The drums shift to a new rhythm, something primal and insistent that seems designed to crawl under your skin and take up residence there. I feel the weight of every gaze in the circle, the expectation thick enough to choke on.
Bronn nods at me across the fire, his expression stern but not unkind. He genuinely believes this will work, that some warrior god from human mythology is going to materialize a perfect mate out of the winter air. The faith in his eyes is almost harder to bear than his disappointment would be.
I step forward, my boots crunching against the snow-packed earth. The heat from the bonfire washes over me in waves, making the painted symbols on my bare arms feel tight against my skin. Drogath has insisted on traditional dress for the ritual—leather pants, boots, and enough red clay to make me look like I've been dipped in blood.
"Cupid the Warrior!" Drogath spreads his arms wide, addressing the moon as if it might actually respond. "We offeryou Kai Frostfang, son of ice and stone, seeker of worthy battle! Send him a mate whose heart beats in rhythm with his own!"
The drums crescendo, and someone starts chanting in what Drogath claims is the ancient human tongue. It sounds suspiciously like gibberish to me, but the clan takes up the words with enthusiasm that would be touching if it weren't so completely misguided.
Ursik begins the ritual dance, his massive frame moving with surprising grace around the fire. Others join him—warriors and women alike following the steps Drogath choreographed from his interpretation of human courtship customs. They circle the bonfire in elaborate patterns, red paint gleaming in the firelight, voices rising in harmony with the relentless drumbeat.
And I stand in the center of it all like a sacrifice begging to be put out of my misery, trying not to glare at every face that passes by.
This is what I get for agreeing to Bronn's plan. Three days ago, he cornered me in the training yard with that expression I know means trouble—the one where he's decided something needs fixing and I'm the obvious solution.
"The clan needs to see you settled," he'd said, blocking my path to the weapon racks. "You're thirty-four years old and still sleeping alone."
"I like sleeping alone."
"You like brooding alone. There's a difference." He'd crossed his arms, immovable as a glacier. "Besides, the Valentine Rite is harmless. Drogath's convinced it will bring you a bride, and humoring him costs us nothing."
"It costs me my dignity."
"Your dignity will survive one night of painted skin and ritual drumming."
But standing here now, surrounded by the entire clan performing what amounts to an elaborate mating dance, I'm notso sure. The absurdity of it all settles on my shoulders like a lead cloak. We're warriors, hunters, survivors of a harsh world where strength and cunning matter more than fairy tales. Yet here we are, painted like children and dancing to summon a mythical archer who supposedly specializes in matters of the heart.
The chanting grows louder, more insistent. Shae passes by in the dance, her green eyes catching mine with a look of gentle sympathy. Behind her, Falla spins with theatrical flourish that makes several of the younger women laugh.
I close my eyes and try to block out the noise, the heat, the weight of expectation pressing down on me from all sides. This is temporary, I remind myself. Dawn will come, nothing will happen, and life will return to normal. Bronn will be disappointed, but he'll move on to some other scheme for improving my existence.
The drums stop.
Silence falls over the clearing like a physical weight, broken only by the crack and hiss of burning wood. I open my eyes to find everyone frozen in place, faces turned toward the treeline as if they're listening for something.
Drogath raises his hands, his painted face glowing with fervent certainty. "Cupid draws his bow," he whispers, and somehow his words carry to every corner of the circle. "The sacred arrow seeks its target."
The moment stretches, taut as a bowstring. I can hear my own heartbeat, the whisper of wind through pine branches, the distant call of some night bird. The fire pops and sparks shower upward toward the stars.
And then the trees explode.
A figure bursts from the darkness at the edge of the clearing, stumbling toward the fire with desperate speed. Human—definitely human—with wild brown hair and clothes that look like they've been assembled from scraps. She crashes into thecircle like a stone through glass, feet tangling in the painted lines Drogath spent hours perfecting.
She careens straight toward me.
I have enough time to register gray-green eyes wide with terror, the sharp angles of a face marked by exhaustion and fear. Then she slams into my chest with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs, her momentum carrying us both backward toward the fire.
My arms come up automatically, catching her before we both tumble into the flames. She's lighter than I expected, all sharp edges and trembling muscle beneath layers of patched wool. Her hands clutch at my shoulders with desperate strength, fingers digging through the painted symbols on my skin.
For a heartbeat, we're frozen there—her face tilted up toward mine, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her gray eyes, feel the rapid flutter of her pulse against my chest. She smells like pine needles and snow, with an underlying scent that's purely, unmistakably human.
Then Drogath's voice booms across the clearing, rich with triumph and absolute conviction:
"The gods have chosen!"
I barely manage to swallow my groan.
I am so completely, utterly fucked.
