The Princess regarded him for a long moment, still as carved stone. Around them, the guards remained in defensive formation, though their eyes kept flicking to the shattered remnants of Idris's borrowed dagger and the scorch marks where the mana blade had carved furrows into the earth.

"You're bleeding," she observed.

Idris glanced down at his arm. The gash was already knitting—slowly, far too slowly, the edges pulling together with visible reluctance. His hand still smoked faintly. The smell of his own cauterized flesh mingled with the jasmine and damp earth.

"I'll live," he said. Then, with a pointed glance at the empty space where the assassin had been: "Apparently."

The Princess made a small gesture. One of the guards stepped forward with a cloth, which she took and held out toward Idris. He stared at it for a beat too long before accepting.

"Impressive, you even caught his blade," she said. Not a question.

"Barely." Idris pressed the cloth to his arm, hissing softly at the contact. There was some sort of ointment on it. Herbal medicine maybe? It stings. "And I wouldn't recommend it as a strategy. That Crescent was stronger than any human I’ve faced." He paused. "They're all like that?"

"The best of them." Her tone was carefully neutral. "The others aren’t much weaker however."

Idris let out a short, humorless laugh. "Wonderful. Something to look forward to."

Ramzah had retrieved his dagger, what remained of it, from the moss. He held the hilt in his palm, staring at the melted tang where the blade had sheared off. His expression was complicated.

"That was mine," he said quietly.

Idris offered a tired shrug. "I'll buy you a new one. Put it on my tab."

"You're still a prisoner," Ramzah growled, but there was less heat in it now. His gaze drifted to the scorched earth, then back to Idris's still-smoking hand. "You didn't have to do that."

"No?" Idris tilted his head. "She's funding my resurrection. Bad for business if she's bisected before the ink dries."

The Princess made a sound. Not quite a laugh, but close. "You value our arrangement already."

"I wouldn’t exactly say that..." Idris tossed the bloodied cloth aside. Even beneath the veil, he could tell she didn’t believe his words. The wound on his arm had closed to a thin pink line, hopefully once he was back to a hundred percent it would close properly. "Now. Where were we?"

The guards exchanged glances. The Commander started to speak, something about security breaches, about regrouping, about returning to the convoy, but the Princess raised that same small hand.

"We were concluding the agreement," she said. Her voice changed. It had been measured before, composed. Now it took on weight, resonance. "I, Amani, daughter of the Sun Throne, heir of Qahila's burning line, do swear this vow before the one above and all witnesses present."

The guards had gone very still. The older man beside her seemed very focused. 

"Qahila shall stand as shield to Idris of Darkthorn, last son of the Al-Bey. His enemies shall be our enemies. His cause, our cause. His sovereignty, our recognition."

Her voice did not waver.

"We shall give gold for his halls. Stone for his walls. Men for his armies. We shall aid in the rebuilding of his domain until Darkthorn rises again from the ashes of the Mage War."

Idris's throat tightened. He said nothing.

"And in return," she continued, "Idris of Darkthorn shall pledge his banner to Qahila. His strength, his wisdom, his ancient authority. He shall stand beside the Sun Throne in war and in council. He shall offer counsel when asked, and protection when needed."

A pause. The weight in the air grew heavier.

"So I swear. So I bind myself. So I bind my kingdom."

The pressure released. The forest breathed again.

He drew himself up. How strange the shape of new beginnings are.

"I, Idris," he said, "Count of Darkthorn, son of the Al-Bey, last of my line in this land, do accept your vow."

His voice was steady now. The weariness remained, the hunger, the profound ache of loss. But beneath it, something else stirred.

"I pledge my banner to Qahila. My strength, such as it remains. My wisdom, for what it's worth. My authority, such as the centuries have left me." A pause. "I shall stand beside your throne, in war and council. I shall offer counsel, and protection when needed."

He met her veil.

"This vow is sealed. So I swear. So I bind myself. So I bind what remains of Darkthorn."

The Princess inclined her head. "Then it is done. The alliance is sealed, the contract witnessed, and the marriage—"

"MARRIAGE?"

