Page 27 of A Match Made in Slumber

Over the next two days, I managed our market post with Settie’s assistance. The customer traffic didn’t relent. If anything, the steady rush of bargain-hunting elves intensified as we surged into the final stretch ahead of the season’s closing ceremony. The volume of crowds storming our booth reminded me of being besieged during my Radvadur campaign.

Elian, his eyes absent and his mind far away, sat farther behind the counter, glued to his new makeshift workstation. He’d declared inventing the Binding Match the potential biggest breakthrough of his life. And, judging by the potent aura he emitted—and the amount of alchemical soot on his forehead–it must have been true.

Morrigen had advised us not to separate until the tethering enchantment could be performed, so Elian had to abandon work from his proper home laboratory during the day. He remained within arm's reach at all times, and I complained very little about the arrangement.

The entire group had awaited our decision with brittle, poorly concealed nerves. When we broke the news to them at the market the day after the dance we’d failed to attend, their genuine relief struck me as almost comical. Though I had to admit, I felt a touch sentimental.

Fern remained the calmest of them, of course. He smiled, leaning against a crate of his fresh herbs. “It was obvious to me from the start that you two were fated. I did say so right away, didn’t I? No idea why you tried to fight it.”

Settie, however, burst into tears and threw her arms around my neck, nearly choking me. “This is grand!” she sobbed into my collarbone. “Goddess, now we can finally advance to level fifty of Warlords. You know there’s a local tournament after the season finishes? We should enrol and kick some arses.”

Verity merely grinned, looking pleased, while Morrigen began bombarding Elian with highly theoretical, magic-related questions that went over my head.

Having to invent something so complex under tight time constraints, with life-or-death implications no less, had placed an enormous weight on Elian’s shoulders. Yet, I’d noticed a strange quirk in my husband's character. When the pressure concerned his craftsmanship—a domain where he reigned supreme—he held himself together with resilience and fortitude. In contrast, the minor, trivial frictions of daily life could easily unmoor him, sending him into a downward tailspin of anxiety and inner doubt.

That said, he’d still suffered two distinct moments of crisis.

The first involved the structural design of the binding spell. Elian tried his best to explain the alchemical process to me over a cold lunch, but the mechanics of magic felt too abstract to my military mind.

“You see, at first I thought I would simply reverse the blueprint behind the Match of Interdimensional Return,” he rambled, gesturing with a half-eaten fruit pastry, sending the crumbs flying everywhere. “But while there was a fair bit of logic to that approach, it failed. The thing is, the permanent anchor requires an inverted polarity. So now I realise that to compensate for the pressure of the rift, I have to place triple the distribution–”

Once Elian broke into a full-fledged alchemical monologue, I couldn’t contribute much to the discussion. I listened to his reflections, but I focused more on admiring the sight before me, my heart swelled. Animated, with his cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming, Elian looked glowing in this phase of his creative process. I didn't understand much of his tirades, but the peace and joy I felt by simply watching him talk confirmed that I’d made the right choice to stay.

Elian’s second meltdown hit harder. It occurred in the small hours of the morning, when he walked straight out of the cottage and onto the empty street. He had this slightly deranged air about him, his gaze vacant and his hair tangled into a mop, and he refused to come back inside.

“The crystalline resin wouldn’t fuse,” he babbled to the dark sky, resembling a ghost in his nightshirt. “It’s the wrong kind. Completely wrong. The density is unbalanced. The way I’m going, I’ll dissolve you into the ether.”

I had to resort to picking him up, carrying him to bed and holding him down under the heavy blanket until the panic subsided.

Despite the tiny hiccups, I never stopped believing Elian would succeed.

My faith rested first on his raw potential. As Fern had told me, Elian’s magical abilities were off the charts. Back at the Element-ary, his tests yielded a ten, the highest reading ever recorded by the Academy. Paradoxically, the second-best score of nine belonged to Cholerius. I’d sensed Fern’s lingering sorrow over the fact that Cholerius had chosen to reject his magic and abandon illusion weaving.

But the deeper reason for my absolute certainty in Elian’s success stemmed from Fern’s theory of our fated match, which I now wholeheartedly supported. I believed I’d travelled to this world for a purpose—and that purpose was Elian. Having received such a miracle, I refused to accept that the universe would ever go back on its gift, snatching it away at the eleventh hour.

It would all work out.

That said, when the sun stood high on the twelfth day of the market and the Binding Match still hadn’t materialised, I had to admit Elian’s flair for the dramatic shone through. He was cutting it damn close to the skin.

Elian

Ientered the kitchen, the tapping of my heels on the cottage floorboards the only sound cutting through the heavy silence inside.

Everyone was gathered around the table, a stark mirror of the night Kill’em had first dropped into my life. Tension hung in the air as each passing moment dragged us closer to midnight. Settie paced an agitated line by the window. Fern kept pouring honeyed tea into fresh ceramic cups even though nobody touched them. Across from him, Morrigen and Verity shuffled through a stack of ancient astrological charts, moving the papers to and fro without looking at a single drawing.

Kill’em sat perfectly still. His elbows rested flat on the oak top, his spine straight as he watched the grandfather clock without a trace of alarm.

As I stepped closer, five pairs of eyes locked onto me.

To hide the tremor in my hands, I hid them behind my back, my fingers gently tracing the slender, delicate stick tucked into my palm.

“And?” Settie burst out, her voice hitting a high note that rattled our teacups. “Elain, have you got it? Tell us. Don’t just stand there like a numpty.”

I brought my hand forwards, the matchstick’s head shimmering a deep teal—just a little darker than the shade of my robes. On catching the lamp’s light, it sparkled with a dense lattice of silver. “Well, I’ve got… something.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “If I’m entirely honest, I’m ninety, maybe ninety-five percent sure it will work.”

Settie sucked in a harsh breath. The sharp raise of Morrigen’s eyebrows sent his spectacles sliding a bit lower on the bridge of his nose.

A sudden wave of panic clawed at my chest. “Ninety-five percent isn't good enough. With the Match of Interdimensional Return, I have certainty. I know it will work.” I clenched my teeth and turned to Kill’em. “I cannot gamble with your life. I’d rather send you back than put you at risk.” I fought the good fight until my voice finally broke. “I think we should use my other match. Where is it?”