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NAEVA

I stand at the prow of a small, two-sailed vessel as it cuts through churning waves, my heart pounding in time with the sea’s rhythm.

White cliffs loom ahead—Saru’s ancestral home on the rugged coastline of Milthar.

The midmorning sun paints the water in silver ribbons.

Salty wind stings my cheeks and tugs at my braided hair.

Behind me, Bastion guards handle the boat’s ropes, but I barely notice them.

My gaze is fixed on the rocky heights, where an ancient estate perches atop weathered cliffs. That’s where our ceremony awaits.

My fingers tighten around the rail, nerves and anticipation twisting in my gut.

Only a week has passed since Saru’s final arena duel—my heart still leaps whenever I recall how he nearly died, how he emerged bloody but victorious, how he declared me not as prisoner but as lifemate.

Now we journey to his ancestral estate for the sacred vow that will seal our union in the eyes of Zukiev.

I swallow, breath unsteady. My entire life, I swore I’d never be bound by anyone’s chain, yet here I stand, craving a vow I never expected to want.

A hush falls among the guards as the cliffs draw closer.

The wind carries the distant cry of seabirds.

Saru stands at my side, leaning on a polished cane to favor his healing leg.

Though he’s recovered from the worst of his injuries, bandages wrap his torso beneath a loose tunic, and faint shadows linger beneath his eyes.

Despite that, his presence radiates steady calm.

When our gazes meet, my chest warms with a fierce sense of belonging.

He’s no longer just the Warden who branded me out of necessity—he’s the man who fought a champion for my life, who stands with me by choice.

He lifts a hand to guide me below deck. “We’re close,” he says, voice low. “The estate’s dock is small, but stable. Once ashore, it’s a short walk to the high altar.” He glances at the cane and grimaces. “I’ll manage, though I might rely on you if the path is steep.”

I manage a teasing smirk. “You carried me through the Bastion often enough. Now it’s my turn.”

His lips curve, horns tilting in a subtle nod. That quiet exchange sparks a flutter in my stomach, recalling the nights we shared in each other’s arms, forging our trust beyond the forced brand. The memory of his vow in the arena—claiming me fully—still sends adrenaline through my veins.

We descend to a small cabin where Davor and two priestesses of Zukiev wait, carefully guarding a chest that holds my ceremonial attire.

The chest is carved with swirling patterns of waves and horns, reminiscent of minotaur lore.

The older priestess, Amuka, stands wrapped in flowing teal robes, her eyes covered by a band of cloth embroidered with runes.

She bows slightly when we enter, though she can’t see in the usual sense.

Rumor says she sees beyond mortal sight. A younger acolyte hovers at her side.

Amuka inclines her head toward me. “Naeva, child of two worlds, you’ll wear the layered veils symbolizing your journey.

” Her voice is soft but resonant, like the hush before thunder.

“We approach the cliff altar soon, where Zukiev’s flame will judge this union.

” She beckons to the chest. “Shall we prepare you now, or wait until we reach the estate?”

I cast a sidelong look at Saru, nerves jolting. “I… can dress ashore, I suppose.” My voice shakes a bit. “The boat is cramped.”

Amuka nods, expression serene. “As you wish. The estate has chambers for a bride’s preparation.

The vow will be made at high noon, when the sun is strongest.” Her acolyte opens the chest, revealing folds of colored fabric.

Just a glimpse sets my heart pounding: each veil has a different hue—smoke gray, crimson, gold, and a final ocean-green layer.

Together, they form a gown if worn in layers.

My breath catches at the significance: each color represents a chapter of my life, from the darkness of my captivity to the fierce reds of rebellion, the gold of resilience, and the green of new freedom.

Saru observes from the doorway, cane in hand. The flicker in his eyes suggests he’s fighting his own wave of emotion. Gently, he sets his free hand on my shoulder. “We’ll do it however you feel comfortable.”

I nod. “I’ll wait. I need a moment to collect myself once ashore.” My heart thuds in a mixture of dread and excitement.

We ascend back to the deck as the boat glides toward a narrow wooden pier jutting from the cliffs.

