The dress draped over Taira felt like an extension of nature itself, woven from the earth, shaped by the land. It moved, breathed with her, cascading with every step. Her fingers brushed over the delicate clasp on her shoulder, tracing the intricate design. A single motion— and the fabric slipped down, pooling in a soft wave, baring her back.

  The coolness of the sheets did nothing to soothe her. The fabric was soft, yet against her skin, it felt foreign. Distant.

  She ran her hands over her body— as if to remind herself that it was still hers. That it still belonged to her. That it was still alive.

  They waited outside.

  They listened.

  She would make sure no one doubted. No one dared to say she was broken. That she had lost.

  Taira closed her eyes.

  She inhaled— a deep, greedy breath, filled with fire.

  Her people waited.

  And then she exhaled. A sound slipped from her lips—the first, barely audible, trembling sigh.

  Her heart pounded.

  She began the Rite of Union.

  Her movements were like the wind brushing against cliffs, like the first raindrops before a storm. Slow. Gentle. But carrying the force of an approaching hurricane. Like the smooth, patient glide of a falcon— sensing its prey, but not yet diving, not yet surrendering to the madness of the fall. Her hands skimmed over the curves of her body, over the silk that slid away, inch by inch, revealing more with every breath. As if she were dancing. This was not just desire—this was defiance. This was fury. This was resistance. Her breath hitched. Eyes closed. Head tilted back, lips trembling. The first quiet, drawn-out sigh. Her fingers trailed lower. Her breathing deepened. Her body arched, tension rippling through her spine, her thighs, her shoulders. Her chest rose. Her skin burned. Her muscles trembled.

  She could hear them.

  Her people.

  A low, rising hum, slow, rolling like the tide before a storm. It wrapped around the tent, seeped through the walls, reached into every inch of her skin. It was the rhythm waiting for her. The sound that echoed in her blood. And then — the fires, the voices outside—gone. There was only her breath. Only the pounding of her heart. Deep. Resonant. Like thunder before the lightning strike. She moved like the tide—slow, rhythmic, inevitable. Her hands glided over her skin, hot, insistent, soft but commanding. They knew what to do. They knew how to seize this moment, how to turn it into triumph. Her body danced with nature itself.

  The tribe felt it.

  The hum grew louder.

  Taira heard it—and yet, in the same breath, she heard nothing. There was only her body. Her skin. Her breath. Her fire.

  She arched, fingers clutching the sheets, lips parting.

  The air turned sharp, cold—piercing, as if the night itself was breathing against her.

  She was not alone. She knew.

  In the darkness of the tent, she was being watched. Tall, motionless, carved from ice.

  White. Cold. A shadow of the moon in the night.

  Eiris.

  She stood frozen, and Taira did not see the way her fingers twitched—did not see the way her gaze locked onto her and did not move. But Taira knew. And yet—she could not stop. Her chest rose. Her breathing stuttered. Her movements deepened, grew more relentless. The fire surged. Power pulsed inside her. She was a storm, a force of nature, a wildfire—untamed. Unbound. Nothing could chain her now.

  Wind. Storm. Fire.

  Her head tilted back, lips parted, eyes hazed. Her breath—too loud. The world unraveled. There was only rhythm. Only a body that moved, that pulsed, that chased its peak. She knew she shouldn't. But her body had already decided for her. Heat spread inside her, wildfire starved of air. She wasn't supposed to move. But her muscles already trembled. Her skin burned beneath her own touch. Her fingers sank into warmth, into softness, into the pulse of life beneath skin. Her heart pounded in a frantic rhythm, too fast, too loud, drowning out the rest of the world. She should have stopped. She couldn't. She heard Eiris's breath. It had become part of this moment, woven into it, something inescapable. Something Taira could not ignore.

  Heat and ice.

  They were too close.

