The stares did not go unnoticed by Eryndor—they couldn’t be. He would’ve had to be a fool not to feel them: weighted, judgmental, pressing down as he and Azariah stepped down the aisle toward the Three Goddesses. Still, he let them roll off his back, fingers tightening slightly around Azariah’s arm. Whether the gesture was meant to reassure his betrothed or himself, he wasn’t sure.
He cast a brief glance toward Azariah’s face, noting the carefully arranged calm. Something in Eryndor stirred—an itch at the back of his mind. What was Azariah afraid of?
In the weeks leading to their engagement and now the ceremony, Eryndor had heard little of the man beside him. Only that he was promised to secure a marriage alliance, binding House Lunevere to a stronger house. Their coffers, gathering cobwebs by the season, would soon be full again. The lands between them would prosper. Delicana would benefit.
Whether it was true or not, Eryndor didn’t ask. He had learned early that questioning his father’s decisions was fruitless. Serath Lunevere didn’t listen—to advice, to insight, or to the divine.
As they reached the altar, Eryndor bowed low before the goddesses, eyes shut in reverence. He rose slowly, exhaling. This was it. The moment he would be forever bound to another. A stranger. One who would take him whole without knowing a thing about him.
There was something bittersweet in that.
At the priest’s command, the offerings were brought forward. Serath stood, face tight, lips tighter. In his hands he carried a box of obsidian, etched in silver runes and the Lunevere crest. Within lay a pen wrought from silvered ashwood, inlaid with veins of moonstone. Its shaft bore the family sigil—an argent crescent cradled by twin wings—and the grip was wrapped in indigo silk. The nib, forged from
starliron, shimmered even in shadow, eternally cold and impossibly fine. Alongside it sat a vial of moonlight-blessed ink: a silvery fluid, sealed in crystal. This pen—one of three—was used by the royal family in divinations during times of hardship.
Serath gave no look to his son. No nod, no moment of shared recognition. He simply inclined his head toward Azariah and the priest, then returned to his seat. Eryndor noticed, but it didn’t shake him. He and his father had stopped seeing each other long ago.
Then—unexpectedly—a flicker of memory surfaced in the mirror bowl, a vision, but not his own. His brow furrowed as the image formed, sharp and bright. His eyes flicked back and forth between the defining moment between the boy then and the grown man that stood beside him today. A great sacrifice, indeed. Eryn knew that Azariah lost something that day, something they both knew he could never get back, but that was in the past. He had no place in judgement, though. He, too, had a deep sacrifice that sure enough would show in the bowl as the ritual blade pricked into his thumb.
Moonlight pierced the veil of trees, casting shadows on blood-stained snow. Silver mist curled over the forest floor like breath on glass. Eryndor knelt at the edge of the clearing, his cloak torn, long blond hair unbound. One hand pressed to the earth as if in apology. Before him, a ring of runestones glowed softly. Behind him, three figures lay still—crimson soaking into white. His silver eyes, once proud, shimmered. But no tears fell. A white petal drifted from the sky and landed in his outstretched palm.His fingers twitched in Azariah’s grasp. The room had fallen silent. Some saw the vision; others only felt it—a chill down their spine, a sudden ache behind the ribs. But Azariah...Azariah saw it all.
Eryndor turned to him at last. His eyes were rimmed, not with grief, but with something close to release. That wound had never been seen in the light before. And now it had, under the goddesses' gaze and before the man chosen to witness it.
The vision faded, like breath on a mirror. The bowl stilled and the ritual moved on.
But something within Eryndor shifted. No longer merely a vessel for prophecy, he allowed himself to be seen.
Truly seen.It showed in the swirling water—colors of their houses twining together like smoke. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth, a near-smile, but it vanished just as quickly. A note of deep red flickered through the reflection. Eryndor frowned, but let it pass. This was not the time for questions.
He lifted the bowl, drank the water. The metallic tang struck him, but he accepted it. He let it move through him like a cleansing tide. He was no longer a man—or a woman for the sake of the ceremony— nor the heir of a fading house. They were now one. Whole, bound, and witnessed.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet but steady, like the ocean at night. It did not rise it did not need to.
"Azariah Nymere will bring me challenge, and change I do not yet understand. But I believe—I believe peace can exist in firelight. And I will meet him there."There was no smile, but there was something deeper. A dangerous hope.
Between them, the golden thread pulsed. Then slowly began to wrap around their joined hands, palm to palm. The vow had been made, and the Goddesses
heard. The golden thread settled against their skin, soft as silk but impossibly strong. Eryndor could feel it—not just the physical binding, but the deeper weave underneath.
A hush lingered after his words, heavier than silence. The priest spoke again, but the sound barely reached him. Eryndor’s attention had turned inward, drawn into the quiet space left behind now that the vow was done. Something in him felt..unmoored. Lighter, maybe, or hollow. He let out a slow breath, as though only now allowed to exhale.
His hand was still in Azariah’s. It was warm and ground, but unfamiliar. That realization stung a little more than he expected.
He glanced sidelong, not to steal a look, but to search for something. An anchor? A sign, maybe? They knew nothing of each other, not really. And yet here they stood, wrists bound, souls tethered. The goddesses would call it destiny. His father would call it victory. Eryndor... wasn’t sure what to call it yet.
Behind his calm, thoughts stirred like leaves in wind. Would Azariah expect affection? Submission? Obedience? Would he be cruel? Or kind in the way that made you question the cost?
The weight of his blood sacrifice still lingered beneath his skin, the vision curling at the edges of his mind. The snow. The stillness. The silence after loss. He had given the goddesses everything once before. He did not know if he had anything left to offer. A tremor passed through him—just a breath of doubt—but it was enough to earn him a glance from the nearest priestess. Her eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but with recognition.
He straightened his shoulders slightly, drawing in the ritual air. Moonlight and ash, dust and salt, the scent of the divine. He had been trained for this. Groomed. Sculpted into something palatable. But standing here now, hand in hand with Azariah, the thread binding them still warm with magic, Eryndor realized he was not the thing they had made him to be.
He was something else. He just didn’t know what yet.
And that, oddly, was a comfort.
Member
Sadie
Yankee
Floofenstein
Anciek
Crow
SilverPaw
Foster
Ohm
