I continue rolling. Firm. Gentle. The rhythm's meditative.
Maya wanders back in, studies me. "You're actually getting decent at that."
"Trinity's a good teacher."
"She's terrifying when you mess up her recipes."
"I'm aware."
Maya grabs a tray of cooling cookies. "So. You two really doing this? The whole domestic thing?"
"Yes."
"Apartment hunting? Joint bank accounts? Meeting her nightmare aunt?"
I pause. "I haven't met the aunt yet."
"Oh, you will. She hasopinionsabout Trinity's life choices." Maya's eyes gleam. "Should be fun."
"I can handle opinions."
"These opinions come with passive-aggressive casserole."
I have no idea what that means, but it sounds ominous.
"Trinity's worth it," I say simply.
Maya softens. "Yeah. She is." She heads for the door, calls back: "For the record, I like you. Don't screw this up."
"Noted."
The hybrid ceremony happens on a cold Saturday.
Borgat arranged it on neutral ground, witnessed by select clan members and Trinity's closest people. A blending of traditions to formalize my standing.
No exile. No shame. But no full clan privileges either until I prove the partnership's strength over time.
It's compromise. Politics. Practical.
It's also terrifying.
Trinity stands beside me in the ceremonial space, a converted community hall, decorated with both orc banners and human flowers. She's wearing a deep green dress that makes her eyes sharp, hair loose.
Beautiful. Distracting.
"You okay?" she whispers.
"Fine."
"You're grinding your teeth."
I relax my jaw. "Nervous."
"You fought in actual wars."
"War's simpler. Clear objectives. This is—" I gesture vaguely.
"Symbolic bureaucracy?"