  She felt her own fingers tighten. Felt everything. The tension coiled in her muscles, the molten heat pooling low in her belly, the ragged gasps, the impossibility of pulling away. Taira knew Eiris felt it too. But she could not see. Could not see the way Eiris's pupils had blown wide, the way her hands had twitched, the way her body had tensed. But not to retreat. She was registering. But not yet understanding. She was here. But not yet feeling. Taira knew this. Eiris's body was breathing beside her. Her chest rose—slowly. Too slowly. Taira was still moving. And she could not stop. The moment stretched.

  Too long. Too thick. Too real.

  And then...

  She opened her eyes.

  Their gazes met.

  Steel gray and golden honey. Sharp. Unyielding. On the edge. Eiris's silver eyes locked onto her—motionless, unblinking, stripped of their usual impassivity. They did not waver. Did not retreat. Did not hide behind a mask of indifference. They held her. They captured her. And Taira felt that gaze—everywhere. Her breath faltered, caught between her lips. But her body did not stop. Heat rippled down her spine, through her thighs, over her chest. Cascading, consuming, claiming. Time slowed. As if the night itself had held its breath. As if the fires had stilled. As if everything around them had frozen in the purest moment of tension. Only their eyes. And then something inside Taira surged. The heat inside her flared, sharper, deeper—as if that gaze had poured oil into the fire, had torn her open, had made her more alive.

  More aware. More exposed.

  Her jaw clenched, lips parting, breath shuddering too fast, lashes trembling, vision blurring— she was drowning in it. This impossible, unrelenting pull. And still Eiris did not look away. But then—something shifted. Her pupils flickered. Her breath stilled—just for a fraction of a second.

  And then...

  Her gaze dropped. Slowly. Too slowly.

  As if being pulled downward—as if surrendering to something ancient, inexplicable, wrong. Taira felt it. Felt the silver eyes of Eiris—dragging over her.

  Down the curve of her neck. Over the sharp lines of her collarbones. Across the rise and fall of her chest. Her gaze moved. Lingered. Studied.

  It was not deliberate. It was instinct.

  Taira knew this. And in that moment—she closed her eyes. She did not want to see Eiris realize what she was doing. Did not want to witness the moment she forced the mask back into place. Did not want to shatter this fleeting second—the only moment where they were both defenseless against what was igniting between them.

  Her lips curved into a slow smile. Calm. Knowing. A hint of amusement—but without challenge. Only the pure satisfaction of triumph.

  I see you.

  I know what you just did.

  I know you're watching.

  Her breath hitched. Her fingers clenched into the sheets. Her head tipped to the side. Her lips parted wider. Each breath grew deeper, heavier. Her knees trembled, muscles burned from strain, fingers clutched the sheets like they were the last anchor to reality.

  The Thousandth does not yield.

  The Thousandth does not show weakness.

  The Thousandth is strength.

  She is honor. She is more than just a woman given away to a foreign people. Her movements sharpened, grew bolder, breath breaking into ragged, desperate gasps. Everything inside her burned—with humiliation.

  With fury. With adrenaline.

  With the unbearable weight of powerlessness. She was proving it to them. She was proving it to herself. She could not stop. She could not give them even a sliver of doubt that she had broken. Her voice rose— filling the tent, trembling through the air, turning into a ritual cry, into a battle call, into a pure, unrelenting rage. She thrashed against the sheets, sweat-dampened hair clinging to her temples, her skin ablaze. Her chest rose in sharp, erratic bursts, muscles straining, surrendering to something wild, something primal. The world shrank, collapsing into a single point— a moment of threshold. A moment of truth. A moment where everything made sense. She arched—head thrown back, spine trembling, knees nearly giving out from the force of it. Her breath— shattered. Exploding from her lungs.

  And in that moment, the space around them shattered with her scream.

  It tore from the depths of her—raw. Ragged. Feral. A lightning strike splitting the sky over the ancient forests. It burned through the night, filling it, consuming it, drowning it in her power. It was victory. It was madness. It was freedom. It tore from her chest—shaking, fractured, hoarse, but never weak. The final crack of thunder before the downpour. The last echo, rolling into eternity.

