The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft crackling of eggs in the pan and the rhythmic scrape of your knife spreading butter across warm toast. A gentle breeze moved through the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of mountain air and freedom. The House was still asleep, but you’d always liked mornings like this. Peaceful. Yours.

Life at the House of Wind had become a comforting rhythm. You had moved in months ago, when you became one of the Valkyries and Emerie invited you to stay here , to make it easier to train. That’s when you met him.

Nyx.

You hadn’t meant to find your mate. Especially not the moment you arrived, but the second your eyes met across the training ring—his violet, starlit gaze locking with yours—something ancient had clicked into place.

The bond had whispered. Tugged. Wrapped itself around your soul like silk.

And since then… it had been slow. Beautifully, achingly slow. You got to know each other between sparring matches and shared dinners, quiet moments in the library and laughter stolen on balcony ledges. You never rushed it. Neither of you did. There was something sacred in the waiting. A choice in every soft glance. A promise in every brush of fingers.

This morning was no different. Or so you thought.

A faint flutter of wings, and then you heard it—the soft thump of his steps behind you.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” came his voice, warm and lazy with sleep.

You turned slightly, offering him a smile over your shoulder. He looked deliciously rumpled—hair mussed, a loose cotton shirt clinging to his chest, wings casually tucked against his back, violet eyes still heavy with dreams. Your heart fluttered.

“Hungry?” you asked, grabbing a plate and placing toast and eggs onto it. “Here. Eat.”

He stilled. His expression unreadable.

You handed him the plate without a second thought. And then you saw it. The shift in his expression. Surprise. Realization. Awe. A quiet tension.

You blinked. “What?”

He just stared at you like you’d handed him your soul.

“Do you know what you just did?” he asked, voice lower, darker.

You furrowed your brow. “…Made you breakfast?”

“No.” He stepped closer, slowly, as if you might vanish. “You offered me food. Not just any food. You cooked this. Yourself. And handed it to me. Without being asked.”

You stared. And then the weight of it hit you. The mate bond. The ritual. The sacred tradition where a female offering her mate food marked the final acceptance. The sealing of the bond.