Chapter 4
Alina
The Barrow, Nightfall
I nod slowly.
“Okay,” I say. “Mating rites later. Processing now. Got it.”
Brianne steps forward, her hands clasped.
“Before anything else,” she says, “you must be given proper fyrann.”
“Fry… what?”
“Fy-rann,” she repeats patiently. “It is a brewed drink from roasted mountain beans and root-bark. It settles the stomach, clears the mind, and restores strength after travel. My Lord cannot function without it.”
Dagan makes a low, rumbling sound that might be a warning or might be embarrassment.
“I function,” he mutters.
Brianne arches a brow.
“With fewer broken things when you’ve had your fyrann,” she counters.
Okay, I like her.
“Fyrran sounds like coffee, so I am sold,” I say. “Lead the way.”
Inside the fortress, the air shifts again.
The stone walls bleed the chill right out of the air, but they’re not cold.
They feel insulated. Safe.
The corridors are lit with soft, moss-green globes nestled in alcoves, and here and there I glimpse open archways leading to rooms where vines crawl decoratively along carved stone.
It’s like someone mashed up a castle, a monastery, and a very high-end eco-lodge.
Brianne guides me to a set of double doors marked with a sigil carved into the lintel—three interlocking circles surrounded by stylized roots.
“Your chambers,” she says, pushing the doors open.
I step inside and promptly forget how to speak for the second time in an hour.
The room is enormous.
A polished stone floor, softened by thick woven rugs in shades of deep green and charcoal.
A bed big enough to host a small yoga class dominates one side, its frame carved from some dark, glossy wood shot through with faint, glowing veins.
The sheets are soft-looking and pale, with a subtle pattern of leaves.
A balcony juts out from the far wall, its doors open to let in the twilight breeze.
Beyond, I can see the terraces stretching away, glowing faintly with the same low magic as before.
To the right, an arched doorway leads to a bathing chamber. I glimpse a sunken stone pool, steam curling up from its surface, shelves lined with glass bottles full of shimmering liquids in earth-tone hues.
My brain supplies one very eloquent thought.
Holy. Shit.
Brianne moves toward a low table near the balcony doors, where a ceramic pot sits nestled in a holder carved from stone. Delicate cups wait beside it.
She pours.
The liquid that fills the cup is a deep, rich brown, and it smells amazing.
Like coffee’s hotter, darker cousin. Roasted and earthy, with a hint of something spicy underneath.
“Fyrran,” she says, handing me a cup. “Careful. It is strong.”
I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic and breathe in.
If this stuff tastes half as good as it smells, I’m doomed.
I take a cautious sip.
Heat spreads along my tongue.
Bitter and bold, but not harsh—there’s a sweetness under it, and a faint tingle like cinnamon or ginger.
It slides down my throat and then blooms in my chest, warmth unfurling through my veins.
“Okay, wow,” I say. “I absolutely need this recipe.”
Brianne’s mouth curves.
“I suspect your world does not have such plant derived recipes worth the barter,” she says mildly. “But perhaps we can arrange a trade of sorts.”
I have no idea what I could possibly offer in exchange for this in life-changing beverage form, but honestly?
I’d consider selling my soul. Or at least my grad thesis.
As if sensing my brain veering off-track, Brianne inclines her head toward the bathing chamber.
“When you are ready,” she says, “you may bathe. I have set out garments suitable for tonight’s Rite of Binding. If any do not please you, we will find others.”
Rite of Binding.
The mating ceremony.
Right.
Because that’s happening.
To me.
Like in one of those crazy romance books I used to read in college—and let’s face it I wish I still had time to read them now.
With a man—a Demon Lord—I met, like, today.
I take another sip of fyrran and let my thoughts settle, one by one.
New Jersey. The quakes. The fissures. The way the earth steadied when Dagan took my hand.
Nightfall. That this realm is literally responsible for dreams across all worlds, and the SoulTakers want to unmake it.
The ore hidden beneath the crust of this world, running through it like magic-fueled veins. The healers. The way Dagan and his friends, brothers and their mates (Dagan already told me about them—other Jersey girls, apparently) stayed.
They chose to join this fight.
I take another sip, and my thoughts go back to him. To the Demon with the face and body of an angel.
To Dagan’s face when he said we fit, Oona.
Something inside me that’s been loose for a long time… clicks.
I set the cup down carefully.
“Brianne?” I say.
“Yes, Alina?”
“If… if I go through with this rite,” I ask, voice softer than I intend, “what does it mean? For your people. For him. For me.”
She considers me for a long beat.
“For my Lord,” she says finally, “it will mean strength. Aid. A partner bound to him in power and in life. For our people, it will mean hope. The land is changing. The cracks grow wider. He cannot hold them alone.”
Her gaze gentles.
“For you, Alina, well, that is for you to define. But know this. The bond is not a cage. It is a bridge. You will change him. He will change you. Neither will be what they were before—but if the zareth is true, you will both be more.”
I think of my apartment back home.
Quiet. Empty.
Plants on the windowsill. Half my stuff still in boxes because I moved from job to job so often it never felt worth fully unpacking.
I think of the nights lying awake listening to the distant hum of traffic and the closer hum of my own restless brain, trying to calculate how many retrofits might fail if the quakes got worse.
I think of standing at fault lines and wishing I could do more than write reports no one read.
I think of lonely nights where cold Chinese food in my fridge was my only sustenance and the TV a sad substitute for company.
Then I think of the way the earth went still when Dagan reached for me.
Of how his face softened when he said we fit.
Of the way something deep in my gut, in my bones, whispered yes.
I let out a breath.
“Okay,” I say, more to myself than to Brianne. “Bathed, dressed, bonded. No pressure.”
She smiles, eyes kind.
“Take your time,” she says. “Nightfall does not rush the earth. Neither should we.”
She slips out through the main doors, leaving me alone in this impossible room with my racing heart and my cup of Demon-world coffee.
I turn toward the bathing chamber.
The stone under my feet hums once—low and approving.
“I’ll take that as a vote of confidence,” I mutter.
Then I square my shoulders, grab my cup, and head for the steam.
Because whatever this is, whatever comes next—it’s not just about being claimed.
It’s about choosing to belong.
To this world.
To this battle.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, to him.