Page 150 of The Shadow Orc's Bride

He was waiting, his shoulders back, his hair loosened by the wind, the shadows tracing every hard line of him. His hands were still wet from the river rite; droplets clung to his forearms like quicksilver. When she neared, he reached for her wrist, thumb circling the faint mark on her palm. “You disappeared,” he said softly. His voice was rough velvet; the words felt like a hand closing around her heartbeat.

“Only for a moment.”

She stepped close. His scent was all warm iron and pine smoke. The light caught in his eyes, dark and reflective as water under starlight.

“They’ll expect us to dance,” he murmured.

“They’ll have to wait.”

He smiled—a slow, deliberate curve that felt like a claim—and pulled her closer. The kiss that followed was no ceremony: slow, steady heat, the kind that burns without pain. His hand slid into her hair; hers rested over the old scar on his chest. Around them, the noise of the celebration dimmed until only their breath remained.

When they parted, the stars had gathered fully overhead. The twin banners stirred above the courtyard—black and gold moving as one.

“Look,” she whispered. “Even the night learned to share.”

Rakhal’s hand stayed at her waist, possessive even in stillness. “Then so can we.”

She leaned into him, her cheek against his chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm beneath the scars. Around them, laughter and music swelled again, carrying across the river and out into the plains.

The moon rose over Maidan—silver and whole—its light glancing off the banners, off the water, off the two figures beneath the beech.

Night and dawn, joined at last, no longer at war—only moving together in the same wind.