Of the way something deep in my gut, in my bones, whispered yes.
I let out a breath.
“Okay,” I say, more to myself than to Brianne. “Bathed, dressed, bonded. No pressure.”
She smiles, eyes kind.
“Take your time,” she says. “Nightfall does not rush the earth. Neither should we.”
She slips out through the main doors, leaving me alone in this impossible room with my racing heart and my cup of Demon-world coffee.
I turn toward the bathing chamber.
The stone under my feet hums once—low and approving.
“I’ll take that as a vote of confidence,” I mutter.
Then I square my shoulders, grab my cup, and head for the steam.
Because whatever this is, whatever comes next—it’s not just about being claimed.
It’s about choosing to belong.
To this world.
To this battle.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, to him.
Chapter 5
Dagan
The Rite of Bonding, The Barrow
Night rises slow over the Marches.
From my balcony, I watch the sky darken, clouds bruising to ink and violet as the veins of light above the Verdant Strata brighten in answer.
The land settles into its evening breath—deep, steady, alive.
Tonight, it waits for me.
For us.
I tell myself I am not nervous.
I am Dagan, Lord of Earth. Warden of the Rooted Marches.
Rock does not tremble.
Stone does not flinch.
And yet, as I cross the corridors toward my bedchamber—ours now—there is a very specific awareness grinding under my ribs.
Like shifting plates miles below the surface.
It’s anticipation unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
