Chapter 8
Dagan
The Barrow, Nightfall
The morning after the Rite, the Marches hum differently.
Quieter.
Not because the land is calm—there are always roots shifting, stones settling, small burrows opening and closing—but because something in the cadence has changed.
Where the earth’s voice used to beat only against my bones, it now threads through something else.
Her.
Alina.
My Oona.
I feel her even before I open my eyes—warm, soft, curious even in sleep—tucked against my chest, one leg thrown over my hip as if she claimed me there by instinct.
Which, if I am honest, I think she has.
I lie there for a few heartbeats, listening to the double rhythm.
The low, steady thrum of the Marches under The Barrow, and the softer, faster beat of her heart pressed to my ribs.
They sync without trying.
And that alone is enough to make my very foundation tremble.
It’s just how easy this is—being with her.
I’m not used to that kind of ready acceptance.
And knowing me, I am bound to mess it all up.
I can’t. I refuse.
Gods, she is so pretty, so soft.
She shifts, mumbling into my skin.
“You’re staring again.”
“I am appreciating,” I correct, voice roughened from sleep and the memory of the night before. “There is a difference.”
She cracks one eye open, glaring at me from beneath a tumble of dark hair.
“Appreciate later. I’m tired. Some random Demon Lord stole all my sleep.”
“Blame the ritual,” I murmur, brushing my lips across her forehead. “Not the not-random Demon Lord.”
“Bold of you to assume there’s a difference.” Her eyes soften, the sharpness melting into something that makes my chest ache. “What time is it?”
“Too late for more sleep,” I say, though I want nothing more than to keep her here, in this bed, for the next century.
“It is the first day of Sowing. We have a feast to host. Blessings to give. And we are expecting guests.”
She groans and buries her face in my chest.
“Guests? Oh! Right, your brothers. Their mates. The whole ‘save the worlds’ committee.”
I cannot help the small huff of laughter that escapes me.
“Something like that.”
A knock sounds at the chamber door.
“Come,” I call.
The door opens a crack. Brianne peeks in—sharp-featured, practical, unflappable Brianne, who has served The Barrow since I first took the title.
Her braid is coiled at the nape of her neck, her apron already dusted with flour and dried herbs.
“My Lord,” she says, eyes flicking to the bed before dropping with proper deference. “Lady Alina’s garments for the Sowing Feast are prepared. With your leave, I’ll help her dress.”
I feel Alina stiffen slightly beside me.
“You’re leaving? And why does she keep calling me Lady Alina,” she mouths, as if she cannot believe the word applies to her.
My mate.
My viyella.
Lady of the Marches.
I curl a hand around the back of her neck and squeeze gently.
“You will meet my brothers and their viyellas today,” I tell her quietly.
“The farmers, the quarry foremen, the elders. Sowing is the start of our year. Its blessing must be given by the Lord of Earth and his new viyella.” I hesitate, the old fear sliding sharp under my ribs. “If you do not wish to—”
She cuts me off with a look that could cleave stone.
“Dagan,” she says. “I didn’t cross dimensions and let you bite me just to hide in a tower.”
My mouth twitches.
“Very well,” I say solemnly. “Brianne, she is yours. Do not let her fall back asleep.”
“I make no promises,” Alina mutters.
Brianne smiles, a quick flash of teeth. “Up with you, Lady Alina. We’ve work to do.”
I leave them reluctantly, pausing in the doorway to glance back.
Brianne is already fussing with my mate’s hair, muttering about braids that will hold up to wind, while Alina argues half-heartedly about “not needing a walking architecture project on my head.”
The bond hums between us as I step into the corridor, tugging at me, reluctant to stretch.
You are safe, I send along the tether without words, just intent.
I feel something warm and wry answer back.
You better be, she throws at me, the echo of her voice in my mind like a faint tremor. This is your big Demon of Earth show. Don’t trip.
I snort under my breath and use my magic to cleanse and dress. Next, I am off to start this whole Sowing Day business.
The council chamber in The Barrow is carved directly into the cliff face, its walls left raw and veined with glowing roots.
A round table of living stone rises from the center, smooth as river rock and shot through with faint green light.
Alaric and Jules are already there when I enter.
The Lord of Air leans against the far wall, arms crossed, silver hair tied back at his nape.
His wings are hidden, but the shimmer of their magic licks at the edges of my senses, restless as a storm front.
Jules sits at the table, legs tucked under her, a massive book open in front of her.
One hand rests absently on the slight swell of her stomach. The other taps a quill against the page as she reads.
“Dagan.” She looks up, smiling. “You look, hmm, less carved-from-granite than usual.”
“High praise,” I say dryly, taking the seat opposite her.
