
"Home," he says.
We say our goodbyes. We leave the Stronghold, walking out into the cool night air. The path to the cliffs is lit by the glow of Lumiolas dancing in the tall grass.
We walk hand in hand, the silence between us comfortable and rich.
The house stands on the promontory, a dark silhouette against the star-dusted sky. The windows are dark, waiting for us to fill them with light. The scent of the sea is strong here, mixing with the wild thyme crushing beneath our feet.
We reach the door. I reach for the latch, but Imas stops me.
"Wait," he says.
He turns to me. The moonlight turns his skin to silver. He looks at the simple wooden door, then back at me.
"In my old life," he says softly, "I crossed thresholds to conquer. I entered rooms to own them."
He steps closer, his hands spanning my waist.
"Tonight, I enter to serve."
He bends his knees and scoops me up into his arms. I gasp, wrapping my arms around his neck, burying my face in the softness of his shoulder. He smells of ale and night air and home.
He kicks the door open.
He carries me across the threshold, into the darkness of the house that is not a cage, but a kingdom of our own making. He kicks the door shut behind us, sealing out the world, sealing us in.
"Welcome home, my love," he whispers into the dark.
27
LORD IMAS
Ishut the door behind us, the lock clicking home with a sound that is not a prison sentence, but a punctuation mark.
Outside, the sea crashes against the cliffs, a rhythmic, eternal heartbeat. Inside, the small house is quiet, lit only by the starlight spilling through the open window and the soft glow of the Lumiolas we passed in the garden.
Leora stands in the room. She is still wearing the white linen dress, the gold embroidery shimmering faintly. Her hair is loose, a dark curtain framing the pale, fragile beauty of her face.
I cross the room. I do not stalk her. I approach her as a pilgrim approaches a shrine.
"My wife," I whisper, the word tasting of awe.
She smiles, reaching up to touch my face. Her fingertips trace the line of my jaw, the curve of my cheekbone. "My husband."
I catch her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "I have nothing left to give you," I say, my voice rough with emotion. "I gave you my blood. I gave you my past. I gave you my peace."
"Give me this," she says, stepping closer until her body presses against mine. "Give me you. Just Imas."
The invitation undoes me.
I kiss her. It is not the desperate collision of our first time, nor the frantic, adrenaline-fueled union in the panic room. It is slow. It is deliberate. I taste the Ale on her tongue and the sweetness of the fialon berries she ate at the feast.
