He didn’t need to ask. But he did.
“Are you ready?”
No. Not even close.
“Yes,” I said.
A lie.
He knew it.
I knew it.
But still, he nodded.
A soft knock broke the hush of the room, muffled but unmistakable. We both turned, breath held in that fragile space between moments.
The door creaked open.
A steward stood in the archway, moonstone lantern in hand. Its glow steady, casting silver light over his face, over the folds of his robes. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His head remained bowed in quiet reverence, as if even the act of witnessing this moment was a kind of prayer.
Behind him, the corridor stretched in silver and golden silence, dappled with the glow of moonstones and oil lamps lit for the hour before dawn.
Auren looked at me, our hands still joined. His grip softened.
Then he let go.
The air between us cooled the instant his fingers slipped from mine.
He stepped forward.
And I followed—not because I was ready, but because there was no other road I wanted to walk.
The chamber was cool with silence. Its vaulted ceiling rose into shadows, the stained glass along the eastern wall still dark, waiting on the first touch of dawn. Lanterns flickered in niches carved into the pale stone, casting long, slow-moving reflections onto the polished floor.
I walked beside Auren, our footsteps soft. The steward who had come for us stood at the threshold now, head bowed, his lantern covered. We stepped past him into the heart of the chamber, and I felt something tighten—not the bond, not anymore. Something quieter. Something smaller. Like breath held too long.
Three robed priests awaited us. I recognized none of them, their faces obscured beneath the ceremonial hoods of their Order. They didn’t look up as we entered, only motioned gently for us to approach the central dais.
A low table stood there, no more than knee-high. Upon it, a chalice of dull gold, its surface traced with symbols I didn’t know. A folded square of white cloth. A candle already lit.
The bond was still inside me. I felt it. Steady, like a second heartbeat.
Auren took my hand one last time as we stood before the table. His fingers were warm, steady. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.
The lead priest stepped forward. His voice, when he spoke, was gentle and low.
I thought about speaking.
The words hovered on the back of my tongue—like a breath drawn too deep, too sudden, threatening to turn into something irreversible.
What if I said no?
What if I stepped forward, took Auren’s hand again, and asked them to wait?
It would be so simple. The ritual would stop. The bond would hold. Auren would?—
I looked at him.