84

84
The fire from the ritual still burned behind us, low and glowing, casting shadows that danced along the curve of the hill.

We’d stepped out of the circle hand in hand, the warmth of the forged rings still lingering against our skin. The rogue crowd had dispersed with silent reverence, drifting back into the woods, as if understanding instinctively that what came next belonged to no one but us.

Kade and I walked in silence.

The kind of silence that didn’t press or threaten.

The kind that asked you to listen, not speak.

He led me to the ridge above the settlement, where the wind was cooler and the moon sat low like a sentinel over the trees. We sat on a flat boulder together, his shoulder brushing mine, our knees just barely touching.

I stared at the ring on my finger.

The fire-forged metal didn’t glitter or shine.

But it was warm.

Steady.

Anchoring.

And so was he.

Kade hadn't said much after the rite. I could tell he was still trying to process what it meant, what it didn't mean. He'd spent a lifetime being someone else's sword. This was the first time he’d ever been someone's choice.

My choice.

I watched his profile in the moonlight—sharp angles softened by quiet. His lashes cast faint shadows. His jaw clenched and released slowly, like he was working through something in silence.

And suddenly I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Not the ache. Not the truth. Not the words I’d swallowed again and again, thinking action was enough.

But he deserved the words too.

“Kade,” I said, barely louder than a breath.

He turned. “Yeah?”

I took a moment, steadying myself.

“I don’t think I ever said it.”

He blinked. “Said what?”

I met his eyes.

“I love you.”

The words didn’t feel forced or dramatic or stolen from some fairy tale.

They felt earned.

They felt real.

His breath hitched. “Lyra…”

“I should’ve said it earlier,” I murmured. “When you held me in that cell. When you saved me at the pyre. When you carried me through the woods, bleeding and broken. When you stood beside me and never once asked me to be smaller or quieter or easier.”

Tears burned the back of my throat.

“I loved you even then. But I didn’t know how to say it. Not when everything felt like survival.”

He reached for me, cupping my cheek in one hand.

“You just did,” he whispered. “You said it now. And that’s what matters.”

I leaned into his touch.

He brushed his thumb beneath my eye, his voice barely holding steady.

“You know what scares me the most?” he asked.

“What?”

“That I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear those words… and didn’t even know it.”

I took his hand and held it against my heart.

“I love you,” I said again. “Not because you saved me. Not because we share pain. But because you see me. You never looked away, even when I broke. Even when I failed.”

“You didn’t fail,” he said, voice low and fierce. “You survived. You led. You rose.”

I smiled through the tears. “So did you.”

His forehead pressed against mine.

And for a long time, we didn’t need anything else.

Just this.

Breath and skin and the quiet weight of finally knowing we were safe in each other’s arms.

When he kissed me, it wasn’t desperate.

It was reverent.

Like he was finally allowing himself to believe it—that someone could love him not despite the fire he’d walked through, but because of how he came out of it.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “I love you too.”

It wasn’t just an echo.

It was a promise.

He rested his hand over the ring on my finger. “Not because you chose me. But because you kept choosing me. Even when I didn’t know how to choose myself.”

We sat there until the stars blurred.

Until the fire below faded into embers.

Until the night didn’t feel heavy anymore.

And I realized…

This.

This was what love looked like.

Not perfect.

Not easy.

But whole.

Honest.

Forged in flame—and never alone again.