Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Riona
The week that followed our first joining was not quiet. There was fallout from the security breach, and endless gossip about Vraag’s resignation that turned out not to be a retreat but an advance—a reframing, a declaration, and the first move in building something entirely on his own terms.
There was Janet asking questions I didn’t answer, and Principal Winters watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read, and an entire classroom of five-year-olds who somehow sensed that their teacher was operating at a frequency slightly above normal and responded by being both exhausting and unexpectedly sweet about it.
There was Kendra, who took one look at my face on Tuesday and said absolutely nothing—just handed me a glass of wine and waited, which is the most eloquent thing she has ever done.
And through all of it, there was Vraag. Steady. Present. No longer performing a smaller version of himself for anyone’s comfort.
That’s what I keep noticing. Not that he’s gotten bigger—he was always this size.
It’s that he’s stopped apologizing for it.
The careful compression I watched him perform in those first weeks—shoulders drawn in, voice turned down, presence dialed back to whatever wattage he’d calculated wouldn’t alarm anyone—is gone.
What’s underneath isn’t intimidating. It’s just him.
And somewhere between the coat and the coffee shop and everything that came after, I fell in love with the male who’d been quietly, stubbornly there the whole time.
And now, only days after we pledged ourselves to each other in the dark and the stillness of his apartment, we’re standing in a firelit circle with perhaps a hundred witnesses and an elder who apparently knew this was coming long before either of us did.
The gathered circle quiets as Elder Korgath steps forward.
The fire at the center burns low and steady, its heat a living presence against the cold air. Breath fogs and fades. Boots shift once, then still. This is not a celebration. It’s something older. Intentional.
Vraag stands beside me, close enough that I can feel the solid line of him at my shoulder. He doesn’t reach for my hand. He doesn’t need to. His presence is a constant, grounding and unmistakable.
Before she speaks, Elder Korgath moves to the fire and adds something from a small pouch—a pinch of something dark that catches immediately, releasing a thread of smoke that smells of cedar and something deeper, older. The scent reaches me a moment later and I recognize it.
Binding spice.
I helped prepare this. My hands ground those seeds under Korgath’s critical eye, and now the smoke is curling upward into the cold air above the most important moment of my life. I don’t think that’s an accident. I don’t think Elder Korgath does anything by accident.
Her voice carries first in Orcish, then in English, the words slow and deliberate, shaped to be heard rather than rushed. Even without understanding every syllable, I feel the meaning ripple outward, the way gravity announces itself without sound.
She turns to Vraag and nods.
He steps forward alone.
My heart stutters—not from fear, but from the weight of what’s coming.
Vraag reaches into the inner fold of his coat and withdraws something small that immediately draws the eye. Firelight glints off silver.
The band is open, not a closed circle. The ends curve toward each other, leaving a deliberate span of space between them. Its surface is worked with stamped markings—geometric, precise, unmistakably intentional. Not decoration. Declaration.
I know his hands.
I can see them in the marks—each press deliberate, each line placed with care rather than flourish. This isn’t something commissioned or borrowed. This is something he made.
The gathered circle goes completely still.
Elder Korgath gestures toward me—a single, unhurried movement—and I understand I’m being invited forward.
I cross the distance between us. When I reach Vraag’s side, he turns just enough to close the last step, and the firelight catches his expression—steady, certain, open in a way I’ve only seen in private until now.
He leans down, his voice low and warm against my ear.
“I shaped it myself,” he murmurs. “But it isn’t finished.”
My breath catches.
He lifts the band between us, open palms offering rather than presenting.
When I extend my wrist, the world seems to narrow to that single point of contact.
The silver settles against my skin; it’s warm already, carrying the echo of his heat. Vraag brings both hands around my wrist, palms covering the band, thumbs resting lightly against my pulse. He bows his head, forearms bracketing the moment as though shielding it from the rest of the world.
The gathered circle disappears.
He leans in again, his mouth near my ear, his voice meant only for me.
“I choose you,” he whispers. “In the open. Without hiding.”
My skin prickles.
“I will protect you—not by diminishing you, but by standing with you. I will make space for you wherever I stand, and I will never ask you to become smaller so I can be more comfortable.”
The silver warms further beneath his hands.
“I will cherish you,” he says softly. “Not as something I possess, but as someone I am devoted to.”
Seconds pass.
Long enough that I realize what’s happening.
The silver yields—not to force, but to shared heat. His. Mine. The metal responding to both of us. Only when it softens does he move, pressing gently, carefully, shaping the band so it conforms perfectly to my wrist.
No hurry. No pressure.
Only patience.
When he releases me, the band rests exactly where it belongs. Only the slightest gap remains.
For a heartbeat, I can only stare.
The gathered circle exhales as one—not applause, but acknowledgment. A murmur moves through the orcs present, subtle and reverent. Something in the space reorients itself, like a compass settling.
Elder Korgath steps forward again, and I feel her gaze settle on me with the weight of assessment.
Her eyes flick to my throat—to the mark Vraag left there, still tender, unmistakably fresh—before returning to my face.
Something shifts in her expression. Not surprise.
Recognition, maybe. And beneath it, the faintest hint of approval.
“Riona Walker,” she says, her gaze steady and kind. “Do you accept this bond of intent, witnessed and recognized?”
I lift my wrist, feeling the warmth of the silver against my skin.
“I do,” my voice rings out clear. “I choose him.”
Elder Korgath inclines her head. “Then it is witnessed.”
The gathering begins to loosen, quiet conversations resuming at the edges of the circle, but Vraag doesn’t move away. He remains beside me, his hand hovering near my wrist—not claiming, not restraining. Simply there.
“You alright?” he asks softly.
I look at him—the strength he no longer hides, the care he never withholds, the steadiness of a male who chose me without reservation.
“More than alright,” I say, my voice thick with wonder. “For a long time, I didn’t let myself dream something like this. I didn’t think it was possible to have both—to be held and still be whole.” The realization lands hard. “I was wrong.”
His mouth curves, just slightly. Relief. Pride. Something fierce and tender all at once.
The fire crackles. Winter breath curls around us. The silver rests warm against my pulse.
I don’t feel owned.
I feel chosen.
And standing here, witnessed and welcomed, I know this bond hasn’t taken anything from me.
It has given me a place to stand—without asking me to disappear.