She disappears down the hallway without another word, though I notice she doesn't close the door completely behind her. Smart girl. If this conversation goes badly, she'll want to hear it coming.
The knock repeats, more insistent this time. I take a breath, steel myself for what's coming, and pull open the door.
Bronn stands on my threshold like judgment made flesh, his steel-gray eyes hard with disapproval and something that might be disappointment. The ceremonial paint has been washed from his face, leaving him looking like what he is—a clan leader whose authority has just been questioned in front of his people.
"Brother." His voice carries the particular tone that means I'm about to get a lecture.
"Bronn." I step back to let him enter, though every instinct I have rebels against it. "Come to check on your divine miracle?"
His jaw tightens at the sarcasm, but he enters without comment, taking in the empty main room with a sweeping glance that probably notes Saela's absence. Good. Maybe he'll think she's already settled in for the night.
"I took part in your ridiculous ritual," I say, closing the door with more force than necessary. "I stood there while Drogath painted symbols on my skin and declared me chosen by ancient gods. I carried a terrified human woman to my longhouse andpromised her shelter. Isn't that enough cooperation for one evening?"
"You were supposed to complete the binding tonight."
I turn to stare at him, hoping I've misunderstood, but his expression is grimly serious.
"Complete the—what exactly do you think a binding ceremony involves, Bronn?"
"The same thing it's always involved." His voice doesn't waver, doesn't show even a hint of uncertainty. "The exchange of vows, the sharing of blood, the blessing of the gods. Cupid's chosen couples don't waste time on lengthy courtships."
"She's been here for less than an hour." The words come out strangled, disbelief warring with growing horror. "You expected me to drag a complete stranger to my bed based on Drogath's interpretation of old holiday customs?"
"I expected you to honor the gods who answered our prayers."
The calm certainty in his voice makes my hands clench into fists. This is my brother—the orc who taught me to fight and hunt, who stood beside me through every border conflict we've faced, who's led our clan through prosperity and hardship with steady determination. But right now, looking at his implacable expression, he feels like a stranger.
"This isn't destiny, Bronn. It's a human woman running for her life who had the misfortune to stumble into our festival." I step closer, letting him see the frustration I've been holding back. "She's terrified, she's exhausted, and she wants nothing more than to get as far away from us as possible."
"Then it's your job to change her mind."
"It's my job to—" I stop, taking a breath before the argument can escalate into something we'll both regret. "She doesn't want to be here. Doesn't that matter to you at all?"
"What matters is that the clan witnessed a miracle tonight." His voice hardens, taking on the implacable tone he uses when his word is final. "They saw the paint glow with divine light. They heard Drogath proclaim Cupid's blessing. They watched their future leader receive a bride from the gods themselves."
The weight of implication in those words settles over me like a lead blanket. This isn't just about religious tradition or ancient customs. It's about leadership, about the clan's faith in their chosen heir, about political stability built on the foundation of divine approval.
"So I'm supposed to marry a stranger because it looks good for your succession plans?"
"You're supposed to honor the gift the gods have given you because refusing would undermine everything we've built here." The steel in his voice could cut stone. "The clan needs unity, Kai. They need to believe that their leaders are blessed, that their traditions have meaning, that their gods still watch over them."
"And if I can't give them that?"
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications neither of us wants to voice. Bronn's expression doesn't change, but I see something flicker in his eyes—regret, maybe, or recognition of the impossible position he's putting me in.
"Then we'll find another way," he says finally. "But not tonight. Tonight, in front of the entire clan, we cannot defy a direct blessing from Cupid the Warrior."
I want to argue, want to point out that the only blessing involved was coincidence and misinterpretation. But the rigid set of his shoulders tells me it would be useless. His mind is made up, his course set by political necessity and religious conviction.
"How long?" The words taste bitter. "How long before you expect this farce to become permanent?"
"The Valentine festivities run until the next full moon. That gives you time to... court her properly. To help her understand her place here." He moves toward the door, our conversation apparently concluded in his mind. "We'll tell the clan that you're honoring Cupid by allowing the sacred bond time to deepen before the final ceremony."
"And if she still wants to leave when the moon turns?"
He pauses with his hand on the door latch, not quite looking back at me. "She won't. Once she understands what we can offer—safety, security, a place in the clan—she'll see the wisdom in accepting Cupid's gift."
The absolute certainty in his voice makes my stomach clench. He genuinely believes that any rational person would choose to stay here, that our way of life is so obviously superior that resistance is just a matter of ignorance.
