Archive of Our Own ^beta

“My fellow Tyr’s,” Felix’s voice booms, cutting through the heavy silence like the crack of a thunderclap. He stands tall, the blade of Crescent’s Howl gleaming like molten silver in the firelight as he holds it aloft. “Tonight, we come together to recognise another bond—one forged in strength and unshaken by the storms of the world.”

The moment hangs suspended, every breath caught as if the forest itself has paused to listen. And then, like a spark igniting dry kindling, the crowd erupts. Cries and cheers rise in a tidal wave, crashing against the walls of the arena and roaring up into the night sky. The sound grows, rolling outward into the canopy like a wildfire. The trees seem to tremble in response, their leaves shivering under the weight of the celebration.

The bonfire at the heart of the flight field swells, flames licking higher as though fed by the fervour of the Tyrrish people. Violet feels the heat of it on her skin, a searing reminder of the moment's magnitude, while the sound of the cheers wraps around her like a living thing, fierce and unrelenting. The canopy above, dark and endless, becomes alive with the voices of the Tyr—voices filled with pride, joy, and a unity that could withstand even the fiercest tempest.

Violet loses count of the hands pressing against her shoulders and back, each touch a silent affirmation, a wordless connection to those around her. Suri brushes past, her fingers light as a breeze but purposeful, her eyes sparkling with a knowing glint as she reaches for the pots of pigment resting near the fire. Garrick’s voice rises above the din, booming and bright, though the words themselves are lost in the whirlwind of noise. It doesn’t matter; his exuberant grin is enough to catch her off guard, pulling a laugh from her lips as she futilely tries to brush damp strands of hair from her sweat-slicked face.

The chaos of the moment is overwhelming yet exhilarating, and Violet can’t help but be swept up in it. Her laughter mingles with the energy of the crowd, rising and falling like the rhythm of the drums. And then, as if the world itself conspires to narrow its focus, her gaze meets Xaden’s.

The noise around them dulls to a low murmur, the cheers fading into the background like a tide retreating from the shore. In his eyes, she finds an anchor—steady, unwavering, and impossibly sure. The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver down her spine, grounding her in the reality of what is happening, what they are about to do.

Suri’s nails brush softly against the ceramic as she kneels beside Violet, holding out one of the pots with a reverence that feels almost sacred. The firelight reflects off its surface, and Violet leans in, catching sight of the pigment within. It shimmers with a rich, ocean-deep blue, as if the depths of the sea have been captured and sealed away for this very moment.

“Go on,” Suri urges gently, her voice low but firm. “One hand at a time, carefully. Let them see you.”

Violet swallows, her pulse thrumming in her ears, and reaches for the pot. The paint feels cool under her fingertips as she dips them in, its texture smooth and thick. With a steadying breath, she brings her hand up, the vibrant blue gleaming in contrast to her skin, and presses her palm down, leaving behind a mark as bold and unyielding as the vow she is about to make.

Slowly, Violet dips her fingers into the paint, her movements deliberate, almost reverent. The warmth of it surprises her, heat lingering from its time resting near the fire. She releases a breath as the sensation spreads across her skin, her knuckles brushing the bottom of the pot. The paint climbs almost halfway up her forearm, its texture thick and smooth. She bites her lip as she withdraws her hand, watching the vivid blue shimmer in the firelight before repeating the motion with her other hand.

“Now you, Xaden,” Suri says warmly, her voice carrying over the steady crackle of the flames.

Violet steps back slightly, her breath hitching as she watches Xaden.

Removing his leathers to expose the flesh of his torso, his expression is unreadable, his features shadowed yet sharply illuminated by the firelight. Slowly, he lowers his hand into the bright pigment, the blue paint swallowing his fingers and creeping over his knuckles. When he pulls it free, beads of paint drip from his fingertips, splattering against the gravel below in small, deliberate drops that seem to echo in the space around them.

For the briefest moment—a heartbeat, a breath, nothing more—Violet thinks she sees Felix’s face soften. Over Xaden’s shoulder, there’s a hint of a fond smile upon his otherwise hardened face, fleeting and understated. But as soon as she notices it, it’s gone, vanishing so quickly she wonders if it was real at all or simply a trick of the flickering firelight. The thought lingers, warm and fragile, even as the moment stretches on.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Xaden asks, his voice low, almost swallowed by the stillness of the flight arena. The question lingers in the air, its weight heavy enough to make Violet’s pulse quicken. Around them, the world feels suspended, as though holding its breath.

Suri moves quietly at the edge of their vision, her hands steady as she pours a line of oil around them. The scent drifts up, faint and earthy, as the shimmering trail encircles their feet at the very heart of the crescent-shaped platform.

