Chapter 47
TROKA
Igrip Alaina’s hand as we walk down the marble corridor toward the chamber of the Justice of the Peace.
The air smells of cooling stone and faint incense—an uneasy peace before the storm.
Caelix rests dozing against her shoulder, small and warm, his breaths shallow.
My chest clenches with the weight of what we’re doing—making the mate bond legal, binding our lives together—not just by vow, but by law.
The hall is hushed. Guards in civilian garb stand by the doors. Through the windows, dusk spills purple and gold across the sky. I slide a glance at Alaina. Her eyes are soft, resolute. She squeezes my hand. “Are you ready?” she whispers. I nod, mouth dry.
We step into the Justice's chamber: high ceilings, columns carved with ancient scripts, the desk bathed in lantern light.
The Justice, an older woman with silver hair, stands.
She regards us kindly. Behind her, shelves of legal scrolls and seals line the walls.
A hush falls as the guards open the door and we file in—me, Alaina, Caelix held safe in her arms.
She presents the documents. Names, signatures, witness stamps. The Justice nods. The ink is still wet. Alaina’s name beside mine. Caelix’s name inscribed. My heart thunders. The Justice raises her stylus. “This bond is recognized by the court.” She stamps it. A soft thud. Finality.
Alaina exhales. She presses her forehead to mine, just a moment. Caelix murmurs in his sleep. I want to laugh. To cry. To hold her forever.
But that moment fractures.
A low rumble echoes through the hallway outside.
Lanterns gutter. The chamber door slides open with a hiss.
From the threshold strides a Vakutan shaman in full ritual regalia—robes etched in runic lines, face painted, his staff carved from bone and metal.
He moves with slow authority. Behind him steps a guard.
The air shifts: perfume of smoke and sage, distant echo of chanting.
The Justice freezes. Alaina grips my hand tighter. Caelix stirs, one eye blinking open.
The shaman’s voice rolls in the chamber. “Before you claim that bond, you must honor the ancient ways. I demand the child—Caelix—to be brought before the Vakutan elders for the Rite. Without it, he is denied the warrior’s passage, denied the afterlife among his people.”
Silence grows heavy. The Justice falters. Guards blink. Alaina’s stomach clenches. I stand, muscles taut.
My first instinct: charge him, knock him out, silence this interference. I open my mouth—force in my throat—but Alaina’s hand clamps my arm.
She says quietly, strong: “Let him speak.”
I grit my teeth. The shaman’s robes rustle as he steps forward, staff tipped. “The elders demand proof of blood and birth. The boy must stand before the Council. You brought foreign rites. This is not trivial.” His eyes bore into us.
I raise my voice. “You don’t get to interrupt our legal ceremony with ancient demands. This is our bond. Our family.”
The shaman’s lips curl. He points his staff at Caelix. “Your bond is hollow if he is not accepted among Vakutans. I offer a path. Refuse, and he is never one of us.”
Alaina steps forward. I see fear and steel in her eyes. “He is our son. He belongs to both of us. If you demand the rite, then grant us safe passage. We will come before your elders. But do not claim him as hostage.” She speaks carefully, measured. Her words echo.
The shaman studies her, then nods. His staff glows faintly. “Very well. But know: if you refuse when called, you lose him forever.”
He retreats, robes folding. Guards flank him. The court guards shift. The Justice stands, shaken but resolute.
I release a breath. My bones ache. Caelix rests quietly again. Alaina looks at me, relief bright in her eyes.
I step forward. “We’ll go. We’ll stand before your elders. But with respect. And without threats.” My voice is firm.
Alaina leans against me. I rest my hand on her back, feel her warmth, the thump of Caelix against her chest. The court staff scurry. The Justice murmurs something about safe transport. The shaman nods once, sharply, and departs.
In the corridor I look at Alaina. Her cheeks are stained, eyes raw. She sniffs. “You did well.”
I wrap an arm around her waist. “I wanted to hit him, but… not all battles are won by fists.”
Caelix yawns. I lift him, cradling his head. He stirs, then rests. I kiss his damp curl.