  It was not a sigh, not a whisper, not a moan—it was a cry.

  And the world shuddered. The flames leapt higher.

  The tribe erupted.

  She was not broken. She had proven her power. And in that instant—the night exploded in voices. Roars of joy. Laughter. Ecstasy. A thousand voices shattered the dark, singing her triumph. And in that sound— Eiris broke. Her breath hitched. Sharp, sudden— as if the air had turned to poison, thick and scorching, too heavy to pull into her lungs. Her body tensed, gaze locked onto Taira—on her parted lips. On her throat. On her chest. On the sharp tremble of her collarbones. On the fingers clutching the sheets. On her face—twisted in pure, unrestrained ecstasy of victory. She could not look away. She could not breathe. That voice struck her— pierced through her—shattered the ice inside. Taira tore through the air. Tore through herself. Tore through both of them with that scream.

  And Eiris felt it inside her.

  Taira had let this happen.

  She had let Eiris watch.

  She had let herself burn in this moment. Outside, the roar of the tribe rose higher. Her name filled the air—blending with the flames, with the wind, with the night itself. She did not hear the words. She did not need to. She knew—her people were chanting her name in celebration. Taira could still feel that scream inside her. It did not fade. Did not vanish. Did not dissolve into the night. It lived in her body. It pounded in her heart. It tore through her lungs. It echoed in the tension of her muscles, in the heat, in the weight of breath that still refused to steady. Her tribe was still celebrating. Their voices dissolved into the night, into the crackling of the fires. But Taira heard nothing. Only the echo of her own voice. Only the tension that refused to let go.

  And her.

  Eiris.

  She was still watching.

  Taira felt that gaze— in every nerve of her body, like the lash of a whip, like an exposed wound, like a rush of ice slicing through her burning skin. Those steel-gray eyes were locked onto her—hooking into her. Cutting. Digging deeper than they should. Eiris did not look away. She did not turn. She did nothing to break this moment.

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  And it broke her.

  A fresh wave of heat crashed over her, her heart igniting in her chest—painful, piercing, pounding. Her muscles tensed, fingers trembled, lips still parted— breath too fast.

  Too heavy. Too alive.

  Taira couldn't take it anymore.

  She lunged forward— Sharp. Reckless. Merciless— Like fire erupting from the earth. Her palms slammed against Eiris's chest— harder than necessary. Forcing her to step back. Forcing her to react.

  "You—" Her voice broke. Not enough air. Not enough strength to say more. But it didn't matter— because Taira was looking into her eyes. And she saw. She saw Eiris understand. She saw how her body stilled— not from detachment. From something more. She saw the way her lips barely parted— before pressing into their usual cold, rigid line. She saw the way her hands almost rose in response— but she forced herself to remain still. Taira burned— hotter than before. She was still shaking. Her body still remembered. The moment. The rhythm. The movement. The heat. Her breath shattered— into agony. Into fury. Into triumph. Into the unbearable realization that— This had been real.

  "Say something..."

  Eiris was silent. Her silence was louder than the roars of the tribe. Taira grabbed her by the collar— yanked. Felt the fabric strain, heard the buttons clink in protest. She didn't know what she wanted. She only knew that she needed movement. She needed to feel something—anything but the void. She needed to prove that this was real. Her hands trembled— but not from weakness. From rage. From heat. From the way her body still refused to let go of this moment.

