Faster. Pass after pass. Her hem flares through a turning kick, the weighted panels swinging exactly as built, exactly as rehearsed on my dais. His spear passes beneath it through the space her leg has already left.
They're grinning at each other now. Both of them, openly, like this is a secret they've kept for two years and finally get to tell in front of everyone they love.
Beside me, Torgan watches with his jaw tight and his eyes bright.
"You never beat her?" I whisper.
He considers the question for a moment before shaking his head. "No."
"Not once? In your whole life?"
"Watch the wedding, Lissy."
"I'm just saying, it explains so much about?—"
His hand finds mine and squeezes. I shut up, and we watch his sister fight the man she loves at full speed, promising with every miss.
Their last pass comes high and fast. His spear and her sword cross again and again as they close the distance between them. A hand's width. A finger's width. Then they stop so close they're sharing the same air.
Frozen. Blades crossed between them, chest to chest, breathing hard.
Not one thread of that dress is cut.
The old dryad lowers her hand.
"It is done," she says.
The clearing erupts.
Orcs stamp until the lanterns swing in the branches, while the dryads make a sound like an entire forest whispering in the wind.
Saskia and Mikka drop their weapons in the moss and kiss in the middle of the circle while their families lose their minds. Saskia's dress, the dress I made as armor disguised as decoration, catches the lantern light as he lifts her clean off the ground.
"It is done!" Mikka shouts again.
I am not crying. I tell myself it's the lantern smoke.
Grammy appears at my elbow and hands me her handkerchief without a word.
"All right," she says at last. "That was better than dishes."
The feast runslong and loud, and the dancing starts before the eating stops.
Orcs and dryads can agree on at least that much.
The tables are piled with food. Roasted boar from the orc side of the family. From the dryad side, things I've never encounteredbefore, like honey-roots, flower wines, and bread that tastes like autumn.
Saskia and Mikka eat standing up, going from table to table in their wedding clothes. Every time Saskia passes me, she touches the embroidery at her shoulder and points at me across the crowd like a warrior crediting her armorer.
I dance with Torgan twice. I dance with Mikka once, and he thanks me for the dress.
"She moved like herself," he says. "That's all I ever wanted anyone to let her be."
I dance with Torgan's grandfather, who turns out to be light on his feet in a way that should be illegal at his age.
But he spends the entire tune interrogating me about Grammy's mead tolerance.
"She'll drink you under the table," I warn him.
