Chapter 6
Dagan
The Rite of Bonding, The Barrow
She said yes.
I draw in a steadying breath.
The roots underfoot pulse once.
I hear them.
Now.
I obey.
I sink to one knee in the purple grass at her feet, head bowed for a single breath.
Then I look up.
“At this heart-root,” I say, voice ringing in the stone, “beneath the singular Glowworm Moon, before the elder that binds the Marches, I ask you now, Alina Fawcett of Earth—”
Fuck, her name feels right in my mouth.
Dangerously right.
“—accept my claim. My bond. My body.” I hold her gaze, letting her see everything I usually bury deep. The scars. The fury. The fear. The aching, relentless want. “I ask you to be mine, Oona.”
Her eyes widen.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
The land goes utterly still.
Then I feel it.
A subtle tremor—not of stone, but of thread.
The zareth, the bond-line, brightening between us like a buried vein catching light.
Her throat works as she swallows.
“Yes,” she says.
The word is not loud.
But it hits me like a fault line letting go.
My entire body rejoices.
The elder tree shudders, blossoms raining down around us in a soft, glowing shower.
Grass curls up around my knees like an embrace.
The Marches themselves exhale.
And I—who have spent centuries holding back—stop.
I rise in one smooth motion, closing the distance between us.
If I am wrong, I will be damned for it, but every root, every rock, every breath in this chamber screams at me that I am not wrong.
I cup her face in my hands.
For a heartbeat we just breathe the same air, her velvet eyes locked on mine, wide and shining.
The space between us seems to vibrate with energy, electricity—mutual attraction.
I can’t wait another moment.
With my next breath, I claim her mouth with mine.
She gasps against my lips, then melts into me, her hands clutching at my coat, fingers digging into my shoulders.
The taste of her hits like rich soil and fyrann and something uniquely, exquisitely Alina.
Heat streaks through my veins.
The zareth flares—white-gold, green, deep, dark brown—rooting into me, into her, into the ground beneath us like a lightning strike that decides to stay.
Earth rises up under our feet, sending us sinking gently to our knees in the purple grass.
It is soft, supportive, shaping itself to our bodies.
She breaks the kiss on a ragged breath.
“Dagan,” she whispers, eyes dark, pupils blown. “The ground is moving.”
“It answers to us,” I murmur, forehead resting against hers. “To you now, as much as to me.”
“Feels like it’s cuddling,” she says, a breathless laugh escaping her.
Gods, she is perfect.
My body hungers for her—has from the moment I first saw her standing over that crack in her world, stubborn and defiant.
But this is more than hunger.
This is recognition. Relief.
Something deep that I have not allowed myself to name.
I trail my thumbs along her jaw, memorizing the shape of her.
“We can stop,” I say, the words scraping my throat raw. “If you wish. The vow is done. The land has heard. I will not press you farther this night.”
Her answer is to slide her hands up into my hair, tug me closer, and kiss me like she intends to erase any distance that has ever stood between us.
When she pulls back, her eyes are bright.
“And if I don’t want you to stop?” she asks, voice low and sure.
“What do you want, Oona? Tell me,” I growl, almost afraid to ask.
“I want this. You. All of it.” A tiny, crooked smile tugs at her mouth. “Just, uh, it’s been a while for me. So, um, maybe go easy on the bed. Or the tree. Or the realm. I’m still new at this.”
A laugh breaks out of me—sharp, surprised, and utterly genuine.
The first in longer than I can remember.
“The elder tree will survive,” I promise, easing her back into the grass as the tree’s blossoms drift down around us like stars. “As long as we do.”
The roots beneath us pulse their agreement.
And for the first time since the Prime fell, the Marches do not feel like a weight I bear alone.
They feel like a future.
One we will hold together.