"Always," she said.
The elder nodded once and struck his staff against the stone.
The sound rang out across the courtyard like a bell. Delia looked down at the bone carving still cradled in her palm. The mountain cat, small and perfect, her mother-in-law's final gift. She lifted the leather cord and slipped it over her head. The totem settled against her collarbone, warm from Ralvar's body, and somehow felt like it had always belonged there.
The feast that followed was unlike anything Delia had ever experienced.
In Valdara, celebrations were structured affairs. Specific foods at specific times, appropriate behaviors carefully maintained, women eating less than men and everyone pretending theyweren't hungry. The rare feast days of her village had been performative, more about appearing prosperous than actually enjoying anything.
This was chaos. Glorious, wonderful chaos.
Long tables had appeared from somewhere, laden with roasted meat and bread and things she didn't recognize but smelled incredible. Drums pounded a rhythm that seemed to pulse through the stone itself. Orcs danced while others clapped and stomped and called encouragement.
She'd lost track of Ralvar somewhere in the chaos. Caught glimpses of him across the courtyard—warriors clapping his shoulder, Korah saying something that made him actually laugh. Every time their gazes met across the crowd, warmth sparked in her chest.
Someone pressed a cup into her hand (honey mead, sweet and strong), and someone else pressed food (roasted something, tender and savory), and everywhere she turned there were faces wanting to congratulate her, people wanting to clasp her hand, voices calling her by name. Someone touched the bone totem where it hung against her collarbone. "Stonefang's mother made that. Great honor."
Thessaly found her soon after, pressing another cup of mead on her and steering her toward a quieter corner. "Don't let them drink you under the table. Orc blood processes alcohol differently. You'll be unconscious before they even feel it."
"I'll be careful," Delia promised, though the warmth spreading through her chest had nothing to do with the mead. "Thessaly, I wanted to thank you. For everything. The healing, the kindness, the—"
"Stop." Thessaly held up a hand, but her amber eyes were soft. "You don't thank family for being family. That's not how this works."
Family.
The word hit Delia somewhere deep, in a place she'd thought had scarred over years ago. Her throat tightened.
"I never had—" She stopped. Started again. "The family I came from, they weren't—"
"I know." Thessaly squeezed her hand. "The family you're born to and the family you choose aren't always the same. Sometimes the choosing matters more." A wry smile crossed her face. "I should know. I chose this clan fifteen winters ago, and I've never regretted it. Not once."
Brenneth appeared next, passing her a bundle of soft leather. "For your work," he said gruffly. "Good hide. Hard to source. Don't waste it."
Delia looked down at the leather—supple and beautifully tanned, worth more than she'd earned in weeks. "Brenneth, I can't—"
"You can. You're ours now. We take care of our own." He nodded once and disappeared back into the crowd before she could thank him.
Kessan came next, holding something wrapped in cloth. When Delia opened it, she found a small knife, well-balanced, wickedly sharp, the handle carved with mountain patterns.
"Every woman should have a blade," Kessan said simply. "Even if you never use it, you should have one."
Before Delia could respond, a shadow fell across them both.
She looked up—and up—into the iron-colored eyes of Warchief Targesh Ironhide. Kessan nodded respectfully and stepped back, giving them space.
He looked different than he had at the gates. Less like a force of nature about to level a mountain, more like... an uncle, maybe. A terrifying, enormous uncle who could crush skulls with his bare hands, but still. There was warmth in his weathered face as he looked down at her.
"Little human," he rumbled. "You make a fine bond-wife."
"I—" Delia straightened, trying to find words that wouldn't sound ridiculous in front of this mountain of a warrior. "Thank you, Warchief Targesh."
With a nod, he moved away into the crowd, leaving Delia with Kessan and her half-finished mead and a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with alcohol.
As the sun began to set, painting the mountain peaks gold and copper, the crowd started to shift. The drumming softened. The dancing slowed.
Korah appeared at Ralvar's side, saying something that made the other warriors laugh. Ralvar's response was too quiet tohear, but the tips of his ears darkened with what might have been a blush.
Then he was moving toward her, cutting through the crowd with purpose, his eyes fixed on her face.
