Chapter 32 The Claiming
THE CLAIMING
Her chest tightened. Gods, she was once again forced to confront how wrong she had been.
She had been raised to believe Dravaryns were cold and cruel, bound only by blood and fear, yet what she saw in their faces was not so different from the devotion she’d known in Orchid.
Passion that burned bright, loyalty given freely, a love for their Prince that no threat could shake.
Jakobav stepped forward then, bare feet on dark stone, eyes fixed on the tent.
Maeren, Savina, Thane, Bryn, and Soren flanked her, standing straight and still, unwavering at their posts like immortal guardians.
An attendant stepped from the tent, carrying a heavy, black-handled mug that steamed in the cool air. She approached the High Vexari and bowed, presenting it with both hands. The Vexari accepted the vessel, lifted it, and turned toward Jakobav.
Even from the raised platform, Ella knew that color—deep violet, the same tea Bryn had given them earlier. Nothing else in Dravaryn glowed quite like that brew.
Jakobav didn’t spare the Vexari a glance when she offered it. His eyes were locked on Ella, steady and unblinking, the roar of the arena thinning beneath the force of that stare.
He took the mug in one hand, lifted it, and drank. The entire thing was gone in a single, unbroken pull. When he lowered the mug, his lips were slick with violet. She forgot how to breathe.
He licked it slowly from his bottom lip, never once breaking eye contact with her.
Had he meant to remind her of exactly what that tongue could do, of how he had taken her apart against the garden hedges with nothing but his mouth?
Gods, help her. She felt as though they were the only two in the arena, instead of thousands of Dravaryns who had no idea the heir of their rival kingdom stood in their midst.
The way his gaze fixated on her, almost daring her to look away, was indecent in a way no touch could match.
He’d accused her of being a distraction, and right now, she’d never felt more like one, a sick satisfaction twisting inside her. The Jakobav she first met would have belonged only to his people today, to his fate, to the power waiting to choose him.
It shouldn’t matter. But it did.
A strange lightness drifted through her limbs, as if her body briefly forgot the simple act of being.
When the Vexari spoke again to announce the first phase, Maeren’s boots scraped the ground as she left Ella’s side.
“First, the Binding of Stone.”
Maeren strode to Jakobav, a blade carved from pale rock in her hand. Without hesitation, she sliced her palm and pressed it to his chest, crimson blooming over the ash painted on his heart. “The stone remembers,” she murmured.
The ground hummed, the low vibration sinking deep into the earth.
She returned to Ella’s side without a glance, the cut already sealing. Strange.
“Second, the Tempering of Mind.”
Savina’s silver-mesh gloves caught the light as she crossed the floor. She cupped Jakobav’s jaw and temples, her words spilling too fast for Ella to catch. The tang of ozone filled the air, and Jakobav’s eyes flared metallic before dimming again.
Savina stepped back, lips twitching faintly, and rejoined her place beside Ella.
“Third, the Warding of Earth.”
Soren walked barefoot to Jakobav, his silence somehow louder than the crowd. He held a lump of rich, dark soil. He pressed it to Jakobav’s palms. The arena floor groaned, cracks spidering outward, threads of obsidian racing like veins toward the tent.
Without a word, Soren turned and returned to Ella’s side. What the hell was that?
“Fourth, the Anointing of Flesh.”
Bryn sauntered forward with a shallow silver bowl.
Steam curled up, carrying the scent of pear and juniper.
He tipped it slowly, oil sliding in gilded rivulets over Jakobav’s chest and shoulders.
Jakobav’s throat worked as Bryn’s fingers spread the shimmer over skin and muscle, lingering just long enough to draw whistles from the crowd.
Bryn smirked, patted him twice on the chest, and returned to Ella.
The Vexari’s staff struck stone, and the tent shuddered, its seams rippling as a rush of steam escaped into the air.
“Final phase, the Claiming of Truth,” she announced. “Hand selected by the Prince, this duty falls to Thane Ironfell—”
“Not today.” Jakobav’s voice cut through the arena like a blade.
Silence rippled through the stands.
Even Thane’s head snapped toward him, brows lifting.
Jakobav never looked away from Ella. “The final Rite will be performed by Ellandria of Orchid.”
Ella’s heartbeat slammed against her ribs, loud enough she could feel it in her teeth.
Fuck. Did she imagine that, or did he just announce her to his entire kingdom?
Her knees threatened to buckle.
The murmur that swept the crowd was incredulous.
