Sylar
Chapter thirteen
I wake up slowly, the heavy tension that usually binds my shoulders entirely absent. Cinder is curled into a tight, purring ball of crimson fur right against my ribs, her nose tucked beneath her tail as she snores softly.
Beside me, Raylen is still fast asleep. His face is buried in the pillow, one heavy, ink-stained arm slung possessively over my waist to pin me to the mattress. He looks incredibly peaceful like this, stripped of his heavy leather archer’s gear and the public weight of his title.
Carefully, so as not to disturb the delicate peace of the bedroom, I slide out from beneath his arm, gently shifting a grumbling Cinder over to take my spot against the warm blankets.
I slip into a soft, loose robe and step into the quiet kitchen.
My body still aches slightly from the fierce, reverential heat of the grotto, but a sudden, crazy impulse takes hold of my chest. I want to surprise him.
Yesterday, between flights of arrows and chaotic market runs, Raylen had offhandedly grumbled about craving the heavy, sweet honey cakes our village bakers used to make for the Midsummer festival.
I pull the clay jars of flour, dried cloves, and dark mountain honey from the shelves. Baking, as I have always maintained, is merely an equation of chemistry and thermal dynamics—but as I fold the rich, golden honey into the batter, my hands are lighter than they have ever been.
Just as I draw the perfectly risen, golden-brown cakes from the small stone hearth, the floorboards behind me groan softly.
The mouth-watering scent of warm honey and toasted spices has barely filled the room before a pair of large, calloused hands wrap securely around my waist. Raylen buries his face into the crook of my neck, his lilac hair wild and sleep-mussed, breathing in the scent of my skin.
“You snore like a mountain troll,” I remark quietly, turning my head just enough to glance at him over my shoulder. I try to keep my voice clipped and analytical, but the broad, breathless smile breaking across my face betrays me.
Raylen lets out a low, rumbling chuckle against my skin, pressing a slow, lingering trail of warm kisses directly across my bare shoulder blades. “And you, my dear scholar, are such a talented baker for an elf who spends all day hiding in a silent library.”
He leans over my shoulder, his lilac eyes bright with soft, morning-glow affection as he eyes the steaming cakes.
I don’t offer a sharp, defensive retort.
Instead, I lean back into his chest, letting his radiating warmth ground me.
Standing there in the quiet kitchen with the scent of honey in the air and his arms locked around my waist, the heavy weight of the world dissolves.
My heart feels entirely light. It’s a beautiful, incalculable variable I never want to solve.
Raylen takes my hand, his palm warm and solid against mine as he slowly interlaces our fingers. The teasing light in his lilac eyes softens, replaced by a deep, grounded sincerity that makes my breath catch.
“I’m retiring, Sy,” he says softly, his thumb tracing the back of my knuckles. “No more wandering the world, jumping from competition to competition, hoping to shape myself into a worthy-enough elf for you to look at. I’m done. Just you, the stars, and maybe a very fat foxly.”
Right on cue, a sharp, indignant bark echoes from the bedroom. Cinder trots into the kitchen, her ears pinned back in dramatic offense, though her fluffy tail wags instantly at the sight of us.
The sheer absurdity of it breaks the tension, causing us both to grin wildly as Raylen reaches down to scratch behind the foxly’s ears before she flies off into the other room. For a brief, perfect moment, the future feels entirely settled, beautifully simple, and entirely ours.
“You were always worthy. It’s just taken me a long time to catch up.” I press a kiss to his lips. He drops to his knees, and my cock jumps at the sight.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sudden, startling sound against the front door shatters the mood. Raylen gets to his feet, and we exchange a quick, questioning glance. Cinder huffs as she rushes past us, growling at the door.
I smooth down the front of my robe and cross the room, pulling the heavy wooden door open.
The front porch is completely empty, the morning bustle of the outer market still a distant hum, but resting squarely on the welcome mat is a thick, pristine white envelope.
It is sealed with a shimmering, iridescent wax stamp that smells faintly of wild clover.
“What is it?” Raylen asks, stepping up right behind me.
He reaches over my shoulder, his long fingers picking up the envelope and breaking the seal with a clean snap. He unfolds the heavy parchment, scanning the elegant, looping script before reading it out loud, his voice rising in disbelief.
“To my overly frantic brother and his equally dramatic archer:
You are cordially invited to witness the union of Talia and her true love. The ceremony will commence in exactly one hour at the Ceremonial Pavilion. Please dress appropriately.
P.S. Stop spamming us with magical scrolls; I’m busy planning a noble wedding.”
“One hour?” I choke out, my composure instantly turning into panic. “Is it the prince? Oh goddess, Mother is going to kill me! She’s marrying the fucking prince of Emberleigh!”
“We need to dress for the occasion, Sy,” Raylen says, a sudden, excited grin breaking across his face as he shoves the invitation into my hands. “I have a feeling we won’t want to miss this.”
I shake my head, staring at him as if he has gone mad.
How on earth can he be smiling at a time like this?
But even as my mind rails against the absurdity of this situation, my body betrays me.
I’m powerless against his charms. Against that smile.
I look at the confident smirk on his face, and a sudden, overwhelming wave of realization hits me square in the chest. This entire trip, while I could have been drowning in my own panic, he has effortlessly turned my literal nightmare into a grand, beautiful adventure.
Forty-five minutes later, we are sprinting through the tiered archways of the market toward the historical heart of the valley. The Ceremonial Pavilion is magnificent. It’s considered the ultimate, sacred honor to be married under, as it sits directly at the ancient source of all Everend elvendom.
Unlike the chaotic, crowded trade stalls below, this upper sanctuary is a masterwork of serene agroforestry and landscape design.
Massive, ancient elms form a living, breathing cathedral overhead, their branches manicured perfectly to let filtered beams of sunlight illuminate the stone walkways.
The air is cool and damp, filled with the gentle, rhythmic splashing of tiered marble fountains and the sweet scent of carefully cultivated rose gardens that wind around the pavilion’s base.
As we crest the final stone steps, completely breathless but dressed in our finest formal robes, the pristine white altar comes into view. And standing there, looking radiant and entirely unbothered by the chaos she has caused us, is Talia.