The words hung in the cold air.
The fire crackled.
Seralyne's hand dropped from her bow.
Elyra stared at him. At this man—this boy, practically, younger than her by at least a year—kneeling on frozen ground in a cave on a mountain in the middle of a blizzard, swearing his life to a woman he'd known for six hours and a child that didn't exist yet.
Her throat closed.
Don't cry. Don't you dare cry. You've cried enough today to fill a river and you are done.
"Get up, Thyrvane."
He didn't move.
"I said get up."
"Not until you accept."
"Kael—"
"Your father told me to protect you. He didn't say until when. So I'm deciding. It's until I'm dead. Accept it or don't, but I'm not getting off this floor."
Seralyne made a sound. Half laugh, half sob. She pressed her fist against her mouth and turned away.
Elyra looked at Kael. At his sword on the ice. At his scarred face and his steady hands and his absolute, infuriating, impossible certainty.
