It simplyis.
And for the first time in a long, long while, I see something in these warriors that we’ve forgotten—freedom, belonging.
Not just caution, or strategy, or winning, or dominion. But a true sense of belonging to something bigger than war and battle and kings and queens.Kin.
The firelight flickers against the rough stone and animal pelts, the night air even thicker now with the scent of spiced meat, the faint metallic tang of strong spirits, and something richer—a heady anticipation, a current humming beneath the revelry.
The Vaythari are celebratingher. TheirZhari.
The drumming grows louder as we dismount, the air vibrating with the thrum of anticipation for what this means. Whatshemeans.
They break into cheers when they see us, voices rising in aprimal, exultant cry. They do not bow to her. No, bowing is for kings, for rulers of blood and conquest. This is different. This is acknowledgment. This is acceptance.
Syphra emerges from the crowd, moving with a warrior’s grace, her dark eyes gleaming like polished onyx. She doesn’t speak at first—she simply gestures for Elyssara to follow.
Elyssara hesitates, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face as she glances toward me.
I tilt my chin slightly—not a command, not reassurance, just encouragement to trust her instincts. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that she needs to make her own choices.
She follows.
The Vaythari part as she moves through them, some raising curved hunting knives in silent tribute, others slapping their chests in a rhythmic pattern. They do not question her right to be here.They already know.
We pass the smoking carcasses of freshly hunted beasts, the air thick with the scent of them. The Vaythari feast like warriors—they hunt their land, they cook over open flame, they eat with their hands. This is no pristine courtly gathering. This is raw, alive, untamed.
At the center of it all, carved into the natural rock, rests the throne. Or at least, their version of one.
Made of polished stone and layered with thick furs, it is not ostentatious, but ancient. A place where warriors sit, where battle-leaders command.
Syphra gestures to it. A silent invitation.
Elyssara looks back at me again, her fingers flexing at her sides, almost as if readying herself to fight.
I arch a brow, amusement curling in my chest. She may be Starborn with magic of the gods, but she’s still an on-edge street girl at heart.
I give her the smallest nod.Sit, Duskae.
She does, and I take up the position on her right, and Therion, Ronyn and Seren form a line next to me.
Immediately, a drink is pressed into her hands—a dark,glimmering liquid swirling with silver flecks. It catches the firelight, almost as if the Stars themselves have been dissolved into the drink.
She eyes it warily. Syphra makes a symbol with her hands and directs it towards Seren.
“It’s Silverwake,” Seren murmurs hesitantly. “It’s a celebratory drink. Said to be made of the dust Stars leave in their wake.”
Her brows lift. “Well, that’s poetic.”
Syphra’s face contorts into something sly, and she makes another symbol to Seren, her slender finger flicking emphatically between Elyssara and me.
“It’s also an aphrodisiac,” Seren says, amusement coating her tongue, and she winks at Elyssara.Seren is definitely growing on me, and by the glint in Therion’s eye, she’s growing on him, too.
Ronyn slaps his thigh and barks a riotous laugh. “I fuckin’ love what this journey has done to you, Little Star.”
Elyssara chokes, coughing on the first sip, her eyes watering as the liquid burns its way down her throat.
I smirk. Stars, she’s beautiful when she’s flustered.
The fire crackles and rises against the mountain, enveloping the space in warmth that belies the icy wind.
