Chapter 5
Dagan
The Rite of Bonding, The Barrow
Night rises slow over the Marches.
From my balcony, I watch the sky darken, clouds bruising to ink and violet as the veins of light above the Verdant Strata brighten in answer.
The land settles into its evening breath—deep, steady, alive.
Tonight, it waits for me.
For us.
I tell myself I am not nervous.
I am Dagan, Lord of Earth. Warden of the Rooted Marches.
Rock does not tremble.
Stone does not flinch.
And yet, as I cross the corridors toward my bedchamber—ours now—there is a very specific awareness grinding under my ribs.
Like shifting plates miles below the surface.
It’s anticipation unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
I have done this walk a thousand times—to meet with healers, to consult with stewards, to deal with emissaries from the Marches.
Never like this.
Never with a viyella waiting on the other side of the door.
My hand closes on the carved handle.
The sigil of interlocking roots and circles hums faintly beneath my palm, as if The Barrow itself is watching.
“Cowardice ill-suits you,” I mutter at myself, and push the door open.
She stands near the center of the room, and for a moment all the air leaves my lungs.
Alina.
My Oona.
She has chosen a gown the color of rich soil after rain—dark brown, nearly black, with a subtle sheen that catches the glow-globes and turns them to molten shadow along her curves.
The bodice hugs her closely, lifting and framing the bronzed swell of her breasts until my mouth goes dry.
Soft, layered skirts fall from her waist, moving with every breath like water over rock.
When she shifts her weight, the fabric parts just enough to reveal a long, strong leg, the muscles flexing beneath smooth skin.
For a heartbeat, all I can hear is the thunder of my own pulse.
“Is—is this okay?” she asks, fingers curling in the fabric at her hips. “Brianne said to choose, and this one just kind of called to me, but if it’s wrong for the ceremony or my body type—”
“You look resplendent, Oona,” I say, the endearment escaping before I can stop it. “And as for your body type, I think perhaps you misunderstand the sheer perfection that is you.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
Then her lips curve.
“Resplendent perfection, huh?” she repeats, a faint flush rising in her cheeks. “That’s not a phrase I get a lot.”
“Then your previous acquaintances were morons,” I reply, moving toward her. “Come. Stand by the window, and I will show you your new home before I steal you away from it.”
Her gaze flicks past me to the balcony doors.
“New home,” she echoes softly, as if tasting the words.
I offer my hand.
She takes it.
Peace like I never imagined flows through me.
How can this be? Did the Fates really hide my soul mate in another world? Is this creature truly mine?
The stone under our feet hums, a low, pleased vibration.
I lead her to the open doors and out onto the narrow balcony.
The night wind curls around us, carrying the familiar scents of the Marches—wet earth, fresh-cut stone, the faint metallic tang of distant quarries, the green-laced sharpness of living roots.
Below, the terraces spread out in layers of soft light.
“The Verdant Strata,” I say, gesturing. “The upper tiers are healing gardens and food crops. The middle hold orchards, herbs, and root beds. The lowest are the quarry edges and clay pits. The Marches feed half the realm and rebuild what the wars break.”
Her fingers tighten slightly around mine.
“The trees,” she breathes.
I follow her gaze.
Scattered along the terraces, the great root-trees rise—trunks shot through with veins of pale, luminous sap.
Their branches spread wide, leaves whispering in a wind that barely touches our skin.
Glowing drops slide along the bark, pooling where branches meet trunk, then sinking slowly inward.
“They’re glowing,” she murmurs. “Like… like bioluminescence. Only… not.”
“It is the heart-sap,” I explain. “It carries magic from the deep roots to the canopy. The Dreamwrights use it in their work. The sap sings of what the land has seen.”
“Sings,” she says, eyes wide. “You mean that literally, don’t you?”
“Yes.” I angle my head, listening. “If you listen, perhaps you can hear the roots hum beneath the dirt.”
She frowns slightly, concentrating.
The wind falls away.
The sounds of the household fade. For a moment, there is only the two of us and the slow, steady beat of the Marches underfoot.
Then her breath catches.
“Oh.”
The sound she makes is soft. Reverent.
“What do you hear?” I ask quietly.
“It’s like a-a bass note,” she whispers. “Low. Steady. A purr? No, more like a drone like the sound a worker bee makes. It’s not unpleasant. It’s grounding. Like when you put your hand on a running engine and feel it vibrating through your bones. Only this is everywhere.”
I allow myself a smile.
“The land approves of you,” I say. “It speaks louder when you are near. I have not felt it so calm in a very long time.”
She swallows.
“Is that good?”
“It is necessary,” I say, and this time there is no hiding the truth. “Nightfall is cracking. The Marches feel every fault. With you here, the fractures do not vanish—but they seem to hold.”
I turn to face her fully.
“You are steady in ways I am not.”
Her gaze meets mine.
Something in it is soft and fierce at once.
“I’ve spent my whole life studying how things break,” she says quietly. “Maybe it’s time I learn how to help them hold.”
The words punch straight through my ribcage.
The earth shifts underfoot—no danger, no threat.
Just acknowledgement.
“Yes,” I say roughly. “Come. The Rite awaits.”
I lead her back inside, our hands still joined. Brianne has lit more glow globes in the corridor; they dim as we pass, then brighten behind us, like a trail of quiet stars.
We descend a spiraling staircase carved inside the rock. The air cools, thickens with the scent of damp stone and old roots.
At the bottom, a wide archway opens into the heart of The Barrow.
My own personal arboretum.
I have not stood there in a long while.
Not since the last day the Prime stood here with me.
He’d summoned us all to witness his vow to the realm itself.
No viyella stood at his side.
The crown chose him alone, and in his solitude he swore to hold Nightfall together.
He failed.
We all did.
The memory scrapes like shale along my spine as we step through the arch.
The arboretum, officially known as the Chamber of Earth, is vast.
A circular cavern open to the sky through a single enormous skylight far above, where the clouds swirl directly overhead.
Moonlight—pale bone white all around—pours down in a soft, divided beam.
At the center of the chamber grows an elder tree older than The Barrow itself.
Its trunk is thick and gnarled, roots thrust deep into the stone floor before spreading outward like the fingers of a titanic hand. Fat blossoms of soft white crowd the lower branches, glowing faintly where stray drops of heart-sap bead along the bark.
Around the base of the tree, lush purple grass spreads in a soft, thick carpet. It sways in a breeze that does not touch our hair.
The earth is very awake here.
Alina stops dead, eyes wide.
“Holy…” She trails off, then laughs weakly. “I am so out of my league.”
“Impossible,” I say. “You stand in the oldest heart of my lands, and the roots do not reject you. That is no small thing, sweet Oona.”
Her gaze traces the blossoms, the grass, the shaft of moonlight.
“Will there be witnesses?” she asks softly. “For the ceremony?”
My jaw tightens.
Tradition would say yes.
Ministers. Stewards. Elders.
Ones who have failed this place as thoroughly as I have.
I step closer.
“The earth needs no other witness,” I tell her, voice low. “And I am Dagan, Lord of Earth. My word is law in the Marches. I want no eyes on you but mine.” I hold out my free hand. “No one else deserves a single fraction of this.”
Her lips part.
Color blooms high in her cheeks.
Slowly, she puts her other hand in mine.
Her fingers are warm.
“Our bond will tie more than us, Alina,” I say. “Through me, it will root into these lands. Through you, it will reach your world and the cracks tearing through it. I would have you understand what I ask.”
“I do,” she whispers. “At least, as much as I can right now.”