Chapter 37 Dina
DINA
The victory celebration is a roaring, joyous fire that fills the great hall and chases the last of the shadows from my soul.
Xylon is a king among his people, his name chanted and cheered, his victory in the battle a new, more glorious chapter in the history of the Fire Sun Clan.
He is not just the returned son; he is Xylon the Unbroken, the War Leader who saved them all.
And I, who once felt like a ghost haunting the edges of his world, am now firmly at its center, my hand in his, a permanent fixture at his side.
The change in the clan is a palpable thing.
The suspicious stares from Grak’s followers have been replaced by looks of grudging, then genuine, respect.
Warriors who once saw me as a liability now raise their horns of ale to me, their deep voices booming my new name.
“To the Sun-bringer!” they roar, and the name, which once felt like a heavy cloak, now settles on my shoulders like a mantle of honor I am finally willing to bear.
The war is over. The next day, I watch from the battlements as Lord Jildred and his surviving warriors, stripped of their fine armor and their arrogant pride, are led in chains to the cells deep within the mountain.
Their fate will be decided by the clan council, by the very Orcs they deemed brutish animals.
It is a quiet, profound justice, a final closing of a dark and painful chapter of my life.
In the days that follow, a new, peaceful rhythm settles over the stronghold. A rhythm of rebuilding, of healing, and of preparation. The date of our mating ceremony is set, and the entire clan seems to be swept up in a joyous, bustling energy.
On the day of the ceremony, Helga and two other Orc women come to my quarters. Their faces are wreathed in warm, happy smiles. “It is time, little sister,” Helga says, her voice a gentle rumble.
They lead me to a private chamber, warm and fragrant from the steam rising from a large, copper tub.
They help me bathe, washing my hair with water infused with mountain herbs, their touches gentle and respectful.
This simple act of kindness, of women caring for one another, is a thing I have never known, and I have to bite my lip to keep the tears from falling.
Afterward, they prepare me. They do not dress me in the cold silks and hard jewels of the Dark Elves.
They dress me in the traditions of the Fire Sun.
The tunic is of the softest, cream-colored wool, so finely woven it feels like a cloud against my skin.
It is sleeveless, leaving my arms bare, and embroidered along the hem with intricate patterns of suns and mountain flowers in thread of spun gold.
Over it, they place a vest of supple, dark brown leather, decorated with beautiful, geometric patterns of polished beads.
They brush my hair until it shines, letting it fall in its natural waves down my back.
Then, with soft, reverent fingers, they begin to weave small, vibrant mountain wildflowers into the strands—deep blue frostbells, bright yellow sun-dazzles, and the small, white, star-shaped petals of a flower they call seren’s-tear.
The scent of them is a sweet, clean perfume that fills the air around me.
When they are finished, they turn me to face a large, polished silver mirror that hangs on the stone wall. I stare, my breath catching in my throat.
The woman who stares back at me is a stranger.
Her eyes, my familiar brown eyes, are clear and bright, free of the shadow of fear that has haunted them for a lifetime.
Her skin, once pale and sallow, now has a healthy glow from our time in the sun and mountains.
The brand on my neck is still there, a faint, puckered scar, but it no longer looks like a mark of ownership.
It is a symbol of a battle I have survived, a past I have overcome.
I see not Dina the slave, the worthless, frightened thing from Lord Jildred’s kennels. I see a woman, strong and whole, adorned in the flowers of the wild and the honest, beautiful craft of a proud people. I see a woman who has found her home. I see a chieftain’s mate.
A single, happy tear traces a path down my cheek.
The heavy oak door to the chamber swings open. I turn, my heart a soaring, frantic bird in my chest.
Xylon stands in the doorway. He is dressed in his own ceremonial attire—a simple, sleeveless tunic of black leather that leaves his powerful, olive-skinned arms bare, the sun tattoo on his shoulder a bold, proud declaration of his lineage.
His black hair is damp, freshly washed, and his dark eyes… they are fixed on me.
He does not speak. He does not have to. The look in his eyes is a symphony of every promise he has ever made, of every battle he has ever fought. It carries such profound, soul-deep love, of such absolute, reverent awe, that it steals the very breath from my lungs.
He is the beginning and the end of my world. My warrior. My prince. My home.
He steps into the room and holds out his hand, a silent, beautiful invitation to our forever.