Alaina presses her cheek to mine. The night sky lies beyond the windows. We walk out of the chamber as one—fated, bound, wary but together. Our path isn’t simple now. But we chose it. That bond we signed is more than paper.
And I promise myself: I will protect that covenant. Against every shaman, every law, every doubt. Our family is real. Our love is legal now—no more ghosts, no more secrets. We enter the moonlit hallway strong, together.
This new dawn begins not with war, but with risk. But we face it side by side.
I carry Caelix in my arms as we climb the stone steps of the Vakutan clan hall, torchlight flickering against carved glyphs and bone inlay.
The night air is cool, heavy with incense smoke drifting like ghosts among the columns.
Every breath tastes of ash, leather, ceremony.
I sense Alaina beside me, her hand brushing mine—steady, warm.
When we reach the inner chamber, the elders sit in ringed stone seats, their faces inscrutable, their eyes glinting silver in torchlight. The air buzzes—expectant. The drums of ritual echo faintly from inner halls. The shaman from before stands behind us, staff planted, eyes guarded.
I step forward, placing Caelix gently on a carved dais. Alaina stands behind me. The elders lean in. Silence crushes everything.
One of the senior elders—a woman ringed in scars and tribal markings—raises a hand. Her voice is a low rumble. “Bring him forward.”
The shaman nods, steps aside. Caelix steps forward, tentative, golden eyes bright in the torch glow. The elders murmur. I hold my breath.
Another elder says, “His skin is tinged with red, signs of Vakutan blood.” A younger elder leans close, inspecting. He whispers something to the first elder. The hall murmurs—wheels turning.
Then the first elder stands. Her voice strong: “He is one of ours. He bears the mark of lineage. He is accepted.” A ripple of approval sweeps the chamber—nods, quiet exhalations, the drumbeat rising behind closed doors.
Alaina exhales, tears catching in her eyelashes. I reach back, brush her cheek—she nods, trembling.
An elder slides from his seat, approaches Caelix, extends a ceremonial ribbon of gleaming crimson fabric.
He ties it about Caelix’s wrist, tying him to their clan.
The ribbon glows faintly. The elders stand, palms raised, chanting in Vakutan tongue.
The air vibrates. Caelix’s chest puffs—he looks at me, then at Alaina. His face fierce, proud.
I feel tears burn behind my eyes. I step forward, bow. The elders nod. I bow again, deeper—respect, gratitude, humility.
When the ritual ends, torchlight soft, the hall feels warmer. Alaina leans into me. I wrap her arm, breathe her in.
Later, after the celebration, after laughter and speeches, I lead Alaina out into the moonlit courtyard where we first met—moon shining on water, reeds whispering. The air is sharp, fresh, as though the world has reset.
I take her hand, draw a small blade from my belt—the Vakutan ceremony blade, ceremonial steel with runes. I hold it before her, blade tip down, palms raised. The ceremony demands no ring, but a blade as pledge between bonded mates.
She laughs—soft, disbelieving. “You brought a sword?” she teases.
I grin, voice low. “This blade is my vow. My protection. All I have to give.”
Her laughter dies to a whisper. Tears glisten on her cheeks. “Troka…” she murmurs.
I slide to one knee, blade raised. “Alaina, you are my home. My war, my peace. Will you become my mate forever? Let our fates bind. With this blade, I promise you my life.”
She presses her hands over her mouth, tears spilling. She nods, voice cracking: “Yes. Yes, Troka. Always yes.”
I rise, press the blade to the ground in salute. She steps forward, embraces me. Caelix runs between us, wrapping his arms around us both. I slide the cloth ribbon from his wrist over my arm and tie it to mine and hers—three souls bound.
The elders, watching from the veranda, softly applaud. Torches flare. Music begins—a soft Vakutan chorus, the string quartet reassembled. Alaina presses her face into my chest. I kiss her forehead.
This night is ours—ceremony, love, acceptance. The peaks we fought to reach. The blade in my hand is more than steel—it is promise, family, home.