Tila continues layering. A soft green for renewal, a warm gold for triumph. By the time the final layer, a deeper pink, falls across my shoulders, I feel cocooned in gentle color. My face is partially obscured by translucent folds. I breathe carefully, reminding myself that in private, Remanos will peel these layers away as we consummate our bond. My cheeks flame at that thought, but an undercurrent of anticipation ignites my blood. I recall the gentle press of his mouth the night after we drove out the orcs, how his whispered vow turned my world bright.
Tila finishes with a flourish, stepping back. “You look radiant,” she declares, tears brimming in her eyes. “I can’t believe the city’s doing this for you—everyone wants to witness the burnt offering. They say it’s a sign we Freedmen will carry new traditions.”
I manage a shaky laugh, unable to express the swirl of gratitude. “It’s not just for me,” I correct softly. “Remanos insisted the entire city be invited, to show Freedmen’s acceptance. He says this ceremony is for all.”
Tila nods, a grin tugging her lips. “Then let’s go. The altar is only a short walk away.”
I breathe in, my veils shifting around me with a whisper of fabric. My reflection in a polished metal mirror startles me—I look ethereal, every layer representing the life that led me here. Part of me can’t believe I’m about to pledge lifemates with a minotaur who once wanted no part in claiming me. Smiling at the irony, I tilt my chin, feeling a surge of confidence. I choose this, and Remanos chooses me, on equal terms.
Tila and another Freedman girl, Kella, guide me out of the chamber. We emerge onto a path lined with orchard blossoms. Freedmen stand on either side, hushed smiles lighting their faces. I hold the small bouquet from earlier, heart fluttering. In the distance, I see the colosseum’s arches, half-lost in bright afternoon sun. A wooden platform is erected near the steps—an improvised altar.
As we approach, a hush settles over the onlookers. Crafters, Freedmen, city watchers, and even a scattering of senators watch from a respectful distance. Some hold bouquets of orchard flowers or wave cloth banners dyed in Freedmen’s colors. My pulse races, noticing a priestess in simple robes near the platform, a small brazier crackling at her side. This must be the moment.
Remanos stands by the altar, flanked by Tiro and a couple Freedmen. He wears plain leathers, not champion’s regalia—he gave that up long ago. Yet I’ve never seen him look more regal. My breath catches at his broad shoulders, the gentle tilt of his horns, his dark eyes fixed on me so fiercely it sends heat racing through my veins. The bruises on his arms peek from beneath rolled sleeves, reminders of our battles, but he looks calm, steady.
I step forward alone, Freedmen parting behind me, letting me approach the altar. My veils rustle around my body, tinted sunlight painting me in faint color. My gaze locks onto Remanos, and the rest of the crowd falls away like a distant blur. The hush grows profound, the only sound my heartbeat thudding in my ears. He offers a small, tender smile, eyes flicking with admiration at the layered veils.
The priestess, a soft-spoken older minotaur woman, lifts her arms. “We gather to bless the union of two souls, forging a lifemate bond in the eyes of Zukiev, the Lady of Light, who firstbirthed our people’s spirit. Let all bear witness, Freedmen and crafters, city watchers and guests.”
A gentle murmur runs through the crowd, and then the priestess beckons me to stand beside Remanos, the brazier’s smoke curling in faint spirals. I move carefully, veils shifting with each step. My entire body trembles with a mix of reverence and excitement. I glance at Remanos, who nods encouragement, and I lift my chin to meet the priestess’s solemn gaze.
She produces a small bundle of herbs and sprinkles them into the brazier. Fragrant smoke wafts up. The orchard blossoms in my arms flutter as I tremble. The priestess intones, “We burn this offering as a sign of unity, calling upon the Lady of Light to bless these two. As is tradition, we ask each lifemate for their vow—our goddess does not look for champion’s rank, but for honesty and love.”
I swallow, clearing my throat, letting the moment settle. Freedmen watch with rapt attention. My voice emerges softly, but it carries in the hush. “I vow to stand by Remanos as an equal, never again bowed by fear or forced by tradition. I choose him as he is, no illusions. I accept his past, and he accepts mine. Together we shape our future.”
