Caelix runs back, throwing his arms wide. I kneel; he flings himself into me. Troka folds us both into a hug.
Later, when the stars shine overhead, Troka and I sit on the porch swing. The quiet crackles. He puts his arm around me; I lean in.
“Stay,” I whisper.
He presses his lips to my forehead. “Always.”
We stay there long into the night—no lies, no running, just two hearts tangled, two promises rooted in the home we choose together.
CHAPTER 47
TROKA
Igrip Alaina’s hand as we walk down the marble corridor toward the chamber of the Justice of the Peace. The air smells of cooling stone and faint incense—an uneasy peace before the storm. Caelix rests dozing against her shoulder, small and warm, his breaths shallow. My chest clenches with the weight of what we’re doing—making the mate bond legal, binding our lives together—not just by vow, but by law.
The hall is hushed. Guards in civilian garb stand by the doors. Through the windows, dusk spills purple and gold across the sky. I slide a glance at Alaina. Her eyes are soft, resolute. She squeezes my hand. “Are you ready?” she whispers. I nod, mouth dry.
We step into the Justice's chamber: high ceilings, columns carved with ancient scripts, the desk bathed in lantern light. The Justice, an older woman with silver hair, stands. She regards us kindly. Behind her, shelves of legal scrolls and seals line the walls. A hush falls as the guards open the door and we file in—me, Alaina, Caelix held safe in her arms.
She presents the documents. Names, signatures, witness stamps. The Justice nods. The ink is still wet. Alaina’s name beside mine. Caelix’s name inscribed. My heart thunders. TheJustice raises her stylus. “This bond is recognized by the court.” She stamps it. A soft thud. Finality.
Alaina exhales. She presses her forehead to mine, just a moment. Caelix murmurs in his sleep. I want to laugh. To cry. To hold her forever.
But that moment fractures.
A low rumble echoes through the hallway outside. Lanterns gutter. The chamber door slides open with a hiss. From the threshold strides a Vakutan shaman in full ritual regalia—robes etched in runic lines, face painted, his staff carved from bone and metal. He moves with slow authority. Behind him steps a guard. The air shifts: perfume of smoke and sage, distant echo of chanting.
The Justice freezes. Alaina grips my hand tighter. Caelix stirs, one eye blinking open.
The shaman’s voice rolls in the chamber. “Before you claim that bond, you must honor the ancient ways. I demand the child—Caelix—to be brought before the Vakutan elders for the Rite. Without it, he is denied the warrior’s passage, denied the afterlife among his people.”
Silence grows heavy. The Justice falters. Guards blink. Alaina’s stomach clenches. I stand, muscles taut.
My first instinct: charge him, knock him out, silence this interference. I open my mouth—force in my throat—but Alaina’s hand clamps my arm.
She says quietly, strong: “Let him speak.”
I grit my teeth. The shaman’s robes rustle as he steps forward, staff tipped. “The elders demand proof of blood and birth. The boy must stand before the Council. You brought foreign rites. This is not trivial.” His eyes bore into us.
I raise my voice. “You don’t get to interrupt our legal ceremony with ancient demands. This is our bond. Our family.”
The shaman’s lips curl. He points his staff at Caelix. “Your bond is hollow if he is not accepted among Vakutans. I offer a path. Refuse, and he is never one of us.”
Alaina steps forward. I see fear and steel in her eyes. “He is our son. He belongs to both of us. If you demand the rite, then grant us safe passage. We will come before your elders. But do not claim him as hostage.” She speaks carefully, measured. Her words echo.
The shaman studies her, then nods. His staff glows faintly. “Very well. But know: if you refuse when called, you lose him forever.”
He retreats, robes folding. Guards flank him. The court guards shift. The Justice stands, shaken but resolute.
I release a breath. My bones ache. Caelix rests quietly again. Alaina looks at me, relief bright in her eyes.
I step forward. “We’ll go. We’ll stand before your elders. But with respect. And without threats.” My voice is firm.
Alaina leans against me. I rest my hand on her back, feel her warmth, the thump of Caelix against her chest. The court staff scurry. The Justice murmurs something about safe transport. The shaman nods once, sharply, and departs.
In the corridor I look at Alaina. Her cheeks are stained, eyes raw. She sniffs. “You did well.”
I wrap an arm around her waist. “I wanted to hit him, but… not all battles are won by fists.”
