Chapter 529: The Lord’s Return (5)
Josephine ambushed him on re-entry, looping her ribbon around his wrist and dragging him into a spinning reel. "Captain of hearts!" she crowed. Her laughter rushed into his ears, wild and bright. Mid-spin she deftly untied the ribbon and flicked it across his nose. "String for later," she whispered, eyes glimmering with more promises than the night had hours.
At the high windows Raine stood silhouetted against moonlight, tracing constellations on the glass. "See the one they call Strayed Wolf?" she asked, pointing. He looked. Only after a heartbeat did he realize she’d placed her hand over his, guiding. "That’s you," she said shyly, "always wandering but always looking back." He leaned close, lips brushing her hair. "Then you’re North Star," he answered. She colored, resting against him while the music slipped through the mullions.
Ravia materialized with a platter of jewel-cut fruit. She lifted a slice of star-pear, sliding it between his lips. Juice dripped down his chin; she laughed and dabbed it away with her thumb—then licked the sweetness off her own skin. His brain blanked for the space of a heartbeat. "Focus, Guardian," she teased, winking as she walked off.
Surena, ever spectral, offered a fresh goblet without a word. Their eyes met—hers assessing, sombre, yet the brush of her fingers lingered on the back of his hand longer than necessity allowed. In that silent exchange she said everything: she was still watching the doors, the shadows, the empty spaces behind tapestries. He squeezed once in thanks; she moved on.
Xena pounced near the roast boar, hooking an arm around his neck. "Mine," she growled before devouring his mouth in a kiss spiced with cloves and rum. Saucy catcalls erupted from mercenaries at the carving board. She broke the kiss with a smack, leaving him dizzy. "Back to the hunt," she declared, snatching a meat skewer and stalking off.
Clarisse slipped through the crowd like candlelight on glass, late but luminous. Her gown was a subdued sea-blue, her hair swept up with silver pins that flashed when she turned her head. "I hope I’m not intruding," she murmured, voice a soft hush that cut through the revel noise. He took her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles. "You belong," he assured. She guided him to a quiet alcove behind a drape of ivy wreaths. "For everything," she whispered, and kissed him—almond and night-air—delicate yet sure. His hand cupped her cheek, feeling the tremble of relief thrumming beneath her composure.
As trumpets blared the next hour, bakers emerged from the side doors carrying a wolf-shaped cake taller than a man’s waist. Cheers rolled like thunder. Children danced around it, flinging fistfuls of flower petals until the flagstones looked snow-dusted. A mountain drummer switched to a slower rhythm, and spontaneously every disparate group—tribes, soldiers, townsfolk—locked arms in a wide circle. Lyan found himself clasping fingers with an elderly potter on one side and a scar-cheeked centurion on the other. Round and round they stepped, mismatched boots and bare feet alike scuffing straw into the seams of the floor.
(They’re weaving stories about you,) Cynthia murmured, pride brimming.
(See how many eyes drink you in,) Lilith sighed, luxuriating.