Mated to the stubborn luna
“With blood and vow, soul to soul, Bound under moon, made whole, By heart, not chain, By power, not pain, We call the bond true, The Luna, the Mate, the Flame, the Moon.”
The air pulsed with energy. The sigils on the floor glowed silver. A wind circled the room—no windows open, no doors ajar. It was magic, pure and uncut.
“Aria of Crescent,” the priestess said. “Do you come willingly?”
“I do.”
“Varek of Nightborn, do you accept this bond?”
“I do.”
Their hands were joined. A silver blade was drawn. With one clean motion, the priestess made shallow cuts in their palms. As their blood mingled, the entire chamber shook.
Bab Populer