Chapter 3
Alina
Nightfall
The first thing I notice is the silence.
Not the absence of sound—there’s plenty of that.
Wind sliding over stone.
Water running somewhere below.
Distant clangs from what might be quarries or forges.
No, this silence is different.
It’s the silence of ground that isn’t screaming.
Which, after working most of my adult life in New Jersey, is new.
We step out of the tunnel and into twilight, and for a second I forget how to breathe.
“Whoa,” I whisper.
We’re standing on a broad stone ledge halfway up a cliff face.
Above us, dark rock rears up in jagged spikes, crowned with something that looks a hell of a lot like a fortress carved straight into the mountain.
The Barrow.
The name enters my mind unbidden, it just appears. And I know this is Dagan’s home.
It doesn’t sit on the rock so much as grow out of it.
Towers and ramparts and arched windows are all fused seamlessly into the cliff, like someone coaxed the stone into this shape instead of building it.
Below, the land drops away in a series of broad terraces that curve out and down in gentle arcs—layer upon layer of cultivated earth forming a vast, stepped landscape.
The Verdant Strata, my brain supplies, unhelpfully dramatic.
And yeah. It fits.
Each terrace is different.
One is a riot of dark green crops with luminous seedpods that glow faintly like constellations fallen into the soil.
Another is scattered with trees whose trunks shimmer with veins of softly glowing sap.
Farther out, I see quarries cut like deep geometric wounds into the rock, blocks of stone stacked neatly beside them, waiting to be shaped or shipped.
The entire place hums.
Not audibly—not loud.
It’s low.
Beneath the senses.
A presence in my bones. A quiet, continuous thrum under my boots that makes the land feel awake.
Alive.
Like a heartbeat, I’m somehow tuned into.
I swallow.
We’re not in Jersey anymore, Toto.
“This is…” My voice trails off because I honestly don’t have a word big enough. “Incredible.”
Beside me, Dagan stands tall and still, like he’s part of the scenery. Black hair pulled back, pale skin catching what little light the sky has left, green-gold eyes tracking every flicker of my reaction.
“The Rooted Marches,” he says quietly. “My territory. My duty.”
Our hands are still linked from the walk through the tunnel.
I don’t let go.
He doesn’t, either.
The sky above is not fully dark, but it’s not daylight, either.
Nightfall lives in permanent twilight, if what Dagan explained on the way is right.
The clouds are thick, bruised purple at the edges, streaked with channels of pale green light like distant storms caught in slow motion.
The air smells like loam and stone dust and something bright and sharp underlying it all—like cut limes and crushed pine needles.
The ground under my boots gives a little sigh.
Not a tremor. Not a threat.
More like it’s saying oh good, you’re here.
The realization makes my chest tight.
“The earth is different,” I murmur.
“Yes.” Dagan studies my face. “How does it feel to you?”
“Like it’s talking,” I say slowly, searching for words.
“Not in English, obviously. But… I don’t know.
Back home, when there’s instability, I feel it as wrongness.
As tension. Potential energy waiting to snap.
Here it feels more like…” I wiggle my fingers helplessly.
“A conversation. Like it’s including me in whatever it’s doing. ”
One corner of his mouth lifts.
“That is good, Oona,” he says. “The bond thread forms. Mine runs deep in this land. Now, yours brushes against it. The Marches recognize you. And when our zareth fully forms, the connection will only be greater.”
I laugh weakly.
“Great. The land likes me. Tell that to my student loans.”
He huffs out a quiet breath that might be his version of a laugh.
We start walking along the ledge toward a set of broad stone steps carved directly into the cliff face.
As we move, the trees below stir, branches lifting as if in a breeze I can’t feel.
The closer we get to the fortress, the more intense the hum beneath my feet becomes.
It’s not overwhelming, but it’s intimate.
Attentive.
Like the land is watching me with a thousand unseen eyes.
My stomach flips.
