Aragorn Lorakalyn moved through darkness, the silk blindfold pressed tight across his eyes, muffling the flicker of firelight and the stares of the watching elders. As a son of the formidable Suk clan, warriors known for their unyielding strength and pride, he had faced countless trials. Yet none felt as disarming as this. The tent was silent but alive—filled with the quiet shuffles and uncertain breaths of others like him. And yet, it all faded beneath one thing.

This scent.

He couldn’t name it, only feel it—wildflowers after rain, sun-warmed stone, and something softer beneath it all. It wrapped around him, subtle yet undeniable, like a memory he had never lived.

Velharnin, the ancient rite meaning finding. Every elf, upon their twentieth spring, entered this sacred place blindfolded, stripped of sight to heighten their soul’s perception. They were to seek their nathrien, their destined other, guided only by nairky—the soul scent, unique to each elf. Only when the bond called true could they kiss. Only then could they see.

Drawn like a thread was pulling him forward, Aragorn barely noticed the way his hand reached out. Your scent grew stronger—closer. Then, breath met breath.

He could feel you in front of him, but neither spoke.

Fingers brushed, and a small pause settled over them. The texture of your skin sent a shiver through him, a confirmation.

Then your hand was suddenly on his cheek, feeling. Having to get on your tiptoes, you then knew where he was and leaned up, your lips, hesitant but certain, met his in the middle of the silence.

And the world shifted.