The shrine wasn't made of stone.
It was a tree—older than anything Kael had ever seen. Its roots spiraled inwards like a labyrinth, hollowed by time and covered in ancient glyphs. Green light pulsed faintly from its heartwood.
"This is it," Riven whispered. "The Grove of Tethering."
Kael stared, his hands still faintly trembling. "You're sure it can help me control it?"
"If we do the rite correctly," she said, stepping forward. "But it requires two souls. One bound to chaos. One bound to anchor it."
"And that's you?"
Riven glanced back at him.
"No. That's us."
The ritual chamber lay beneath the tree's heart, its roots arching overhead like a cathedral. The air shimmered with old magic, thick and primal. There were no books. No scrolls. Only feelings — grief, hope, loss, love — carved into the wood itself.
Riven knelt at the center of the circle. "Take off your shirt."
Kael blinked. "What?"
"You have to offer skin to the Grove. It doesn't Bind through fabric."
He hesitated.
Then pulled the shirt over his head.
Riven didn't look away.
Her gaze skimmed over the lean planes of his chest, the old scars, the new burns, the root-mark that still faintly glowed near his heart.
She exhaled softly. "Lie down."
He did.
The bark beneath him felt warm. Alive. It pulsed under his spine like a second heartbeat.
Riven knelt beside him and sliced a shallow cut across her palm. "This will hurt," she said. "Not your body—your soul."
"Promise not to leave if I scream?"
"I'll hold you if you do."
Then she pressed her bleeding hand to his chest.
The pain came fast.
Not sharp—deep. A dragging, burning pull through every vein of his magic. Kael arched off the floor, gasping. Images flashed behind his eyes: fire, betrayal, Lyra's smile as she turned away, Arden's hand on her waist, the altar of the First Flame…
You were made to burn.
But then—
A second pulse.
Riven's voice. Her hand over his heart. Her breath near his mouth.
You were also made to choose.
The Grove shuddered around them.
Roots climbed over his arms, his ribs, his legs—but gently. They didn't strangle. They held.
Riven leaned down, their foreheads touching.
"I'm here," she whispered.
Kael opened his eyes—and saw her, not the flame.
Not the memory.
Her.
He reached up, cupped the side of her face, pulled her closer.
Her lips hovered above his.
She didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't need to.
Because in that moment, the Rite was complete.
And so were they.
Kael's body went still.
The pulsing of the Grove softened. The roots receded.
He lay in the center of the chamber, eyes wide, breath shallow—but balanced.
For the first time in days, the fire inside him did not rage.
It burned.
Controlled.
Bound.
Later, Riven lay beside him in the hollow of the tree.
Her head on his shoulder.
Their fingers intertwined over his stomach.
Neither of them spoke.
Not because there was nothing to say.
But because everything had been said in the act of trusting each other.