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SERA

T he High Court of the Dark Elves looms before me, carved from obsidian and lit by the flicker of ancient torchlight. The walls breathe with centuries of power, of whispered secrets, of beings who were born in darkness and never left it.

I do not belong here.

Yet here I stand.

The great hall is packed—nobles in their silks and shadows, warriors with blood still under their fingernails. All of them watching me. Not with amusement.

With expectation.

This is Veylan’s ceremony. But I am the one who must decide.

The mating bond of the dark elves is no mere vow. It is older than memory, deeper than magic. It is a permanent tether—of blood, of spirit, of something that binds souls through eternity.

If I speak the words, I choose him.

Forever.

The court is silent, breath held. His brothers flank the outer ring of the chamber, power coiled tight around their bodies like leashed lightning. They aren’t here to interfere.

They’re here to witness.

They know how this ends. Not with Veylan claiming me.

But with me claiming him.

Still, I take a step forward and feel every eye shift with me.

And I say the words I know must be said.

“I will not belong to anyone.”

The murmur is instant—whispers rippling like poison through water. A scoff from the back. A sneer from one of the elder lords. The press of judgment fills the air like smoke.

Veylan doesn’t flinch.

I look at him, waiting for a demand, for a protest, for the dark intensity that always followed his hunger.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, his voice is quiet. Rough.

“You don’t have to choose me.”

He steps forward—not close enough to touch, but enough that I feel the gravity of his presence.

“But I can’t live in a world where I don’t belong to you. ”

The words hit harder than any command ever could.

They land in my chest, where all the broken things still reside. And suddenly, I am not standing in front of a crown or a court.

I’m standing in front of a male who has stopped asking to be loved—and started offering to be hers instead.

Mine.

I say nothing. I turn.

And I walk away.

But I do not leave the fortress.

Because he is here.

Every day, I feel his presence—never intrusive, never demanding. Just there. Every night, I hear the quiet pacing of his steps. Not restless. Waiting.

He never knocks on my door. He never asks again.

His brothers are patient as well, respecting hid decision but I know that my refusal weighs on them.

They say nothing, but I see the flicker of amusement in Drathis’s expression. The sharp glint of knowing in Xalith’s eyes.

They know what I am struggling with the decision. With the mating ceremony to bind myself to Veylan.

They know that this ritual, this bond, is not about submission.

It is about choice.

The nights are long. I think of everything I have fought for, everything I have lost.

I think of the way I bled, the way I shattered, the way I was reborn into something new.

I think of Veylan’s betrayal.

I think of his loyalty.

I think of the way he held the blade that ended me. And the way he fought to bring me back.

Two weeks later, the ceremonial hall is full again.

The nobles whisper as I enter, as I step past them without hesitation, without fear.

Veylan stands at the altar, clad in black, silver lining the edges of his armor. He watches me approach, his expression unreadable.

But there is tension in his shoulders.

A flicker of something dangerous beneath the surface.

I stop before him. His brothers are still.

The High Priest waits. And then, before them all, I lift my hand.

I take his.

And I say the words that change everything.

“I choose you.”

His fingers tighten around mine, strong, unyielding.

This time, it is not him that claims me.

It is me who claims him.

The High Priest raises his hands. The words of the gods echo through the chamber, an ancient binding spell laced with magic older than any of us.

Veylan does not look away from me.

Neither do I.

A knife is placed in my palm. Another in his.

Blood must be given.

Power must be shared.

We cut.

We press our hands together, and the moment our blood mingles, the world ignites.

Flames erupt along the altar, magic surging through my veins, through his, through the bond that has been waiting for this moment.

I feel him.

Inside me, around me, tangled in every breath I take.

The room vanishes.

There is only him.

Only us.

The bond settles.

It is permanent.

Veylan releases a breath, and I see something raw in his expression.

Something open and mine.

I stand taller.

Stronger.

Not as his queen. Not as his captive.

But as his equal.

The ancient words fade into silence. The flames along the altar recede, leaving only the soft glow of torchlight and the scent of mingled blood and magic. Around us, the High Court begins to empty, murmurs trailing behind the departing nobles. Still, I don’t move. Neither does he. Veylan’s hand remains in mine, his eyes locked to mine like I am the only truth left in this world. The High Priest lowers his head in reverence, then turns away, giving us space. His brothers linger at the edges, watching—but they, too, fade into shadow.

He finally steps toward me, his voice low. “Come.”

And I do.

Through the obsidian hallways, through the silence that wraps around us like a second skin, we walk.

Side by side.

No words spoken. None needed.

Not until the doors to his chambers close behind us… and the rest of the world falls away.