Three days of this madness, and I'm ready to tear down the longhouse with my bare hands.
Three days of watching Saela pace the main room like a caged wolf, her shoulders tight with the kind of tension that speaks of someone fighting every instinct to run. Three days of fielding increasingly elaborate gifts from clan members who think they're honoring a divine blessing. Three days of Bronn's pointed looks and Drogath's smug satisfaction every time he passes by to check on "Cupid's chosen couple."
The worst part isn't even the political pressure or the religious hysteria. It's the way Saela flinches slightly every time someone mentions the binding ceremony, as if the words themselves are painful. The way she goes still and watchful whenever Bronn enters a room, reading threats in his protective intentions. The way she looks at me sometimes—like I'm the architect of her imprisonment rather than another prisoner in this elaborate cage.
I find Drogath in his ritual chamber, surrounded by the carefully preserved artifacts and crudely translated texts that form the foundation of his Valentine theories. The spacesmells of burning herbs and old parchment, shadows dancing across walls covered in symbols that probably meant something entirely different to their original creators than what we've assigned to them.
"Kai!" He looks up from a collection of carved wooden tokens with the enthusiasm of someone who's been waiting for exactly this conversation. "Perfect timing. I've been consulting the sacred texts about the proper progression of Valentine bonding, and I believe we've been too hasty in our approach."
My heart lifts slightly. Finally, someone willing to acknowledge that maybe this whole situation has gotten out of hand. "What do you mean?"
"According to my research, Cupid the Warrior believed in testing his chosen couples through gradually increasing intimacy and shared trials." Drogath gestures at a piece of bark covered in faded scratches that might be writing or might be tree damage. "The bond must be proven worthy before it can be sealed."
I lean forward, studying the markings that look like nothing more than random scratches to my untrained eye. "And that means?"
"Patience, my boy. Time for the divine choice to manifest naturally rather than forcing immediate ceremony." His eyes gleam with the fervor of someone absolutely convinced of his own interpretation. "The gods work slowly but surely."
The relief I felt moments ago curdles into frustration. He's not questioning the validity of the ritual—he's just advocating for a longer courtship period. Which solves exactly none of my problems.
"Drogath," I try again, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "What if we've misunderstood something about these texts? What if the Valentine traditions aren't about binding ceremonies at all?"
His expression shifts from enthusiasm to something approaching offense. "Misunderstood? I've spent months studying these fragments, cross-referencing symbols and patterns. The evidence is clear—Valentine was a powerful supplier of warrior bonding, and Cupid was the divine overseer of those unions."
"But—"
"Are you questioning the blessing you've received?" His voice carries a note of genuine shock, as if the very concept is incomprehensible. "A divine bride, delivered directly to our celebration by the gods themselves, and you want to argue about translation accuracy?"
The incredulous tone makes my teeth clench. This is exactly what I was afraid of—that any challenge to the ritual's validity would be seen as spiritual weakness rather than reasonable doubt.
"I'm questioning whether forcing an unwilling woman into marriage is what any god would actually want," I say bluntly.
Drogath waves a dismissive hand. "Unwilling? She's simply overwhelmed by the magnitude of divine attention. Perfectly natural reaction. Once she understands the honor she's been given, the protection and status our clan can provide, she'll embrace her destiny."
The casual certainty in his voice makes my stomach turn. As if Saela's terror and resistance are just temporary obstacles to be managed rather than valid expressions of her own will.
"And if she doesn't?" I ask. "What if she never wants to stay?"
"Then you're not trying hard enough to show her what we offer." His expression grows stern, taking on the lecturing tone he used when I was a child questioning clan traditions. "The gods don't make mistakes, Kai. If Cupid chose her for you, it's because the pairing will strengthen both your lives and our clan's future."
The absolute faith in his voice would be admirable if it weren't so completely misguided. There's no reasoning with someone who believes divine intervention explains every coincidence, no logic that can penetrate religious certainty.
"Besides," he continues, returning to his earlier enthusiasm, "dissolving the ritual now would be catastrophic. Bronn has already announced the blessing to the clan, already committed our honor to upholding divine will. To reject Cupid's gift would humiliate your brother's leadership and risk fracturing the clan's faith in our traditions."
And there it is—the political reality underlying all the spiritual rhetoric. Even if I could convince Drogath that his translations might be wrong, even if I could prove that Saela's presence here is pure coincidence rather than divine intervention, the clan's stability now depends on maintaining the fiction.
"So what do you suggest?" I ask, though I already know I won't like the answer.
"Court her properly. Show her the strength and protection our clan offers. Demonstrate your worthiness as a mate through your actions rather than rushing toward ceremony." He spreads his hands as if the solution is obvious. "Keep her safe, keep her comfortable, and let the gods work through natural attraction and gratitude."
Keep her. Like she's a prize to be maintained rather than a person with her own desires and fears. The phrasing makes my jaw clench, but arguing further will only strengthen his conviction that I'm being ungrateful for divine favor.
"Time," I say instead. "You're saying we have time to let things develop naturally."
"Exactly! The Valentine month provides a perfect opportunity for proper bonding rituals—shared meals, mutual protection, gradual intimacy building toward the sealingceremony." His eyes gleam with satisfaction at his own wisdom. "Trust in Cupid's guidance, and everything will unfold as it should."
I leave his chamber with the bitter taste of failure in my mouth. No help there—just more pressure disguised as spiritual counsel and political maneuvering dressed up as divine will. Drogath genuinely believes he's offering sound advice, which makes him impossible to argue with and even more dangerous than Bronn's pragmatic forcing.
At least Bronn acknowledges that politics drive his decisions. Drogath thinks the gods are personally invested in his romantic machinations.
