The Old World lost, its whispers fade,
Yet in our hearts, its debts are paid.
Their fire burns in kin unborn,
A legacy whispered, calling me home.
Zyphoro’s foot taps once, twice, then finds rhythm with the beat. Her fist clenches and crashes against the mast beside her, and when she joins in, her voice is deeper than expected and gloriously off-key, matching Reon’s with unrepentant boldness.
Drink deep, remember who we are,
The shattered past, our guiding star.
To those who walked before this night,
We drink for them, and for the fight.
They sing louder, over and over, their voices rising like a tide, drowning the sea’s roar beneath a chorus of memory and pride. The song doesn’t echo, it commands the air, pushes back the dark, as if their voices alone could keep the stars in place.
Reon finishes a final swig and flings his cup aside, rum splashing across the deck, then bows low to Zyphoro. His hand extends toward her in dramatic invitation.
She grins, feral and bright. She takes his hand, and he yanks her up and into his arms, spinning her across the deck. There’s no refinement, no choreographed elegance like the ballroom dances of Bellamar. This is untamed, tribal. A collision of movement and laughter, hips crashing, boots stomping. Zyphoro tosses her head back, hair flying like a raven’s wing in flight, her laugh wild and loud as Reon pulls her into him again.
Then even Orios, stone-faced sentinel of restraint, gets to his feet. With the ease of a man thrice his size, or thrice as drunk, he lifts Solena clean off the deck, her legs hooking around his hips. He staggers under the rum’s weight, but never loosens his grip. Her arms twine around his neck, and they lock eyes, lost in some private, sacred moment as if blissfully unaware that anyone else exists.
And across the chaos, beyond the sloshed bottles and overturned cups, I find Amara’s gaze.
I rise slowly, each step toward her weighted with purpose as glittering golden threads unfurl from my chest to hers. They twist, they tangle, until there’s no separating them. Until we are one.
I extend my hand.
Her fingers slide into mine, and the spark is immediate. A jolt, white-hot. The connection is more than skin deep. It is blood, breath, memory.Need.
I pull her up, steadying her as her body finds mine, her arm draping over my shoulder like she belongs there. My hand settles at her waist. Her warmth seeps through the fabric. I can’t help the way my fingers flex, slow and claiming.
Then we begin to move.
This isn’t the wild, reckless riot of Reon and Zyphoro, nor the fevered, shameless hunger of Orios and Solena. Ours is something older. Quieter. More dangerous.
This is the kind of dance that leaves marks.
A sway. A breath. A step that brings us closer than the last.
I don’t hear the music anymore. Don’t hear the stomp of boots or the clatter of cups. The world falls away until all that’s left is her.Her body against mine, her scent in my lungs, her eyes on my lips.
“How is our daughter?” I manage, my voice low, rougher than it should be. My hand shifts slightly, thumb dragging against her waist where the fabric clings soft and worn. I can feel the shape of her, warm, realand mine.
Her breath shudders through her. “She’s been fed. She sleeps now. Ashen watches over her.”
I nod, brushing my knuckles higher along her spine. “Then she is well guarded.”
She smells like the first breath of morning air. Like firelight and softness. Like things I never knew I needed until I lost them.
I lean in. I don’t mean to. But the pull is magnetic, inescapable. I lower my head, slowly, giving her time to turn away.
She does.
But only just.
