Page 49

LYSANDRA

I stand amid a circle of flickering lanterns, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the hushed murmurs of those gathered.

The cavern walls around us pulse with dancing shadows, courtesy of the orchard rebels’ torches and a few enchanted lamps carried by Xelith’s exiled Dark Elves.

The makeshift settlement we’ve carved from these twisting corridors suddenly feels transformed, transcendent, as though the walls themselves hold their breath for what’s about to happen.

My pulse thunders, and I press a hand to my chest, drawing in a shaky breath.

I never imagined a wedding—much less one like this.

It’s no grand fortress ceremony with gilded banners, no orchard dais strewn with flowers.

Instead, the chamber is cleared of bedding and supplies, leaving open space.

A ring of watchers—humans and Dark Elves alike—hovers at the edges.

They stand in silent anticipation, forming a half-lit halo around me and Xelith.

He stands a few paces away, draped in dark leathers emblazoned with faint silver runes.

I’ve never seen him look so solemn, nor so radiant.

His obsidian skin catches the lantern glow, war sigils shimmering faintly on his forearms. As I swallow another jagged breath, our eyes meet, and a flicker of warmth flickers in his silver gaze. He’s nervous too.

A hush descends, broken only by the drip of distant water and the flutter of orchard illusions that cling to the edges of my vision.

I sense them, swirling in the corners, responding to my heightened emotions.

My sirenblood thrums quietly in my veins, lending an undercurrent of power to the air.

This is a soul-binding ritual, the ancient Prothekan vow that unites far more than bodies.

I can scarcely believe Xelith proposed it.

The orchard enclaves, the exiled Dark Elves—they gather as witnesses, curious and reverent.

A handful of elders stand near the front, glancing between me and Xelith with a cautious awe.

They’ve heard rumors that this ritual merges magic and spirit, forging a bond no mortal can sunder.

Takar, Xelith’s loyal second-in-command, stands at the perimeter, arms folded, lips curved in a respectful smile.

On a low platform of stacked stones, a shallow bowl brims with shimmering water taken from the deeper caverns.

Another bowl holds a swirl of faintly glowing dust—a blend of orchard blossoms ground into powder, mixed with the ashes of warding charms. These are the elements the elders insisted we incorporate: water, the essence of life, and orchard dust, the symbol of rebirth.

We create new traditions here, melding Dark Elf rites with orchard culture.

Xelith inhales, stepping forward. My breath catches at the sight of him. Gone is the prince exiled by court decree, replaced by a leader forging a new world. He inclines his head to me—a gesture of deference. “Are you ready?” he asks, voice low but resonant in the hush.

My heart clenches with emotion. “Yes,” I whisper, though my throat is dry.

I step to him, illusions fluttering in the lanternlight.

I catch glimpses of orchard fighters, wide-eyed with wonder, and Dark Elves watching intently.

A hush so profound it feels like the orchard’s living presence envelops us.

We stand side by side, facing the circle of watchers, the two bowls resting between us on the stone platform.

Xelith lifts one hand, brushing his knuckles across my cheek.

My pulse roars in my ears at that simple, intimate touch, layered with the knowledge that after tonight, we’re bound forever.

Not just as allies or lovers, but as a single heartbeat in two bodies.

An orchard elder steps forward—a wiry woman named Jessan, once a farmhand who fled the fortress tyranny.

She glances at me, then at Xelith, swallowing her nerves.

“We gather under orchard branches— or at least, their spirit,” she says quietly, gesturing to the dust bowl.

“To witness a vow that bridges more than farmland and fortress. Lysandra Riven and Prince Xelith Vaeranthe… you stand here of your own free will?”

“Yes,” Xelith and I say together, though our voices crack with tension.

Jessan nods, eyes shining. “Then let your words bind more than mortal hearts— let them fuse your magic, your destinies, so that not even the council’s wrath can break it.

” Her gaze flicks to the orchard dust, then to the shimmering water.

“We orchard folk know little of your Dark Elf soul-binding, Xelith. But we trust it is akin to what we do here— a promise that cannot be undone lightly.”

Xelith inclines his head. “It is. In ancient times, Dark Elves performed a vow under the watch of the Thirteen, merging powers in a union of spirit. We adapt it today, melding orchard traditions and your illusions, Lysandra.”

