Chapter 59: A Proposal Amid the Ale
A week after the training yard, the reality of it still hadn’t settled. Taichi moved through the routines of the Ember & Stein on autopilot, his mind a thousand leagues away. His hand kept drifting to his stomach, a secret check. There was no change, not really, but he felt hyper-aware of the space inside him, a quiet, impossible secret beneath the rumble of the tavern.
It was a packed night. The hearth crackled, casting jumping light over knights still in their riding leathers and merchants loosening their fine silk ties. The air was thick with the smell of Sora’s stew, spilled ale, and woodsmoke. Taichi was in his element, a blur of motion behind the bar—pouring, wiping, trading barbs with a trio of carpenters who were nursing their last round.
The door swung open, letting in a gust of cool night air. Yamato filled the frame. He wasn’t in his casual gear. He was in full court dress: a tailored navy coat with silver piping, his hair meticulously combed back, the formal crest of the king’s guard pinned at his shoulder. He looked severe. Beautiful. Out of place.
Every head in the tavern turned. Conversations dipped. Taichi froze, a wet tankard in his hand. Their eyes met across the noisy room. Yamato’s expression was unreadable, a strange tension in his jaw that sent a thread of unease through Taichi’s gut. Had something happened? Was there news from the border? Had he changed his mind?
Yamato began to walk through the crowd. Patrons shuffled aside, creating a path. The low murmur died completely, replaced by a curious, heavy silence. Taichi set the tankard down slowly, his palms suddenly damp. What is he doing?
Yamato stopped in the cleared space directly before the bar. He looked at Taichi, his blue eyes intense in the firelight. Then, to Taichi’s utter, soul-leaving-his-body horror, Yamato went down on one knee.
The polished leather of his boot creaked. The wooden floorboards groaned. A woman near the hearth gasped.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Taichi whispered, but in the absolute quiet, it carried.
Yamato didn’t smile. His focus was total, a warrior’s concentration. He reached into his coat. When his hand emerged, it held a ring. It wasn’t a gaudy court jewel. It was a band of dark, polished ironwood, inlaid with a single, raw sliver of amber that seemed to hold a flicker of the hearth’s own fire. Simple. Sturgent. Perfect.
“Taichi,” he said, and his voice, usually so full of easy charm, was rough, stripped bare. It echoed in the silent room. “You have given me a purpose I never knew I needed. You’ve given me a future I was too stubborn to imagine. And now,” he paused, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second to Taichi’s midsection before lifting again, burning with conviction, “you’re giving me everything.”
Taichi’s ears were on fire. He could feel the weight of fifty stares. He saw Sora peering from the kitchen doorway, her knife dangling forgotten in her hand.
“Get up,” Taichi hissed, mortification making his voice tight. “Yamato, I swear to all the gods, get off the floor right now.”
“No.” Yamato didn’t move. He held the ring steady. “I asked you a question in the middle of a sparring yard. That wasn’t right. This,” he gestured slightly with the hand holding the ring, taking in the tavern, the barrels, the scent of grain and hops, “this is your kingdom. So I’m asking you here, in front of the life you built with your own hands. Marry me.”
The silence was a physical pressure. Taichi’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird. This was everything he hated: a spectacle, an alpha making a grand display, putting him on the spot. He wanted to throw a rag in that handsome, serious face. He wanted to yell.
But he looked at the ring. The ironwood, as tough and enduring as the oaks in the forest. The amber, warm and alive, like the brew he crafted, like the embers in the hearth. He looked at Yamato’s eyes, the usual teasing glint replaced by something terrifyingly sincere. He thought of the secret growing inside him, a tiny fusion of their most reckless and most perfect moment.
The crowd held its breath.
A slow grin spread across Yamato’s face, the tension breaking into pure, triumphant joy. He surged to his feet, closed the distance in two steps, and took Taichi’s left hand. His fingers were warm and slightly calloused. He slid the ring onto Taichi’s finger. It fit as if it had always been there.
Before Taichi could muster another word, any word, Yamato’s other hand cradled the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim, a seal, a conversation without words. It tasted of resolve and spiced mead and a future that was suddenly, irrevocably, shared. The tavern erupted. Cheers, stomping feet, the thunderous clattering of tankards on tables. The sound washed over them, but for Taichi, it muted into a distant roar. All he could feel was the warm band of wood on his finger, the solid press of Yamato’s mouth on his, and the terrifying, exhilarating sense of a door swinging shut behind him, locking him onto a new path.
When Yamato finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead resting against Taichi’s, the noise came crashing back. Whistles. Congratulations. Someone was already ordering a round for the house.
“You’re impossible,” Taichi breathed, his lips tingling.
“You said yes,” Yamato murmured, his thumb stroking the side of Taichi’s jaw. “That’s all that matters.”
From the kitchen doorway, Sora rolled her eyes. But then she caught Taichi’s gaze over Yamato’s shoulder. She saw the flush on his cheeks, the stunned, helpless wonder in his eyes that he couldn’t quite hide. Slowly, she shook her head, a soft, resigned smile finally touching her lips. She raised her own tankard in a small, silent toast before turning back to her stoves.
The crowd swarmed them, clapping Yamato on the back, offering bawdy advice. Taichi, still reeling, let himself be pulled against Yamato’s side, the alpha’s arm a heavy, possessive weight across his shoulders. He looked down at the ring. In the flickering light, the amber gleamed. It looked less like a piece of jewelry and more like a lodestone. A fixed point. He had a tavern to run, a baby to plan for, and now, apparently, a wedding to endure.
But for the first time since he’d seen that blue tincture, the ground beneath his feet didn’t feel unsteady. It felt, stubbornly and against all odds, like home.