Alaric raises a brow. “So. You went to New Jersey after all.”
I level a look at him. “You and Kael would not stop saying the name as if it were some mystical key. I decided, for my own peace of mind, to prove you wrong.”
“And?” he presses.
I think of Alina in the elder grove, moonlight painting her skin, eyes fierce as she said yes.
“And instead, I proved you right,” I admit.
Jules grins.
“Knew it. Jersey girls rule! We’re just built different.”
The door swings open again.
Kael enters with Phoebe at his side, their fingers laced together. His ocean-dark hair is damp, as if they only just torn themselves away from some pool in his Tidal Lands.
Phoebe’s curls are piled on her head in a messy knot, ink stains on her fingers.
She moves with an easy, rolling gait that speaks of a lifetime spent on docks and decks, not in palaces.
Thorne and Delia bring up the rear, arguing under their breath.
“It is not hover—”
“It is literally hovering,” Delia snaps, gesturing sharply. “You don’t have to walk me around like I’m made of glass, Your Inferno-ness. I survived learning how to drive on turnpike traffic. I can handle a Demon-fortress.”
Thorne’s jaw clenches, but his eyes are soft when they land on her.
“I did not say you could not. I said I preferred you intact. There is a difference.”
She opens her mouth, ready to fire back, then catches me watching and flushes.
“Hi,” she says, waving a little too brightly as she tugs her cloak tighter. “Sorry. We’re still negotiating safety protocols.”
Okay, that is not something I want to get in the middle of.
I incline my head.
“Welcome to The Barrow. My home is yours.”
“Damn,” Phoebe whistles, turning in a slow circle to take in the chamber. “You weren’t exaggerating, Kael. This place is like if a cathedral and a mountain had a very intense baby.”
“The stonework is breathtaking,” Jules adds, fingers grazing one of the glowing root-veins. “It feels alive.”
“It is,” I say simply.
They take their seats—Lords at the stone table, viyellas beside or slightly behind them.
Delia drops into the chair next to Thorne and immediately reaches for the basket of bread a servant has placed in the center.
Alina’s place beside me is still empty, and the absence is a physical ache.
“You look like someone stole your favorite boulder,” Kael says, watching me with sharp blue eyes. “Where’s your viyella?”
“With Brianne,” I say. “Preparing. It is the first day of Sowing.”
“Ah, the Marches’ big dirt party,” Phoebe says, grinning. “Kael told me about it. Apparently your people get very excited about seeds.”
I give a single, slow nod.
“Without seeds, there is no food. Without food, there is no hope. We honor the beginning.”
Jules sobers. “And you bless it,” she says softly. “As Lord.”
“Yes,” I confirm. “Tonight, under the Glowworm Moon, before the gathered Marches.”
“And your viyella stands with you,” Alaric says, not a question.
“If she chooses to,” I reply.
Thorne snorts. “She chose you. I would be more concerned with whether you are ready to stand with her.”
His words land harder than I like.
Because he is not wrong.
The Rite of Bonding was more than I anticipated.
The zareth did not just seal. It surged.
The Marches themselves bent around it, around her.
For the first time since the Prime fell, I feel something like balance.
Like possibility.
Which makes the thought that I might fail her all the sharper.
“Enough,” Kael says, though not unkindly. “We did not come here to pick at Dagan’s anxieties. We came because there is work to be done.”
The air shifts.
The joking drops away.
We are Lords again.
Guardians of Nightfall.
And there is no doubt now that our world is cracking—that all worlds will suffer if it breaks.
“The SoulTakers tested the Eastern quarries last week,” I report. Threads of stone beneath my feet strain as I speak. “Small bands only. Probing. Idris is quiet, but the breaches are not. They widen.”
“The Ember Vein is still recovering from the last assault,” Thorne says, mouth a grim line. “We reinforced every ward we could, but Agros, Grier’s replacement, reports strange weaknesses in the southern tunnels. As if something is unraveling them from the inside.”
“The Tidal sanctums are seeing more disruptions,” Kael adds. “Torn nets. Nets that were woven for dreams, not fish. Anything linked to the Dreamwrights’ work is a target.”
“And the crown remains in danger,” I state before they can ask.
Silence settles like dust.
The Prime’s crown sits in a secure, warded chamber deeper in The Barrow now, wrapped in roots and rune-scribed iron. I can feel it from here—a heavy, watchful presence.
Waiting.
Unmoved.
Unimpressed.
“We have each found our mates, formed zareth bonds, and still, it won’t choose,” Alaric growls.
“Indeed, the four of us vie for its attentions, only to be spurned by that damned stubborn metal,” Thorne grunts.