It’s not just the land.
It’s him.
Dagan stays half a step behind and to my side, always between me and the open drop.
It’s subtle. Protective.
Quietly possessive in a way that should annoy me but somehow doesn’t.
I glance over at him, taking in the cut of his jaw, the way his coat hangs heavy off his broad shoulders, the faint lines at the corners of his mouth that speak of a man who doesn’t smile easily.
He catches me staring.
I look away quickly.
Too late.
His voice drops low. “Tell me what you are thinking.”
I consider lying.
Then I remember the ground literally responds when I get emotional here and decide—yeah, nope.
“I’m thinking this is the strangest, most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” I admit. “And I’m thinking I don’t know what it means that your land is humming at me. And that every time I try to process any of this, my brain just goes, wow, he’s hot which is extremely unhelpful.”
His steps falter for one beat.
Then those green-gold eyes cut to mine, sharper now. Lit from within.
“You feel it,” he says. “The fit.”
“Fit is one word for it,” I mutter, heat rising in my cheeks.
He stops us with a gentle pressure on our joined hands.
The fortress is looming above us now, its carved arches and narrow windows glowing with warmly lit interiors. The stone under our feet is smooth and worn. Behind us, the terraces stretch away into twilight.
We’re standing in the heart of his domain.
And he’s looking at me like I’m the wildest thing in it.
“We fit, Oona,” he says softly.
He uses that nickname again. But this time, it takes me off guard.
“Oona?” I repeat.
“One of your world’s names for the earth spirits,” he says. “My people use it rarely. For those who anchor us.”
My heart does a weird little lurch.
“Anchor you,” I echo, because my brain is apparently stuck in repeater mode.
“Stone without root is rubble,” he says simply. “My power shakes, breaks, fractures. Yours steadies. Grounds. The Marches are quieter with you here. So am I.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
So I don’t say anything.
I just hold his gaze and let the truth of it sink in—this terrifying, beautiful demon thinks I steady him.
That we… fit.
It’s a lot.
And yet… it feels weirdly right.
A soft throat-clearing sound breaks the moment.
I jump.
Standing at the top of the steps we were about to climb is a woman in a dark green gown, her copper-brown hair braided back from a strong, dignified face.
She’s older than me, maybe mid-forties if we’re using Earth years, with fine lines at the corners of her eyes and a posture that says she takes exactly zero crap from anyone.
Her gaze flicks from Dagan to me and back again, and then she dips into a graceful bow.
“My Lord,” she says. Her voice is low and warm. “Welcome home. And this must be?”
“This is Lady Alina.” Dagan releases my hand only to place it more deliberately on his arm.
“Brianne,” he says. “This is my viyella. Treat her with the same respect you show me.”
Brianne’s eyes soften.
“Yes, my Lord.” Then to me, with a small, genuine smile: “Welcome to The Barrow, Lady Alina. I am Brianne. I oversaw the household under the former Prime and have been entrusted with doing the same for Lord Dagan. It will be my honor to attend you, should you allow it.”
Attend me.
Right.
Cause that’s a thing here.
“I, uh… hi,” I manage. “Please, just call me Alina. Or at least drop the ‘lady’ part? I’m still having a hard time being anything except the girl who once fell into a mud pit on a survey and lost her boot.”
Brianne’s lips twitch.
“As you wish, L—I mean, Alina,” she says. “If you will come with me, there is much to prepare. The mating rites must be observed properly.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“Oh. Right. Those.”
Dagan goes very still beside me.
“Brianne will show you your chambers,” he says, voice careful. “You will have time to rest. To consider. The formal rite is not until night’s rise.”
“Night’s rise?” I echo.
He nods toward the sky.
The clouds above are darkening at the edges, those pale green channels of light brightening like veins pulsing in a giant heart.
“When the sky turns fully,” he says. “You will know.”
There’s a weight to his words.
Not pressure, exactly.
More like promise.