“We need vows,” she said.
He frowned lightly. “We’ve made enough promises for ten lifetimes.”
“Then one more. For living.”
He nodded. “Speak it.”
“I won’t turn mercy into a weapon,” she said. “I won’t ask you to be a god because I’m afraid to lead. I’ll use your strength to keep peace standing when it forgets how.”
He brushed her hair back, careful, almost reverent. “No blood for pride,” he said. “No crowns for power. If I’m your sword, it will be for harvest, not for harvesters.”
He paused. “And when I’m afraid of myself, I’ll say it aloud.”
She smiled. “And when the city tempts me to be adored instead of useful, I’ll go lift grain sacks until my arms remember who I am.”
Their smiles met and held.
Eliza drew a small knife—the same that had bought her freedom—and nicked her palm. He mirrored her. They let the drops fall together onto the beech roots. The earth accepted them without sound. A breeze moved through the branches—not blessing, but agreement.
He offered his hand. She took it. Their joined fingers dried with a trace of blood and soil, sealing the vow.
They sat shoulder to shoulder on the moss. Sunlight filtered through a gap in the leaves, running down the trunk to touch their hands before sliding away.
Eliza leaned her head against him. “Tomorrow,” she said. “The bakers’ guild. Dock weights. Naming the square where the ropes used to hang.”
“Mercy Square,” he offered, then made a face.
“Too pious.”
“Bread Gate, then.”
She laughed. “Bread Gate.”
They didn’t talk about returning; they already had. What waited beyond the forest wasn’t duty anymore—it was continuity.
When they rose, it was because the day was waiting. He doused the last coal; she scattered the ash. Together they covered the hollow where they’d slept, not to hide it but to let the forest start forgetting.
At the river, he bent to drink. The water rippled, showing a face stripped of titles.
Eliza came behind him and pressed her mouth to the back of his neck. He closed his eyes, and she felt his breath deepen—steady, orc, whole.
The forest kept their promises the way all forests do: quietly, without ceremony.
Far behind them, the city woke, stretched, and began again.
Chapter
Seventy-Seven
The plains waited for them like an old, unkind truth.
Grass bent in long waves, whispering the language of dust and distance. The horizon was enormous, the sky an unbroken wound of blue. Every step west felt like walking into memory.
Word of their return ran ahead of them, carried by riders and wind. When they reached the Circle of Stones at dusk, the clans were already gathered—half out of loyalty, half out of suspicion.
Rakhal walked to the center. Eliza followed a step behind, her pale linen cloak stirring in the wind. Shazi was already there, flanked by the old chiefs—men and women whose faces were carved into weather and pride.
“Kardoc waits,” Shazi said quietly, her voice cutting through the murmur. “They expect blood.”