Even the Vexari’s inked face stiffened, her dark markings seeming to writhe in the torchlight. “Prince,” she said, her voice dripping with distaste, “her name was not submitted for the final phase. You tread outside the Rite.”
Jakobav didn’t flinch. “She has walked our halls as both guest and prisoner. She has fought beside us, bled for us, and faced the breach when others faltered. I name her before all of Dravaryn, not as an enemy, but as the one I trust with the heart of my Claiming.”
The Vexari’s gaze lingered on him a heartbeat too long. Then her staff struck the rock, the sound echoing like a warning bell. “So be it,” she intoned, her expression darkening. She lowered her voice. “But know this, Prince. When you alter the Rite, it alters you. And the realm will remember.”
Gasps broke like waves, and Ella’s pulse thudded in her ears. Thane’s mouth curved into a smirk as he stalked toward her.
“Since you’re stealing my part,” he murmured for her ears alone, “I’ll at least see you enter it properly. Required to enter the sacred waters.”
His hands found the knot at her ceremonial gown. One smooth pull, and the silk slid from her shoulders to pool at her feet.
The sound the crowd made went from commotion to havoc, ranging from shouting to applause.
She stood naked before them—the thousands of Dravaryns who now knew exactly who she was: Ellandria of Orchid, the lost heir.
But it wasn’t only her body laid bare. It was everything she’d dragged to this moment: years of self-chosen exile, the bloody path to an enemy stronghold, the prophecy she’d never wanted and couldn’t outrun.
Now, stripped beneath the eyes of a kingdom, she wasn’t merely exposed to Dravaryn—she was exposed to Orchid as well.
Word would spread. Her people would learn where she’d gone, what she’d done.
And the fallout…gods, she couldn’t afford to think about that now.
Jakobav’s gaze swept over her, unhurried and certain.
The heat in his eyes burned through her.
“Come,” he said, extending his hand. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t quite a command. It was possession dressed as an invitation.
Ella placed her hand in his, and the arena blurred as he drew her forward.
The High Vexari’s voice rose over the murmuring tiers.
“Clear the shroud. Bare the witness.”
At once, attendants rushed forward, black-and-silver robes flaring as they moved in perfect sync.
Ropes were loosed, stakes drawn up, and the heavy silk walls of the tent collapsed inward before being pulled away entirely.
Steam rolled outward from the hot spring and billowed into the chilled air, curling around Ella’s skin and causing her nipples to tighten, but she refused to be ashamed.
She was honored that Jakobav had chosen her.
The spring at the center wasn’t just a pool, but more like a living thing, larger than any courtyard fountain yet bottomless at its heart, its surface reflecting molten gold shifting over black petals caught in a current. Heat rolled off in pulsing waves.
From deep below, a low, continuous murmur seemed to rise through the water and seep into her soul. She couldn’t quite make out the words, or maybe it was incoherent syllables.
Is it possible for a body of water to murmur? Can anyone else hear that?
She stood at the top of the steps into the hot spring, bare to the air and to the truth of who she was. And though thousands watched, it wasn’t shame that rooted her in place; it was destiny.
Jakobav had undressed at the top of the stairs and was already halfway down, steam wrapping around the planes of his chest and shoulders like it couldn’t decide whether to caress or consume him. At the last step, with the water licking at his hips, he glanced back over his shoulder.
“Come, Ella,” he said, holding out his hand. Not a command she could refuse.
Her bare foot touched the first step, stone warm beneath her sole, and the scent of pear, juniper, and mineral heat wrapped around her as she descended.
At first, she could still touch the bottom, her toes gripping smooth rock.
But as they moved toward the center, the slope dropped away until the water was holding her entirely.
The inner circle took their places at the edge: Maeren’s blade still bloodied from Phase One, Savina’s silver-mesh gloves sparking faintly in the steam, Soren barefoot and bent forward with his palm on the arena floor, Thane’s eyes fixed on her with a private, unreadable smile, and Bryn grinning like he already knew the outcome.
They stood evenly spaced, forming a living ward around the spring.
The attendant’s voice carried to her from across the water. “Guide him. If the fates find him worthy, they will draw him below. Keep one hand beneath his back, the other at his thigh, and lead him to the center. Only there may he be taken.”
Ella swallowed. “And if they don’t?”
The attendant’s expression did not change. “Then he will not rise with new power. Or he may not rise at all. And this day will be remembered for a very different reason.”
The water shimmered as Jakobav turned onto his back, muscles shifting under the molten light. “Ready?”
No. Absolutely not.
But she nodded.