Varang did not soften for anyone.

She led with heat and certainty, her presence enough to still a room or set it alight. Warriors listened. Clans watched. Fire answered her without hesitation. She was not gentle—and she had never pretended to be.

Her mate did not ask her to change.

She stood at Varang’s side with quiet confidence, unbothered by the weight of leadership or the sharp edges that came with it. Where Varang was blaze, she was steady ground—close enough to anchor, strong enough not to be burned. Their bond was not loud. Not performative. It existed in shared glances, in the way Varang’s hand found hers without thought after council ended.

There was no ceremony. No announcement.

Just a choice made again and again.

The clan noticed, of course. They always did. Varang let them look. Let them understand what they would.

She ruled with fire.

And she loved someone who could stand beside it.