Beside him stood Ralvar. He wore a tunic of deep black leather over dark trousers, both pieces marked with silver that echoed the patterns on her dress. His war-marks seemed darkeragainst his green skin, as if someone had traced them with fresh ink. His tusks had been polished to a gleam.
He extended his hand.
She took it, and he drew her forward.
"You look beautiful," he said in a low voice, taking in the sight of her.
Delia felt her lips curve into a smile. "I know."
The words came easily, without the familiar sting of contradiction or the reflexive urge to deflect. Because shedidknow. For the first time, she looked at herself and saw what he saw.
Thessaly had arrived hours earlier, arms full of deep blue fabric and a knowing smile. The dress was simply cut but beautifully made, the stitching along the neckline intricate with small patterns.
"Mountain Clan patterns," Thessaly had confirmed.
The fabric draped over her curves instead of trying to hide them. It followed the swell of her hips, the fullness of her breasts, the soft roundness of her belly, and made them look intentional. Sacred, even. She'd stood before the polished metal that served as Ralvar's mirror and traced the embroidered patterns at her neckline with one fingertip.
His marks. His clan. Mine now.
Then Thessaly had worked on her hair for the better part of an hour, brushing out tangles and weaving sections into intricate braids that wrapped around her crown like a coronet. She'd explained as she worked: this braid meant protection, that one fertility, this pattern was for strength in the bond.
"You're crying," Thessaly had said softly, pausing with her fingers still threaded through Delia's hair.
"Happy tears," Delia had whispered. "I didn't know there was such a thing."
Now, standing before Ralvar with the whole clan watching, she understood why the dress fit so perfectly, why the braids felt like armor, why she could meet his amber eyes without flinching.
He had made her believe she was beautiful.
And she finally agreed.
Together, they turned to face the elder.
"We witness." The elder's voice was surprisingly strong for his age, rolling across the courtyard like thunder in distant mountains. "Ralvar of Clan Stonefang, Captain of the Northwatch Patrol. Delia of—" A pause, weighted with meaning. "—of Northwatch."
Northwatch.
Not Harrowmere. Not Valdara. The clan had claimed her origin as thoroughly as they'd claimed her future.
"Who speaks for this bond?" the elder continued.
"I do." Ralvar's voice was steady. "I claim this woman as mine. I offer her my protection. My trust. My vulnerability. My promise that I will listen when she speaks, that I will honor her choices, that I will stand beside her for as long as blood flows in my veins."
The words were formal, but when he turned to look at her, there was nothing formal in his eyes.
"I offer her my heart," he added, quiet enough that only she and the elder could hear. "Such as it is. Such as she's made it."
The elder nodded slowly, then turned to Delia. "And you, Delia of Northwatch? What do you offer in return?"
She'd thought about this. Had lain awake in the darkness planning words, discarding them, planning again. But now, standing before the clan with Ralvar's hand in hers, all her careful speeches dissolved.
"I offer him the same," she said. "My loyalty. My devotion. My life. And I offer him my choice. I am here becauseI choose. I stand before you becauseI want to. And I claim him—" She turned to face Ralvar fully, letting him see the tears gathering in her eyes. "—because he is worth claiming.”
Her voice cracked, but she pressed on.
"He asked me once what I wanted, and now I know the answer." She squeezed his hand. "I want him. I want this. I want to wake up every morning knowing I belong somewhere. And I do—here. With him. For as long as he'll have me."
Silence.
