58. Seraphina
58
SERAPHINA
T he moon hangs high in the sky, a pale silver eye watching over us.
The ceremonial grounds are bathed in a ghostly glow, the black stone beneath my bare feet warm with magic.
Rylan stands before me, clad in the darkest silk, obsidian embroidery twisting like vines over his broad shoulders. His silver hair is loose, falling past his sharp cheekbones, his emerald eyes burning only for me.
A king in his own right.
A conqueror who has taken power, vengeance, and fate into his own hands.
And tonight?—
He takes me.
The air hums with something ancient.
A magic older than time, woven into the foundations of the dark elf nobility, of the mate-bond that will bind us in life, death, and whatever comes after.
The high priest stands between us, his face hidden behind an ivory mask, his robes a deep, endless red.
Behind him, the great pyre burns, casting our shadows long against the stone.
This is not a human ceremony.
This is something darker, deeper—something final.
Because mating in dark elven tradition is not just a vow.
It is a binding of souls.
It is the promise that one does not live without the other.
He’s binding to me what remains of his soul after the magic consumed it.
I’m binding what’s left of mine to his as well. Together, we’re one.
Rylan takes a step closer, his fingers brushing over my wrist, barely a whisper of contact—yet it burns.
I sway.
He notices. His lips curve.
“My little thief,” he murmurs. “You’re nervous.”
A small, sharp breath escapes me. “I am not.”
Lies.
Because this is forever.
There is no turning back. No undoing this bond.
It is not marriage.
It is something more dangerous, more permanent, more real.
It is a mating.
A tethering of body, mind, and soul.
The priest raises his staff, the silver inlay pulsing with crimson light.
He speaks in the old tongue, his voice echoing through the ceremonial grounds.
I don’t understand all the words, but I feel them.
They settle into my bones, into my blood, seeping into the parts of me that are no longer just human.
A bond that does not simply tie?—
It fuses.
A golden dagger is placed in Rylan’s palm.
I watch as he lifts it without hesitation.
The blade gleams as he presses it against his palm, slicing into his flesh.
Dark elven blood, rich and powerful, drips into the sacred basin before us.
The priest nods, turning to me.
And I do not falter.
I take the blade.
Steel kisses my skin, and I watch as my own blood—different now, darker, laced with magic—falls to meet his.
Our blood mingles.
Our souls entwine.
Rylan’s breath catches.
I feel it.
The shift in the air. The way something inside of me pulls toward him, reaching, grasping.
He shudders, his eyes wild.
He feels it too.
The priest dips his fingers into the basin, painting the symbols of the old gods across Rylan’s forehead, then mine.
A binding spell. A mark that cannot be erased.
And then?—
The final words.
The ones that will seal this.
Rylan grips my hand—hard, his fingers slick with blood.
His voice is low, rough, raw.
“I vow to you, Seraphina, before gods and shadows, before blood and fire?—”
My throat tightens.
His emerald gaze pins me in place.
“You are mine.” His voice trembles. “You will always be mine.”
The magic tightens.
And when I speak—when I let the words fall from my lips—I feel them carve themselves into my very being.
“And you are mine.”
A rush of power, heat, sensation.
The night erupts.
The fire blazes brighter.
The bond snaps into place.
Rylan moves.
One second, he is before me, hands shaking from the implications what we’ve done.
The next?—
His mouth claims mine.
The kiss is fire, ruin, devotion.
He presses me back against the altar, his hands tangled in my hair, his body pressing me into the stone.
The crowd watches.
But we do not care.
Because this is our moment.
Because this is our eternity.
We belong to each other.