Violet lifts her gaze toward Felix, watching as the Commander descends the platform steps with a deliberate, measured pace. Crescent’s Howl gleams in his grip, catching the firelight in sharp, brilliant flashes. It looks alive, almost restless—a tethered predator barely held in check.

Her eyes return to Xaden’s, unwavering.

Reaching for his hand, she pulls it from her side and grasps it firmly in her own. Their fingers interlace, the paint smearing and blending until their hands are a riot of colours pressed tightly together. The tension in their grip turns their knuckles white beneath the vivid layers of pigment.

She raises their clasped hands between their chests, her free palm settling over his knuckles in a gesture as steady as it is resolute.

“Absolutely,” she answers, her voice clear, strong, and unyielding.

The word reverberates through the stillness, carrying with it the kind of conviction that leaves no room for doubt. In this moment, she knows—without hesitation, without fear—that this is exactly where she’s meant to be.

Heat rushes toward Violet in an oppressive wave, licking at her skin until beads of sweat form at her temples and the nape of her neck. The fire’s reach seems to snap at her shoulders, but she leans closer into Xaden, his presence grounding her against the fiery chaos. When the flames tease dangerously close to her braid, she pulls him nearer still, her forehead brushing his chest as she anchors herself to the steady rhythm of his heart.

Xaden's exposed flesh scrapes lightly against her knuckles where their hands are pressed together, the faint friction grounding her even further. His breath, warm and steady, puffs against her jaw, and when her nose brushes against the line of his collarbone, she feels him smile—a small, intimate curve of his lips that sends a matching smile blooming across her own.

The flames blaze brighter, their glow infectious, joy rising in her chest as if the fire had skipped over her skin and set her ribs alight instead. The heat no longer feels like a threat; it feels alive, wild, and exhilarating, as if it mirrors the electric thrum of everything she feels standing here with him.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the flames begin to recede, their stubborn retreat leaving a lingering warmth in the air. The humid heat clinging to her skin fades, replaced by a faint coolness that makes the moment all the more vivid. The arena falls silent, the reverence in the stillness as palpable as the glow of the dying fire.

For a heartbeat, nothing exists but the quiet, the lingering warmth of his body, and the unspoken promise in the way their hands remain clasped.

Violet doesn't hesitate for a single second, reaching for him before she can even process the impulse, her palms still streaked with paint. The vibrant, thick pigment splashes across his chest as she presses her hands to his jaw, carelessly smearing it with a sense of urgency. She pulls him closer, kissing him long and deep, her body aligning with his at every possible point, as if she can’t get close enough.

It’s then that the uproar hits her—Garrick, Imogen, and Bodhi’s loud, exuberant shouts cut through the intensity of the moment, followed by an explosion of cheers that floods her senses. The sound is as intoxicating as Crescent’s Howl itself, sharp and full of energy, and her laugh bursts out of her, as wild and free as the joy that surges in her chest.

Xaden doesn’t let go of the moment.

His arm slides under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly against him, her legs instinctively wrapping around his torso. He presses a gentle kiss to her exposed belly, his eyes bright and mischievous, his face and hair a mess of blue and sun-yellow streaks. She tangles her fingers in his hair, giving him another playful streak of paint as she smiles at him with a mix of admiration and affection.

"I am yours," he had whispered to her once, his voice thick with reverence.

The moment he'd spoken those words, they'd seemed to settle deep within her, like a promise that would never fade. She had believed him with no hesitation, no uncertainty, as though his declaration carried the weight of all the unspoken truths they had shared, of everything they had already endured together.

This was before the vow, before the formal pledge they'd made in front of his, their, people, before they had painted themselves in the brilliant, vibrant hues of Tyrrish colours, marking not just their bodies but their commitment to one another.

In that moment, though, it had been enough. His words were a bond more potent than any ritual or oath. He was hers—undeniably, irrevocably—just as he had always been, and would continue to be. It was a truth they both knew, even without the need for ceremony.

Now, as he holds her close, his arms steady around her as he carries her through the throng of people, the weight of his love for her wraps around her like a warm embrace. Together, they weave their way through the crowd, cutting a path between the figures that part instinctively to let them through. The heat of the blazing bonfire bathes them both, its flames casting an almost ethereal glow around them, but it is nothing compared to the warmth that burns between them.

And Violet revels in that warmth, in the deep, unwavering certainty that Xaden is hers—just as he had been when he first uttered those words. There is no question now. No doubts. She can feel it in every beat of her heart, in every breath she takes.

As they move together, surrounded by the joyous noise of the celebration, there is no doubt that this bond is as strong as the fire itself. Nothing can break it. Not now, not ever. She is his, and in that moment, she wants nothing more than to bask in the certainty of it.