Chapter 29
After she made her decision, Kyrax carried her back to her chambers.
He held her with the same impossible steadiness he had shown in battle, as if the world itself could tilt and he would never let her fall.
At the doorway, he set her down with careful precision, brushed a metal-gloved hand along her cheek—just once—and told her to rest. You will need your strength, he had said, voice low behind the mask.
And then he was gone, leaving her with nothing but the echo of his presence pulling faintly through the bond.
She did rest—if a state of dazed drifting could be called rest. She wandered her garden, letting the cool mist gather on her skin.
She ate whatever Raeska brought her, which turned out to be an alarming amount.
Her hunger was bottomless, an ache that felt almost biological, as if her body were furiously preparing for what came next.
She didn’t question it. Not now. Every part of her felt keyed toward some approaching moment.
When the attendants arrived, it was as if the air itself shifted.
Raeska entered first, composed as always. Behind her came the other attendants Morgan had gradually come to know over the past days—the quiet procession of women whose presence had become almost familiar.
Lethari was the first to step in, her tall, willowy form moving with the drifting grace of mist. Morgan had once commented that she barely seemed to displace air when she walked; Lethari had simply smiled, serene and unbothered, as if that were exactly the point.
Siraen followed, silver hair coiled in a regal knot, her every gesture measured with the kind of quiet authority that made Morgan instinctively straighten her posture. She spoke rarely, but when she did, it was with a calm certainty that grounded the room.
Vhalis slipped in next, quick and precise, her deft hands already assessing what needed doing.
Morgan had learned that she never hesitated—whether setting a tray, adjusting a clasp, or correcting a fold of fabric.
If Vhalis touched something, it was because she had already calculated the best way to handle it.
Last came Orah, broad-shouldered and warm-eyed, carrying herself with the serene steadiness of someone who had healed more wounds than she could count. Morgan sensed a quiet bravery in her, a strength tempered by kindness, and found herself relaxing whenever Orah was near.
They bowed their heads to Morgan with an almost ceremonial respect.
“It is an honor to prepare you,” Raeska said, the translator stone turning her melodic voice into perfect English. “He has chosen well.”
Morgan’s throat tightened. She wasn’t sure if she should feel proud, terrified, or overwhelmed. All three were already present.
The attendants began without hesitation.
Warm, perfumed water trickled over her skin as Lethari bathed her with movements so gentle they barely felt real.
Siraen worked scented oils through Morgan’s hair, fingers gliding in precise motions that soothed something deep inside her.
Orah mixed silvery pigments in small stone bowls and painted intricate markings along Morgan’s arms, shoulders, and collarbones: symbols that shimmered faintly like captured moonlight.
“For clarity,” she explained softly. “For protection.”
Vhalis brought the ceremonial garments: a gown of deep green that shimmered subtly with each shift of light. When they wrapped it around Morgan, fastening the clasps along her spine, it felt like stepping into someone else’s skin—someone stronger, more certain.
All the while, Raeska observed with a strange, soft pride.
“This strengthens all of us,” she said. “Our bastion. Our future. A stable bond is more than personal—it ripples outward.”
Morgan didn’t entirely understand how any of this tied into the fate of their people, but she understood reverence. She recognized hope. The saelori were excited—not fearful of the ritual, not hesitant about the venom, not wary of their Vykan. They believed in him. And in her.
What unsettled her most was how comforting that belief felt.
As they continued dressing and adorning her, she sensed Kyrax through the bond.
Distant, muted, deliberately quiet—like he was shielding her from the full force of himself.
She didn’t know how he could do that, how he could fold in on his own presence like that, but she felt the effort of it. A contained star.
By the time they led her to the mirrorless far wall, Morgan barely recognized her reflection in the polished metal panel.
The green gown draped perfectly over her figure.
Silver markings caught the light as she moved.
Her hair, braided with thin silver cords, gleamed against her skin.
She looked… not alien, exactly, but transformed. Prepared.
A soft breath escaped her. “I look like…”
“Like one standing at the edge of destiny,” Lethari murmured.
Morgan wasn’t sure destiny was real. But something monumental hovered around her all the same.
Raeska stepped toward her, holding out a hand. The others fell back, watching with quiet, expectant eyes.
“It is time,” she said gently.
Morgan’s pulse thudded once, heavy and slow. “Now?”
Raeska’s fingers closed around hers. Warm. Certain. “He is waiting.”
Something inside Morgan tightened at that—fear, anticipation, longing, disbelief—tangled together so completely she couldn’t separate one from the next. Kyrax was out there, somewhere close, holding himself still for her, preparing for something only the two of them could complete.
Morgan drew one breath.
Then another.
And she stepped forward as Raeska led her toward the open doorway… toward the ritual, toward the bond, toward the choice she had made and the world she had chosen it for.
Toward him.