I step forward, instinct tightening my chest. I know it would never hurt her, but seeing a Vraksûn snow leopard stalking toward my mate makes every alarm go off inside me. He stops about seventy-five feet out, his breath curls from his nostrils in slow, deliberate puffs. The ground beneath his paws stays perfectly frozen, untouched, as if he’s walking on the memory of snow rather than the snow itself.
Lumi takes half a step forward. My arm flies out, “Don’t,” I rasp. She freezes mid-step, and I curse myself under my breath. Her shoulders shrink like I scolded her, and I hate the way her light dims for even a second.
“I didn’t mean—” I exhale, softer. “This one’s different.”
She glances at me, then back to the Virekhae. “Is he dangerous?”
“He’s not,” my voice is tight. “Unless the forest commands him to be.”
She doesn’t back away; instead, she kneels slowly onto the ground. The snow beneath her crackles, but the Virekhae doesn’t flinch. His eyes lock onto hers with predatory focus. And then, thalûn help me, she opens her hand offering the frostdropberries. They lie unbruised and shimmering in her palm like an offering.
The leopard tilts his head, and then he steps forward—one paw, then another. He stops just shy of her, so close she could reach out and touch him.
He lowers his head, his pale green eyes—the color of ancient sea-ice—never leave hers. His head dips low, jaws that were made to crush skulls, tear through hide, inches away from her small palm. He plucks a single berry from the bunch, his teeth never grazing her skin. When he’s done, he presses his forehead to her chest. The second they touch, the world splinters. A silent shockwave ripples through the grove, and for a moment, the wind itself stops breathing. Golden blooms unfurl across the snow-laced clearing, their petals are spun from sunlight and solidified breath. These are Serynthil—flowers that don’t grow from the soil, but from the resonance of a soul found worthy. They shiver between visible and invisible light, casting a glow that makes the very shadows turn to ochre. I stagger half a step back, the air leaving my lungs. I have spent thousands of years as the architect of this forest, and in a single gesture, she has unearthed a miracle that I thought was a lie.
“By the Forgotten Stars...” I whisper.
It’s not a blessing; it’s a coronation. The forest isn‘t just accepting my mate, it’s bowing to its Queen.
I struggle to find my voice. “He’s claiming you as family, Lumi. Not just as a guest, but as a part of his soul.
She reaches out and scratches right behind his ears—the same spot that would have resulted in anyone else losing their hand.
“He’s so quiet,” she whispers, a lopsided smile tugging at her lips. “And he’s got that... vibrating thing going on his chest.”
“He’s a snow leopard,” I remind her, my voice strained. “He’s an apex predator of the forest.”
“No,” she says firmly, giving the giant Vierkhae a little pat. “He’s a Whispurr.”
I blink, the ancient, holy name I had in mind dying on my tongue. “A... what?”
“Whispurr,” she repeats, looking back at me like I’m the one being dense. “Because he’s quiet and he purrs. Obviously.”
I stare at the leopard—a creature that could end a life in an instant—and he actually has the audacity to lean into her hand and huff a sound that sounds suspiciously like a contented sigh.
I choke back the half-laugh, half-sob. This woman is going to be the death of my dignity.
“Whispurr it is,: I murmur, shaking my head.
The Virekhae exhales one final plume of fog against her shoulder, as he dissolves into the trees, his tail coils around her ankle in a lingering, velvet squeeze, a parting promise that leaves her skin humming.
Her face scrunches up.
“You’ll see him again,” I reassure her, but her eyes widen in confusion. “No, it’s not that; something is tickling my ankle.”
I drop to my knees and gently lift her foot to rest on my thigh. I handle her with a terrifying delicacy, as if her skin is made of the same fragile glass as the Loom spider’s silk. As I pull back the fabric of her pants, a sense of veneration washes over me so thick I can taste it.
I watch as intricate designs begin to weave themselves into her skin—pale white ink that crawls like frost across a windowpane, glowing with the soft radiance of a winter moon.
The patterns are a jagged, ancient script—a language that predates my crown, yet it stirs something fervid within me. My soul stutters at the sight of it. I can’t help but feel I’ve seen this exact design before. The design pulls at something ancient inside me, but when I try to reach for it, the feeling slips away like fog.
“What is that?” Her voice comes out panicked.
“I-I don’t know,” I respond truthfully.
I can’t stop staring at the mark.
“It’s not hurting you, right?” I manage to get out. My thumb brushes the edge of the glowing mark, and a jolt of arctic heat flares between us.
