And now, she is here.
Theron bows to the goddesses, and I follow.
“The Lidéren never lowers her head.” Láda Veléša’s voice echoes.
A shiver races down my spine, and I straighten, meeting her gaze.
“Good,” she says. “You have awakened before the ritual. That is a good sign.”
My hand moves to my forehead, brushing over the cool crystals. They arereal. I have crystals now.
“Why has this happened?” I ask and take a step forward.
“You are a child of nature, and you have understood its core,” Láda Veléša says. She lifts the hand holding her sword, and the blade glimmers. A wave of wind rushes around me, removing my veil.
The sword in her hand is silver as moonlight, sharp as the claw of the mightiest vólkin, with patterns of roses spiraling around the handle.
“Lift your chin, ethereal being,” she commands. “You are the chosen one. The one to be knelt before. The one who will restore the balance this world has lost through time.”
I stand taller, my eyes drawn to the braids framing her face. Thick and beautiful, her braids, adorned with blue and red roses, cascade over her shoulders and chest.
“A leader must bear the heaviest burdens,” she continues, “and wield both strength and mercy. In your hands lies the power to unite or destroy. Choose wisely.”
With grace and wind, she extends the sword toward me.
I raise both arms and take it from her. The blade feels impossibly heavy at first, but as my grip tightens around the hilt, the weight disappears. It’s as if the sword was made for me—it feels like home.
“Thank you for the gift and your wise words,” I say, shifting the blade into one hand.
I raise the sword high, and the flames surrounding the glade surge upward, wild and untamed. They roar to life, higher and higher, lighting the night with their fierce dance.
Then I lower the blade, and the flames respond, quieting their rage, as if submitting to my will.
The other goddesses don’t say a word, their gazes fixed upon me. Every goddess is different. Each radiates her own essence—power, flame, storm, soil, water, night—yet together, they blur into something greater, a circle of power older than the world I know. They are contrasts made whole: fierce and nurturing,storm and serenity, guardians and destroyers, all woven into a single breathless silence.
I turn to Theron, his crystals grow so bright.
“With the goddesses as our witnesses,” I say loudly for the wolves in the forest to hear, “I want to hear your vows.”
Though I awakened before the ritual began, I want this moment. This is my choice: to accept or reject, to seal fate or shatter it.
Theron straightens, his posture firm. He lifts his paw to his heart. “Noël, you are my soul,” he says, the words reverberating through the air. “The air I breathe tastes of you, and the blood in my veins burns for you. My life is yours to command, my strength yours to wield. I vow to stand between you and every shadow, every enemy, and every spirit who dares to so much as think ill of you. I will hunt before you hunger, and I will bleed for your wounds.” His voice grows softer, as if the entire world has faded, leaving only the two of us. “You are my Lidéren, my heart, my body, and my soul. My reason to exist.”
He lowers his paw from his chest and takes a step closer. “I vow to be yours, wholly and eternally, until the earth crumbles beneath your feet.”
That is a beautiful vow. So raw and sohim.If I agree, we’re sealed together. If I agree, we bond completely and set off to war tomorrow.
I will never be free of duties. Free to chase my own choices and dreams. I might never have a child of my own. I might die before completing my purpose. I might even die tomorrow.
I lift the sword and point it at his heart. Theron doesn’t move. He stares quietly into my eyes as I press the tip of the blade through his fur until I feel the resistance of his skin. The slightest pressure, and it gives way. If his heart stops beating, he will die. He isn’t immortal.
The blade draws a thin line of blood from his chest, and he grins. That familiar, confident grin.
And I grin back.
Theron brushes his thumb over the blood, then reaches out to let it hover over my chest. “Do you accept, my little dove?”
I lower the sword to my own heart, piercing the skin with a sharp sting. Blood paints the fabric of my dress, and I lift my thumb to collect it.