The priestess smiles kindly, nodding. Then she turns to Remanos, who fixes me with a gaze so warm it nearly undoes me. His voice rumbles, quiet yet strong, “I vow to share my life with Mira. No rank or vow to the Senate binds me. I cast aside old illusions that once enslaved us both. Mira stands as my equal, my beloved, and I pledge all I am to her. Freed from champion’s shackles, I choose her willingly.”
A pang of emotion seizes my chest, tears welling. Freedmen sniffle in the crowd. The priestess raises her hands again. “These pledges are heard. Now we kindle the burnt offering to show we accept the goddess’s witness.” She drops a twist of fragrant resininto the brazier, flames leaping high. A hush, punctuated by soft murmurs of awe, washes over us.
She nods to me, indicating I should place my orchard flowers in the flame. My hands shake. I press them forward, feeling the heat lick at my wrists. The flowers catch, curling as the sweet smoke intensifies. My heart hammers. Remanos gently adds a small, carved wooden token—an old arena bracer seal. Freedmen exhale in wonder as the token blackens, releasing the last symbol of his champion rank into the fire.
The priestess tilts her head, chanting a brief minotaur blessing. I catch a few words about lifemates, renewal, the bond of choosing each other. Then she beckons us close. “By Zukiev’s grace, we declare the goddess is pleased by this union. May your bond stand in the face of all storms.”
Freedmen, crafters, watchers—they erupt in applause. My cheeks burn at the intensity of it. Another part of the ceremony remains, though, the private portion. The priestess gestures for us to step behind a curtained partition quickly erected near the altar—an improvised enclosure ensuring no prying eyes see the final unveiling. Freedmen respectfully turn away, continuing to celebrate outside.
My heartbeat surges as we slip behind the curtain, leaving the cheering crowd muffled. Inside, torchlight flickers against thin linen walls. Remanos stands close, the smell of burnt herbs clinging to his fur. Tension coils in the small space, a mixture of reverence and yearning.
He exhales, voice hushed. “You look breathtaking in these veils. Each layer is a piece of your life, a piece I vow to honor.”
My cheeks warm, knees unsteady. “I—I can’t believe we’re truly doing this,” I whisper, a soft laugh escaping. “I never wanted to be a ‘trophy bride.’ But this is different. It’s our choice. Together.”
He gently nods, large hands hovering near my shoulders. “No illusions, no Senate mandates. Only us.”
I swallow, heart hammering. Then, very deliberately, I lift the topmost veil, letting him see my face fully. My voice trembles, “The first layer, peach for my birth, my child self who learned to adapt under the sun and roads. You accept that girl’s story?”
His expression turns soft. “I do. She’s part of your strength, your wanderer’s soul.” He caresses the fabric, lifting it aside with care. It drapes down, exposing the deeper layers. My pulse thrums. The gesture is more intimate than any heated embrace, because it acknowledges me at my core.
We continue in a hush. I gesture to the second layer, lavender for adversity. “This is the part of me that endured orc capture, Senate scorn, the pain of feeling worthless.” My voice cracks. “Do you accept her, too?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I do. I cradle that part of you. Your resilience shaped the woman who stands before me.” He carefully peels the second veil back, eyes brimming with compassion. My throat constricts, tears gathering, the power of this moment nearly overwhelming.
Layer by layer, we repeat the process. A soft green for renewal—my hope found in Freedmen’s solidarity, in forging new paths. A rich gold for triumph—our shared victory in unmasking Vaelen, driving orcs away. Each time, he acknowledges that piece of me and removes the veil, baring more of my arms and torso. By the time the final tinted veil remains, my body feels flushed with emotional intensity. My breath hitches at the closeness, the tender way his fingertips brush the fabric.
He hesitates, voice deep. “The last veil. Pink for love or new beginnings, yes?”
I nod shakily, recalling Tila’s words. “Yes. My life with you, free of illusions.”
In that flickering torchlight, he slips the final veil aside, letting it drift to the floor. My entire body is exposed beneath the gently layered fabric, albeit I wear a simple underdress for modesty. But the symbolism is stark: I stand bare of my past burdens, raw before him. My heart stutters, seeing the admiration and vulnerability in his eyes. He’s a minotaur who once hated the notion of taking a spoil. Now he cherishes me as an equal.
