The crowd behind them swelled into song—something half prayer, half relief. Rakhal closed his eyes and let it wash through him.
The Shadow inside him stirred once, curious, and lay still.
And on the ramparts of Maidan, as the evening light burned down to embers, the banners of night and dawn rose together—neither conquering, neither fading—only moving as one.
Epilogue
The courtyard of the palace had never known such silence.
Above the rebuilt arch of the lion, the banners of two peoples stirred in one wind—black and gold, their colors woven so tightly no seam remained. Morning light turned them into a single flame.
Eliza stood before the basin and the brazier—river and fire, night and dawn. Around her, the crowd gathered: humans in woven silks and simple workcloth; orcs in bone-silver and red-threaded cloaks. Every shape of the new world stood together, wary and reverent, uncertain how to behave before peace.
River water met burning pine, mingling with laughter from the courtyards below, where children darted through the legs of unarmed soldiers.
Shazi stepped forward first, her crimson sash flicking in the breeze. “We do this,” she called, “not to crown a queen or a Marakhal, but to seal a promise that survived what it shouldn’t have.” She raised her arm to the people. “Witness—the joining of day and night, strength and mercy, blade and word.”
Her grin flashed, feral and proud, before she turned to Eliza and Rakhal. “Now, try not to ruin it.”
The laughter that followed was quick and nervous—the sound of an old habit breaking.
Rakhal stood opposite Eliza, tall and broad-shouldered against the gold wash of morning. His grey-green skin caught the light in bronze undertones; faint silver scars traced his forearms and collarbone like script half-erased by time. His tusks, smoothed by age and polish, framed a mouth that could look brutal or unbearably gentle depending on how he used it. His black hair was tied back at the nape, though a few strands had escaped, brushing the line of his jaw. He smelled faintly of steel and pine and something darker—Shadow tamed into scent.
He wore the plain tunic of his clan, bone clasps polished to soft white. The scars on his hands caught the light like forgotten runes. When his gaze met hers across the space between fire and water, the air seemed to tighten around it. She felt it—his attention, heavy as touch. The crowd blurred; the rest of the world waited outside his eyes.
Eliza’s dress was unadorned—woven from river linen, pale as mist. A thin circlet of gold held her hair back, a single thread of silver braided through it, glinting with each breath of wind. She had refused the weight of jewels. The only adornment she carried was the faint gray mark across her palm, a memory of blood and earth shared beneath the beech.
The waiting thickened.
Rakhal stepped forward first. His voice carried low, roughened by restraint. “I take no oath that would chain peace to my hand. I vow only to guard its heartbeat—and yours—so long as I can hold breath.”
The last words sank through her like warmth breaking cold water. His gaze stayed on her mouth longer than ceremony allowed, and she felt the tremor of what he didn’t say.
Eliza steadied her breath. “And I vow to keep its name alive when silence tempts us,” she said. “I will speak for the living, and remember for the lost.”
She reached for him, and he met her halfway. Their hands joined above the basin—heat beneath cold water, a pulse answering a pulse. His thumb brushed her wrist before he let go, tracing the place he would find again.
Shazi dipped a ladle, poured it over their joined fingers. The water ran clear, then caught firelight, flashing molten gold. Steam rose where it touched their skin, curling upward like breath.
“River and flame,” Shazi intoned. “Memory and renewal.”
When the steam faded, Rakhal drew a band of twisted metal from his belt—bone-silver and gold intertwined, imperfect and beautiful. He set it gently upon her head, fingers lingering in her hair a heartbeat too long. His touch was sure, reverent, but the heat in it carried promise.
Eliza reached into her sleeve and produced a slender silver band, plain save for a line of dark stone through its center. She pressed it into his palm. “We share burden, not crown,” she said.
A hum moved through the crowd—not applause, not cheer, but something quieter and more enduring. Some orcs touched fingers to their lips and then to their foreheads. The human nobles bowed—not to power, but to balance.
Shazi lifted her cup again. “Done,” she said. “Let no one dare improve it.”
Laughter rippled, this time full and easy. The tension broke like ice beneath sunlight. Drums began to beat—slow, steady. Pipes answered from the city wall, a melody both mournful and bright.
Food and wine appeared as if conjured. Tables filled the courtyard; guards abandoned their posts to serve bread. Human bakers and orc huntresses passed pitchers hand to hand.Someone began to dance, dragging others in by sheer audacity. Joy spread, astonished to exist.
Azfar watched from the terrace, staff grounded in silence. He had seen too many beginnings not to know how fragile they were. Yet when Eliza’s eyes found his, he inclined his head—solemn, almost proud—and turned away.
As night came, torches burned along the riverfront. Gold light swam on the water, the current carrying it toward the plains.
Eliza slipped from the crowd and found Rakhal beneath the new beech arching over the courtyard—a descendant of the tree that had once hidden them in the forest. The air smelled of rain and woodsmoke, of earth reclaiming its peace.