Idris's composure shattered like the remnants of Ramzah's dagger. His hands flew up.

"Marriage. You said marriage?" His voice was like a wisp now.

The Princess tilted her head. "Yes. That is the next step."

"THE NEXT STEP?"

"Of the alliance. Yes." Her tone suggested this was obvious. "The vow establishes the terms. The marriage executes them."

Idris stared at her. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"I'm sorry," he said, very carefully, "I need you to clarify. Are you saying—are you telling me—that the 'next step' of our diplomatic agreement is for us to GET MARRIED?"

"Yes."

"AS IN WEDDING. CEREMONY."

"That is generally what 'marriage' denotes, yes."

Idris made a sound. It was not a word. It was not even a coherent expression of distress. It was simply the noise a man makes when reality has veered so far from his expectations that language itself fails him.

"But we just—you just—the VOW—" He was gesturing wildly now, chains rattling. "I thought the vow WAS the alliance! I thought we were DONE!"

"The vow is the promise," the Princess said calmly. "The marriage is the fulfillment."

"THAT'S NOT—THAT'S NOT HOW ALLIANCES WORK."

"It is how alliances work."

"That’s…mad."

The Princess's veil shifted. Idris could not see her expression, but he would have sworn she was enjoying this.

"Three hundred years asleep," she said, "and you wake to find that diplomatic norms have evolved. Tragic."

Idris turned to face her. He was too out of energy for this, and out of any remaining faith in the fundamental rationality of the situation. he stared at her. His expression had cycled through approximately all stages of grief and was now settling somewhere in the vicinity of exhausted surrender.

"Marriage," he said flatly.

"Yes."

"To you."

"Correct."

"And this was always part of the arrangement."

"Clause three."

"Clause three," he repeated. His voice had gone very quiet. Very hollow. "Of course... Clause three. How could I forget clause three."

The Princess waited. Her posture remained serene, her hands clasped before her. The veil gave nothing away.

Idris took a long, slow breath. Then another.

"...Fine."

The word hung in the air.

Ramzah's eyebrows rose. The older man beside her twirled his moustache twitched. Even the Commander's rigid posture shifted slightly.

"Fine?" the Princess said.

"Yes. Fine. Whatever." Idris waved a hand in vague dismissal. "We can discuss the marriage later. Debate its merits. Negotiate its terms. Have a very civilized conversation about matrimonial expectations and dynastic obligations." He paused. "Later. Not now. Not here. Not while I'm still bleeding and hungry and still in shock from all of this stuff."

A beat of silence.

"...Later," the Princess said.

"Yes. Later." Idris met her veil with something approaching steadiness. "For now, what are the practical steps? The actual, immediate, we-need-to-do-this-today steps."

The Princess considered this. Her head tilted slightly, that small gesture that Idris was beginning to recognize as her processing mode.

"The convoy will return to Qahila within the week," she said. "You will accompany us."

"Accompany you. To Qahila."

"Yes."

Idris nodded slowly. His expression was very, very careful.

"Right," he said. "Right. Of course. Need to speak with your father. Get the wali's permission for marriage and all. The paternal blessing. Hmm. Should I give formal request? Or do I just show up and hope he doesn't have me executed on sight?" Idris scratched his head. There was no sarcasm in those questions. The Count of Darkthorn was seriously considering it.

The man's mustache twitched again.

"The formal request is better," he said. "Though usually it occurs before the vow, not after. My brother will understand."

Did he say brother? Is that her uncle? What did I get myself into…"Thank you. That is extremely helpful and not at all anxiety inducing."

"You are welcome. I am Hazan."

“Pleasure to meet you,” Idris turned back to the Princess. His shoulders had dropped from their defensive tension, replaced by something wearier. 

"Qahila, then," he said. "That's the next step. I go with you, I meet your father, I perform whatever ceremonial stuff is required to secure his approval of this. Then our alliance is finalised."

"That is one way to characterize it, yes."

"It's the accurate way."

Her veil shifted. "If you prefer."