“Let it shield your men,” she said. “And bring them home.”
He bowed deeper, his voice cracked. “We will be honored to die in your name.”
She moved on.
Thauren met her next, looming near the bonfire, a silver goblet in hand. His smile was tired but true.
“You’ll hold the eastern ridge?” she asked.
Thauren nodded. “I’ll be your thunder, Maris. You be the spark.”
She touched his wrist, letting that spark pass into him.
From there, the night unfolded like a ritual.
Serenya. Corin. Riven. Zairon. Valea. The trusted. The dangerous. The devout.
She gave them all something.
A moment.
A sliver of power.
A goodbye they wouldn’t recognize as one.
And at last, she stood on the steps, watching as the factions mingled, the blood-drenched warriors of Nythra sparring with Eryndor’s scouts, Calanthean archers teaching Virellian mages drinking songs. For tonight, there were no borders. No curses.
Just music. And breath.
Her gaze swept to the firelit edge.
To Kael.
To Alarik.
The ache inside her was not divine.
It was human.
She closed her eyes and let the drumbeat carry her forward.
Maris stood at the edge of the dance circle, breath fogging in the cooling air. She didn’t know how many hours had passed, only that the sky was shifting, time running like sand through cracked glass.
She turned at the sound of approaching boots and caught sight of Serenya, sweat at her brow, hair half-loosened from its braid. She looked radiant, radiant and utterly lethal in her leather armor, sword still strapped at her back even in celebration.
“You’re not dancing,” Serenya said, nudging her shoulder.
Maris huffed a laugh. “I was waiting for someone worth the rhythm.”
Serenya rolled her eyes, but there was affection in it.
“Gods,” Maris whispered after a pause. “You do know how proud I am to call you friend?”
Serenya’s mouth twitched into a small, real smile. “I’m not the sentimental type, but —yeah. I know. And I’m proud of you, too. Not because you’re the Veil Breaker. But because you haven’t let it turn you into a statue.” Her eyes softened. “You’re still Maris.”
They clasped arms, warrior to warrior, and it felt more sacred than any crown.
Not far beyond, Serya and Leneth, wives of Corin and Riven, waved her over with goblets in hand and mischief in their eyes.
