“By star-thread and soul-flame,” I vow, voice rough but unbroken, “I name you my viyella. I bind my fire to your keeping, my strength to your survival, my fate to your choosing. Do you accept my claim?”
The fire bends toward us, weaving light and heat together like spun silk.
“I do,” she whispers, and my soul breaks.
I gaze at her for one long, drawn out moment, then turn to the room at large.
“Then, let the realm bear witness.”
The witnesses bow their heads.
The flame answers.
The Ember Vein will burn protected.
The SoulTakers will choke on fire and stone.
And every one of these anxious faces will sleep easier beneath the Broken Plains.
But none of that matters as Delia stands before me—brave, luminous, unyielding—because now I know with terrifying clarity that whatever comes after this, there is no unmaking what we have begun.
And that might be my only salvation.
Chapter 6
Delia
The Dining Hall, Ashfell
The toast comes after the vows.
Wine is liberally poured into shallow crystal cups that glow faintly from the heat of yet another hearth, though this one is not as large or luminous as the Great Flame.
The liquid is dark and rich, almost black at first glance, but when I lift it to my lips it tastes of sun-warmed fruit and smoke, of something aged and intentional.
Not sweet. Not bitter. Balanced.
Thorne watches me as I drink.
Not like a conqueror.
Like a man holding his breath.
Dessert follows, carried out on stone platters still warm from the hearth.
It looks like lemon meringue at first glance—tall, cloudlike—but when my spoon breaks the surface, molten caramel spills out instead, glossy and golden.
The top is crowned with something like roasted marshmallow, blistered and dark at the edges, and the plate is rimmed in coarse salt.
I take a bite.
Oh.
Wow.
The sweetness hits first, then the smoke, then the salt—sharp enough to make my mouth water all over again.
I make an undignified sound before I can stop myself.
