Celeste stood in front of the carved obsidian mirror in their shared quarters, nervously adjusting the silver clasp of her ceremonial robe for the fourth time.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered. “I’ve fought off armies, given speeches to hundreds, stared down my psychotic ex, and now I’m nervous about biting my mate?”

Luna, half-stretched in the corner of her mind, snorted. "You’re nervous because it matters. You want it to be perfect. Which is hilarious, given how much of a ...