“It’s beautiful,” I say, and I don’t mean the craftsmanship. I mean what it is.
A mark, yes—but not a collar. Not a cuff.
A partnership.
Something fated but also chosen.
Dagan’s thumb strokes the inside of my wrist where my pulse races. “It is not a brand,” he says as if he heard my thoughts. “It is not meant to claim you.”
I lift my gaze.
His eyes are so open right now it almost hurts to see him like this.
“It is meant to remind you,” he continues, “that you hold power here. With me. Over me, if you wish it.”
My lips part. “Over you?”
His mouth twists. “Do not be smug.”
Too late.
I grin anyway. “So this makes me…”
He hesitates, like the words are unfamiliar, like he’s never allowed himself to say them.
“The Lady of Dirt,” he finally rumbles. “The one who anchors me. The one who tells me when I am about to become a landslide.”
I laugh softly, because it’s absurd and perfect and I love him so much it makes my chest ache.
Then his expression shifts—something darker, vulnerable beneath the stone.
“And,” he says, voice rougher now, “it is proof.”
“Proof of what?” I ask, reaching up to brush my fingers along his cheek.
His lashes lower. “That I am not alone.”
The admission lands heavy between us.
My smile fades.
Dagan’s jaw tightens as if he’s bracing for impact from words he’s waited too long to say.
“I was afraid,” he says bluntly, because subtlety is not his religion. “Of being the only one without a viyella.”
My heart squeezes so hard I feel it in my throat.
He stares at the ceiling like he can’t look at me while he admits it.
“Afraid of failing,” he continues, “and of watching my brothers build something I could not. Afraid the Crown would remain silent because I was insufficient.”
I make a sharp, offended sound. “Excuse me?”
His eyes flick to mine, startled.
I sit up just enough to get his full attention and jab a finger gently into his chest.
“You don’t get to call yourself insufficient when you literally held a realm together with your hands.”