He glances at me, and I see the faint tremor in his lips. My illusions respond, swirling softly, a veil of light in the corners of the chamber. The watchers murmur, enthralled by the gentle display. I swallow, forcing my trembling nerves to settle. I can do this. For him, for us.

Jessan gestures for me to place my hands over the bowl of orchard dust. She then motions for Xelith to do the same. Our palms hover inches above the sparkling mixture. A soft hush falls, and I feel orchard magic tingling my skin— or maybe it’s just my illusions, awakened by my heightened emotion.

Jessan sprinkles a few pinches of the dust into the bowl of water, stirring the two elements together.

The water shimmers, pale silver motes drifting through it like tiny stars.

My breath catches. It’s beautiful, reminiscent of how illusions danced in the fortress halls when Lysandra enthralled guards for our survival.

This time, it’s a dance of creation, not destruction.

Xelith inhales, addressing the watchers in a voice steady despite his tension.

“I stand here, an exiled prince with no throne but the orchard’s acceptance.

I vow to protect these enclaves, to defend those who dwell in the farmland from the council’s tyranny.

And I vow my life to Lysandra, who taught me that compassion is not weakness, and that a throne gained by cruelty is no throne at all. ”

My heart thuds at his words. He glances my way, shadows flickering around his arms— a subdued echo of the magic he once wielded to kill fortress nobles who threatened me.

Now, those shadows swirl with a sense of reverence, not aggression.

My chest tightens with affection so potent it steals my breath.

He finishes, voice breaking slightly: “I offer my magic, my shadows, to unite with her illusions and enthrallment. Together, we create a power that serves freedom, not fear.”

Silence stretches. My turn. My throat constricts, and illusions flicker around my fingertips, reflecting my nerves.

I swallow, voice trembling as I face him fully.

“I… I stand here as Lysandra Riven, once a rebel with nothing but hatred for Dark Elves. But you changed that, Xelith. You showed me not all Dark Elves crave destruction. You risked exile, your own life, to keep me from the council’s blade. ”

I pause, shifting my weight. Emotions surge, and illusions swirl in pastel lights across the cavern walls.

Soft gasps ripple among the watchers, but I push forward.

“I vow to remain at your side, not as captive or tool, but as partner, forging a new future. My illusions and siren voice are yours, and we shape them into a shield for these orchard enclaves. I vow to never wield my power for oppression—only to protect what we cherish.”

A tear escapes my eye, but I let it fall, my voice soft yet echoing in the hush. “I accept your shadows as part of me, and I offer my illusions as part of you, so that no tyranny can break us.”

With those words, Jessan lifts a carved wooden ladle from a cloth and dips it into the shimmering water, swirling the orchard dust into a faint glow. “Place your hands atop each other’s,” she instructs gently.

We do, my palms pressed against Xelith’s, the warmth of his skin soothing my trembling.

She pours a trickle of silver water over our joined hands, the droplets sliding down our wrists, merging with orchard dust to form glistening streaks.

A soft jolt of magic crackles, like static, making me inhale sharply. Is that the soul-binding forming?

A ripple of awe passes through the watchers.

Takar’s eyes widen, orchard fighters exchange hushed exclamations, and a few disillusioned Dark Elves stare at the silver droplets as if witnessing a miracle.

We are forging a union that has never existed— Siren illusions and Dark Elf shadows, orchard blossoms and fortress steel.

Then Jessan steps back, giving us space. We hold our joined hands aloft, water dripping onto the stone floor. Xelith’s voice drops to a reverent hush: “By the orchard’s blessing and the old ways of my people, I bind my life to yours, Lysandra. May the shadows heed you as they heed me.”

My illusions flutter in response, dancing across his arms. I channel a thread of siren power into my words. “By farmland devotion and the siren’s call, I bind my magic to yours. May illusions weave your shadows into hope, never fear.”

The silver water around our wrists gleams brighter, as though acknowledging our vow.

My heart pounds, illusions intensifying.

A swirl of orchard blossoms materializes from the shimmering air, conjured by my imagination or by the orchard dust’s synergy—I can’t be sure.

They drift around us in luminous arcs, painting the cavern with soft pastel hues.