"Mixed feelings. Some think you've lost your mind over a pretty face." He shrugs. "Others remember how you've bled for the clan. They'll give you the benefit of doubt, for now."
Fair enough. I never expected universal approval. Respect has to be earned, especially when challenging traditions as old as winter itself.
Cyra tugs on my sleeve. "Someone's coming," she whispers.
I follow her gaze and freeze. A lone rider approaches from the south, moving fast across the frozen plains. Human, judging by the horse's gait and the rider's posture. My hand instinctively moves to my axe hilt.
"Peace," Cyra says softly. "I know that banner."
She's right. As the rider draws closer, I can make out the wolf-and-cliff sigil of House Cyrdan. But this isn't some warparty or rescue mission. It's a single woman in traveling furs, her silver-streaked hair whipping in the wind.
"Aunt Ravelle," Cyra breathes.
The rider reaches the camp's edge and dismounts with practiced grace. Several warriors move to intercept, but she raises one hand in the universal gesture of peaceful approach. Her other hand holds a white banner, the traditional symbol of parley.
Elder Thyssa approaches first, her staff planted firmly in the frozen ground. "Speak your purpose, human."
"I come seeking my niece, Lady Cyra Cyrdan." Ravelle's voice carries clearly across the camp. "Not to reclaim her, but to witness her choice."
Cyra steps forward, her face lighting with joy and confusion. "Aunt? How did you find me?"
"Your note, dear one. It mentioned heading north." Ravelle's eyes find mine, studying me with sharp intelligence. "And rumors travel faster than winter storms. Word reached House Cyrdan that you had been welcomed by the Ice-Blood clan."
"Welcomed is one way to put it," I mutter.
Ravelle's lips quirk in what might be a smile. "May I approach? I bring no weapons, no threats. Only a desire to see my niece happy."
Elder Thyssa considers for a long moment, then nods. "You may approach. But speak carefully. The Moot's patience runs thin."
Ravelle walks forward with regal bearing that reminds me sharply of Cyra. She stops just beyond arm's reach, her gaze moving between us with obvious affection.
"My dear girl," she says softly. "You look different."
"The sight has awakened in her," I explain. "The soul-bond granted her our vision."
Ravelle's eyes widen. "Truly? Show me."
Cyra closes her eyes briefly, then opens them with that odd shimmer I've learned to recognize. "You carry guilt, Aunt. About helping me escape. You blame yourself for the chaos that followed."
"Remarkable." Ravelle reaches out tentatively, then stops. "May I?"
Cyra nods and steps forward. Ravelle embraces her niece, and I see tears glisten on both their faces.
"I was so afraid," Ravelle whispers. "When we found your room empty, your betrothal gown torn. I thought I had sent you to your death."
"You sent me to my life," Cyra corrects firmly. "To love freely chosen instead of duty imposed."
Ravelle pulls back, studying Cyra's face intently. Then she turns to me. "And you. Do you love her truly, or merely possess her?"
"I love her," I say simply. "More than clan, more than tradition. More than my own life."
"Passionate words. But love alone doesn't build lasting bonds." Her sharp eyes probe deeper. "What do you offer her beyond desire?"
"Partnership," I answer without hesitation. "Respect. The freedom to become whatever she chooses to be." I pause, searching for words that carry proper weight. "I offer her a place where she belongs, not because of birth or bloodline, but because of who she truly is."
Ravelle nods slowly. "Better answers than her previous suitor might have given." She turns back to Cyra. "And you, child? What do you offer him?"
Cyra straightens, her voice gaining strength. "Everything I am. Everything I can become. My wit, my courage, my determination to bridge the gap between our peoples." Shereaches for my hand. "I offer him a love that sees past difference to the strength beneath."