  And Eiris— Eiris did not move. She did not push her away. She did not lift her hands to break the contact. She only stood there. Too close. And Taira felt— her own fingers tightening. Felt the shift, the slide— lower. Just enough to graze the rough fabric. Beneath it— warmth. The solid, unshaken reality of her body. The tension in her stillness. This was not a touch— this was a trespass. A breach into a space that should not be crossed. But Taira did not pull away. She felt the slow, controlled inhale expand in Eiris's chest. Felt the tension at her throat. Felt the flicker in her silver eyes— a fraction of hesitation. But she did not recoil. Taira did not move. But she felt it— their breaths mixing. Felt the air between them grow warmer. Felt something heavy stretch between them— pressing, suffocating— drowning out the fires, the laughter, the tribe. Everything outside this moment collapsed—until only this remained. Thick. Slow. Dripping like resin— leaving a trace. Too long. Too real. Her heart slammed too hard. Too fast. Too open. And still— Eiris did not move. But her pupils flickered.

  And then Taira understood. She felt her. Felt the air tighten, burn hotter. Felt how every touch left a mark. Felt their breath weaving together. Felt something unspeakable coiling between them—pulling them into the fire.

  And then— Taira smiled.

  Not in triumph. Not in challenge. But in defeat. In the bitter recognition that, somehow, Eiris had broken her.

  Her fingers slowly uncurled. Her hands slipped away—but she did not step back. She still felt the warmth beneath her fingertips. Still felt Eiris's breath. She knew Eiris felt her too. But before Eiris could process what was happening, before she could understand what was slipping through her fingers— Taira was gone.

  She stepped past the veils, pulling a light cloak around her shoulders, moving toward the feast. Her hair—damp. Her skin—burning. Her breath—still uneven.

  She reached for the wine jug, poured into a clay cup, took a slow sip—let the sharp, bitter taste scorch her throat.

  She knew Eiris was watching her.

  And then—

  "What kind of savage, monstrous rituals..."

  Taira shuddered. For a fraction of a second, it felt as if the air around her had thickened. Not from the fires. Not from the tribe's voices.

  But from that voice. Low. Rough-edged. Laced with steel, yet thick, smooth—like warm smoke in the cold air. It seeped into her, coiled around her skin, melted somewhere low in her stomach, then struck upward— to her throat. To her temples. To the deepest, most shaken corners of her mind. She did not lift her eyes immediately. She held her breath. Let herself pause. Let the sensation spread. A thin, slow wave, rolling through her nerves, filling every inch of her. Her muscles tensed in response.

  She had never heard a voice sound like that.

  So rich. So deep. So... alive.

  She let that voice settle inside her. Let it run over her skin. Let it sink into her flesh. Let it become part of this moment.

  Like wine—the kind you want to hold on your tongue just a little longer before swallowing.

  "Savage...?"

  Taira whipped around. As if she had been struck. She had heard that word a thousand times. From outsiders. Her chest clenched. Not from rage. From something deeper. Something rotten, festering between her ribs, curling inside her like a black coil of understanding. The realization— that no matter how much blood you spill, how many scars you earn, how much you prove yourself—they will always look down on you. She took a step toward Eiris—her voice dripping with exhaustion, wrapped in rage.

  "Who are you to judge our rites? Who are you to stand here and look at me with that cold disdain— as if you are above this? As if your hands aren't stained with the blood of my ancestors—as if your people haven't been bound to mine for millennia?"

  Eiris did not move. Taira let out a sharp breath—a bitter, hollow sound.

  "You don't even understand what just happened, do you? You don't even realize what I've done... what I had to do... What I had to break inside myself to prove that I am still strong. That I am still worthy. That I did not fall. That I did not bring shame."

  Her voice cracked. She clenched her teeth. Her body stilled for just a second— before she dropped the final blow.

  "But do you know the worst part? I shattered myself. I tore myself into pieces so that no one would dare say I was broken. I killed the woman I used to be so no one would see my pain. Because I am a sacred wife. Because for years, I told everyone I was the Thousandth. I am the gift of the stars. I am the one chosen by fate. But now..."

  She let out a hollow laugh.

  "Now, it seems the stars are just laughing at me."

  She took another step forward. Her eyes burned. Pain boiled inside her, searing, eating through her ribs.

