The yearning only deepens the hurt. Makes everything sharper and more unbearable.
I hear his voice outside sometime later—deep and familiar, making my chest constrict. He's talking to someone, probably Kaelen. The conversation is too muffled to make out words, but I catch the tone. Frustrated. Desperate.
Good. Let him suffer too.
But even thinking that makes me feel petty and small. Makes me hate myself a little for still caring enough to want him in pain.
I pull the furs back over my head and close my eyes against the gathering daylight. Sleep still won't come. But at least in darkness, I don't have to face the reality of what comes next.
13
RAKK
The lunar shrine caves smell like earth and ancient stone. Cold seeps through the soles of my boots as I stand in the ceremonial circle, waiting for Zurkar to bring Serah down the carved steps.
Three days. Three days of her refusing to see me. Three days of catching glimpses of her hollow expression as she moves through the settlement like a ghost. Three days of knowing I destroyed something precious and having no way to fix it.
"Steady." Kaelen's hand grips my shoulder. He's standing beside me as witness, fulfilling the traditional role of closest brother-in-arms. "She'll come."
"She has to come." The words taste bitter. "I made sure of that."
He doesn't respond. What can he say? We both know what I did. We both know I stole her choice even as I was trying to save her from worse.
The other warriors line the cavern walls—silent witnesses to the binding. Dad stands at the edge of the ceremonial circle, his expression unreadable. Probably pleased I'm finally takinga mate. Probably calculating how this strengthens his political position.
He doesn't know about my magic. Doesn't know what I'm about to do.
Only Zurkar knows. And he's going to be furious.
The shaman appears at the cavern entrance, his pale robes glowing in the torchlight. Behind him, Serah descends the steps. Lola supports her elbow—not because she needs physical assistance but because she looks like she might bolt at any moment.
My breath catches despite everything.
She's wearing traditional mating clothes—soft leather dyed deep burgundy, edged with intricate beadwork that catches the firelight. Her dark hair spills over her shoulders in loose waves. Someone wove small white flowers through the strands. She's beautiful. Devastating.
And she won't look at me.
Her amber eyes fix somewhere past my left shoulder as she approaches the circle. Her face is a careful blank—not angry or sad or anything. Just empty. Like she's carved herself out from the inside to survive this.
Because of me. Because I did this to her.
Lola releases her arm as they reach the circle's edge. Serah steps inside alone, moving like someone walking to an execution. She stops beside me—close enough that I catch her scent, that familiar warmth that's haunted me for weeks.
I want to reach for her. Want to apologize again, to somehow make her understand. But my hands stay locked at my sides.
Zurkar begins the ceremony. His voice fills the cavern, speaking the ancient words in the old tongue. Around us, the assembled warriors respond at the appropriate moments—deep voices creating harmonics against stone.
I hear none of it. All my attention narrows to the woman beside me who feels miles away.
The shaman moves through the opening blessings. He calls upon the War God first, asking for strength and protection. Then the Enchantment Goddess, requesting fertility and prosperity. The traditional invocations that every mating ceremony includes.
Then he gestures us both forward, into the exact center of the circle where sacred herbs smolder in a carved stone bowl.
"Cleansing comes before binding," Zurkar intones. He lifts burning sage and begins the purification ritual, waving smoke over first Serah's body, then mine. The sharp scent fills my lungs. "We cleanse the past to make way for the future. We release old pain to embrace new joy."
Serah's jaw tightens. The irony isn't lost on either of us.
Zurkar produces the ceremonial ropes—braided leather woven with sweetgrass and dried rirzed blossoms. He takes Serah's right hand and my left, binding our wrists together with practiced efficiency.