The crew deftly secures the ropes, and we disembark.

Saru grips my arm for balance, ignoring the mild limp in his stride.

The air here is crisp with brine and wind, the roar of distant surf echoing against the stone walls.

Guards manage our luggage, while Amuka and her acolyte follow calmly, the younger carrying the chest of veils.

A steep path winds upward, carved into the cliffside.

I swallow a surge of vertigo, glancing down at the crashing waves below.

Saru’s ancestral estate perches above, grand pillars of pale stone reminiscent of the Bastion but shaped by time and salt-laden winds.

The journey is slow—Saru’s injuries ache, and I remain mindful of the brand twinging on my arm.

But my heart lifts with each step, a sense of awe building.

This is where he was born, or at least bound to his family’s legacy, and I’m about to stand at his side for a vow that no longer feels like a chain.

We reach a wide courtyard flanked by statues of minotaur heroes, horns carved in majestic spirals.

Vines coil around their bases, showing nature’s claim on old stone.

The estate’s entrance stands open, revealing a grand foyer with mosaic floors depicting waves and bull-like figures.

Servants bow, welcoming us. Saru inclines his head, leading me into a warm, high-ceilinged hall.

The crash of waves forms a constant backdrop.

Amuka and her acolyte approach, pulling me aside toward a smaller set of chambers off the main hall.

Saru offers a faint nod of reassurance, letting me go.

My pulse kicks up—this is it, the final preparation.

I follow Amuka into a spacious room whose arched window overlooks the sea.

The sight of endless blue, peppered with whitecaps, calms my frantic nerves.

The air smells faintly of salt and old incense.

The acolyte sets the chest of veils on a low table. Amuka turns to me, hands outstretched. Though her eyes remain covered, she moves with certain grace. “Child, do you accept these layers that speak of your life?” she intones. “You may face regret or fear, but the vow must be made with open heart.”

I exhale, bracing my trembling hands on the table. “I accept.” The weight of that simple declaration stirs something deep in my chest. The brand on my arm tingles, reminding me how far I’ve come.

Amuka nods. “Then let us adorn you. Each color has meaning, a story you must acknowledge as you walk to the altar.”

The acolyte helps me remove my travel-worn clothes, leaving me in a light shift. I flush under their calm scrutiny, but try to remain steady. One by one, they drape the veils around me, layering the translucent fabrics until my shape is outlined by overlapping colors:

The first veil is smoke gray, representing the darkness of my early captivity and fear. I feel its soft weight settle, a reminder of the shadows I once lived in.

Next is crimson, symbolizing rebellion and the fires I started when I destroyed that dark elf vessel. My pulse quickens with the memory of forging sabotage, the risk that nearly cost me my life.

Then gold, for resilience, shining like the courage I had to keep surviving. It feels warm, as if the fabric itself glows with determination.

Finally, sea-green, the color of freedom, layered on top. With each addition, the veil gown grows thicker, though still gauzy. My breath catches at the reflection in the room’s mirror: I look almost unearthly, each hue telling part of my tale.

Amuka steps back, face serene behind her blindfold. “You carry all these pieces into your vow. Saru will remove them in private, naming each trial you overcame. Only then will you stand unveiled before Zukiev’s altar.”

My heart flutters. This tradition feels both daunting and intimate. “I understand,” I whisper, voice tight with emotion.

She smiles gently. “Then come. The moment nears.”

We leave the chamber, the acolyte trailing to ensure my layered gown doesn’t snag.

The estate’s corridors open onto a grand courtyard where Saru waits.

He’s dressed in formal minotaur attire, bandages hidden under ceremonial armor etched with swirling wave motifs.

His horns glisten with fresh polish, each scratch or scar telling a story of battles won.

The cane is gone—he stands on his own, posture stiff but proud. My chest swells at the sight of him.

His eyes widen when he sees the layered veils, awe touching his features.

I step forward, heart pounding, my entire body trembling with the gravity of this vow.

He offers his arm. I slip my hand over his forearm, feeling the slight tension in his muscles.

The entire courtyard hushes, acknowledging the bride’s arrival.

We exchange a glance brimming with unspoken emotion.