Then, wordlessly, she wrapped her arms around him—fierce, warm, and unyielding.

"It's all right," she murmured, her voice deep as mountain stone.

"If you believe what you did was right, then it was. The universe doesn't deal in good or evil, Jorghan—only in choices and their echoes. Don't let guilt chain you to the past. Even gods have fallen and risen again."

Sarhita pulled back enough to look at him directly, her eyes intense and unwavering. "Morality isn't some universal constant written in the stars. It's personal, contextual and complicated."

It was night; the seven moons weren't present in the sky—only three of them were. The remaining ones are in the darkness, unable to see.

-

That night was the sixth night, their last before the duel.

The clan held a formal gathering, ostensibly to honor Jorghan as Sarhita's chosen mate, but everyone knew it was more than that.

Jorghan was smiling; he was done with his vengeance. The next time he sees Uncle, it will be his death day.

The ceremony was beautiful.

Sarhita wore traditional garments that seemed to be woven from sunset itself, all flowing reds and golds that complemented her pale red skin and liquid gold eyes.

Jorghan wore clothes the clan had provided—not traditional Nuwe'rak attire, which wouldn't fit his shorter frame, but something elegant and respectful that acknowledged both his outsider status and his acceptance into their community.

Kal'thun spoke formally about bonds and courage, about choosing one's path even when that path led into danger.

Other clan members offered blessings, gifts, and tokens of respect.

The mood was simultaneously celebratory, somber and joyous.

When the formal portion ended and the gathering became more casual, Sarhita pulled Jorghan aside to a quiet corner of the celebration space.

"I have something for you," she said, pulling a small wrapped package from within her flowing garments.

"I made this over the past few days, between training sessions."

Inside was a bracelet woven from what looked like silver wire and desert grass, with small stones worked into the pattern. It was simple but elegant, clearly crafted with care and skill.

"It's a protection charm," she explained as she fastened it around his wrist.

"Not protection in the sense of magical shielding—protection in the sense of remembering what you're fighting for. Each stone represents something. This red one is for courage. The gold one is for wisdom. The black one is for survival. And this one—" she touched a stone that seemed to shift between multiple colors, "—this one is for coming back to me."

Jorghan felt his throat tighten with emotion. "Sarhita, I—"

"Don't promise you'll win," she interrupted softly.

"Don't promise you'll survive. Just promise you'll fight with everything you have, that you won't give up even if it seems hopeless. That's all I ask."

"I promise," he said, and meant it with every fiber of his being.

They stayed at the celebration for propriety's sake but left as early as was acceptable.

That last night they spent wrapped in each other's arms, alternating between desperate passion and gentle tenderness, between fierce declarations and quiet reassurances.

Just before dawn, as the first grey light began to filter through the window, Sarhita propped herself up on one elbow and traced the red tattoo on Jorghan's neck with gentle fingers.

"This mark," she said quietly.

"It's not just decorative, is it? It's part of what you are, part of your power."

Jorghan covered her hand with his, pressing her palm against the tattoo.

"It's... complicated. A legacy from my clan, a reminder of what I survived, a symbol of what I might become. All of those things and more."

"Will it help you tomorrow? Today, I mean?" The sun was rising; the final day had begun.

"Maybe," he said honestly.

"Or maybe it will make things more dangerous. I don't always control what happens when I draw on its full power."

"Then don't," she said firmly.

"Don't draw on it unless you have no other choice. Fight as yourself, with the techniques we've taught you, with your own skill and determination. Only use that deeper power if the alternative is death."

"And if even that's not enough?"

She kissed him, soft and lingering. "Then we'll face what comes next together, in whatever form that takes. But I believe in you, Jorghan Sol'vur. I believe you're going to surprise everyone—including El'ran."

They rose together, dressed in silence heavy with anticipation.

Jorghan donned the fighting clothes Sarhita had helped him prepare—practical garments that allowed freedom of movement while providing some protection, designed in the Nuwe'rak style but adapted for his smaller frame.

The bracelet she'd given him glinted on his wrist, a constant reminder of what he fought for.

He talked to Scarlett before leaving and told her to stay put until he came.

Outside, the settlement was already stirring.

Word had spread among the clans—this duel would be witnessed by representatives from multiple factions, all curious to see whether the ancient El'ran would crush this upstart half-blood or whether something unexpected might occur.

Kal'thun met them outside his dwelling, his expression grave but not without hope.

"The arena is prepared. Representatives from other clans have arrived.

El'ran is already there, waiting."

He gripped Jorghan's shoulder. "Fight well, young one. And remember—survival is victory. Pride means nothing if you're dead."

They walked together through the settlement, a growing procession of Nuwe'rak clan members falling in behind them. No one spoke, but their presence was a statement—whatever happened, Jorghan wouldn't face it alone.

The arena was a natural amphitheater carved by wind and water into the desert rock, a bowl-shaped depression with tiered stone seating around its edges. It could easily hold several hundred people, and it looked like it might need to. Elves from multiple clans had gathered, their varying skin tones and eye colors marking their different lineages.

And in the center of the arena floor, standing with the patience of stone, was El'ran.

Up close, in full daylight, the ancient elf was even more imposing than Jorghan remembered.

He wore minimal armor—just leather bracers and a chest piece that looked like it had been crafted centuries ago and maintained with meticulous care. His polished amber eyes tracked Jorghan's approach with the focused intensity of a predator watching prey.

"The half-blood arrives," El'ran said, his voice carrying across the arena without strain.

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