  "Oh, yes! We are savage! We are people of the wild. Children of the elements. We are alive—like the streams running through the forests. We are loud—like leaves in a storm. We breathe—like the sea pulling in the tide. We move—like birds soaring through the sky.

  We. Are. Alive!!!

  Emotional. Unruly. Open. And yes— We are passionate!"

  She tilted her head, eyes darkening— something inside her swelled. Burned. Tore through her chest, demanding to be unleashed. Her voice dropped—

  "But you..."

  A single word slipped from her lips— drenched in disgust. Sick with rage. Raw with pain.

  "You are dead. Dead like the old Black Gorge. Like the statues of forgotten gods on the Cold Cliff. Like the nameless stones, eroded by time. Like the frost that devours life— but never lets it die. Buttoned to the throat with your rules."

  And then— she snapped. Her grip was sudden. Fingers clawing into Eiris's collar— Fist tightening around the stiff fabric.

  "Control... control..."

  Taira yanked at the fabric— Buttons snapped, thread ripped, the sound slicing through the air.

  "Unfasten."

  Another sharp pull— stronger.

  "So I don't bring shame to my tribe."

  The fire in her eyes flared. Her breath was still ragged. Her temples burned. Her hands shook—because the same unbearable rage was still raging inside her. And then— Eiris caught her. An iron grip around her wrist. Their eyes met. Taira felt it. Felt Eiris's fingers tightening around her skin. Felt her strength. Her power. Eiris didn't push her away. She only held her.

  "Let go."

  Soft. But inside that voice— contained fury. A quiet, restrained rage— forced down, buried deep. Taira's breath shuddered. And then...

  "And don't you dare tell anyone I did this alone."

  Taira felt Eiris's grip loosen.

  But before something shifted in their gazes— before the air between them could tighten further— she pulled her hand away. And turned. She did not look back as she stepped out of the tent. But she knew. She knew that Eiris was still standing there. Fingers curled just a little too tightly— in the place where her skin had been.

  Outside, the roar of celebration still shook the night. Taira was swept up— lifted, spun, tossed toward the sky, as if she truly were the one they worshipped tonight. Laughter, shouting, ritual songs—all of it blended into a single wave of wild, ecstatic energy. She smiled— head tilting back, hair flying, breath catching— not from exhaustion— but because the fire inside her had not yet burned out.

  "Well? Was she as cold as they say?"

  She didn't think. She didn't hesitate. She didn't let even a single crack show in the mask she had just built.

  "Oh, on the outside, she's ice..."

  She leaned in, let the words draw out.

  "But inside... ohhh."

  The approving roar soared into the night, laughter bursting around her. But her lungs— Wouldn't obey. Something tightened. Something pressed down. Something caught her throat. She squinted, forced air into her chest— her hands trembled, but no one saw. Somewhere inside the tent— Eiris curled her fingers tighter. Her body tensed— like a soldier before battle. But she did not move.

  The First Blow.

  Taira exhaled sharply—and pain seized her. She did not understand it. Her lungs tightened. Her legs weakened. A hot wave tore through her spine. The world tilted. The hands holding her— suddenly foreign. Too distant. Pain shot through her like molten wire, piercing her chest— and at the other end of that wire— something pulled. Something answered. And even though she couldn't see it— she knew.

  Eiris felt it too. Eiris jerked forward. Unthinking. Her fingers twitched— sut her face remained frozen.

  The Second Blow.

  Taira plunged downward. Her breath—ragged. Her hands reached for something— but found nothing. Eiris gripped the edge of the table. Her legs trembled. Pain hammered behind her temples— like something was ripping her out of her own body. The people around Taira laughed—but she no longer heard them. Someone spoke— but it blurred into white noise. She collapsed. Eiris buckled, struggling to keep her balance. The air compressed. A sharp, searing pain tore through her body— her hands slipped free. The last thing she heard— muffled shouts.

  A voice calling out.

  But the words— gone.

  Darkness.

  ***

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