Chapter 4 The Proxy
The Proxy
Aion
For a threadless colossus, the Agora of Echoes had never been of much personal interest. I’d been here countless times before, out of simple curiosity, out of the desire to watch the others find what they yearned for. It was the first time I had actually come here for myself.
I remained hidden in the deepest shadows of the upper gallery. Beside me, Theron leaned against the cold rock, his massive arms crossed over his chest.
It felt so much like the time when he’d been waiting to claim Callista, yet so different. He and his mate had properly finished their rites. Medea and I could never even hope for that.
For a long time, neither Theron nor I spoke. We simply watched the tiers below fill with the ancient, hungry elite of the city.
“They do not know her,” I couldn’t help but murmur. “They’ll want her, but they won’t really understand why she’s special.”
“Of course not,” Theron said quietly, his gaze fixed on the empty obsidian stage below. “You are the one who is her mate. Not them.”
It was such a simple reality, but it didn’t make the hurt any less. If anything, the gaping hole in my chest was growing wider. “I have never questioned our ways,” I murmured, gripping the stone railing. “But right now… I want to break this amphitheater apart.”
“Be at peace, Aion,” Theron said, his voice a rough, sympathetic rumble. “She will be protected. That’s what matters.”
Theron was right, of course. I couldn’t let my own selfishness prevail over the truth. This bride market, no matter how fake, would keep Medea safe from Jason.
Down below, the central stage began to glow. The geometric runes pulsed along the floor, and Phix emerged from the gloom. Today, her fur seemed to shine even brighter than usual, and I hated her for that. For how unruffled she was.
The sphinx took her place at the high rostrum of carved bone, and her simple arrival smothered the murmurs of the crowd into total silence.
“Citizens of Asphodelia,” she roared. “Thanatos-blessed. We gather to bear witness tonight to a true gift. A death-touched bride unlike any other. A rarity has emerged from the mists of the Acheron.”
She gestured toward the side of the stage, her massive claws glinting in the torchlight. On cue, Medea appeared on the stage.
Standing next to the massive sphinx and surrounded by all the monsters of Asphodelia, Medea looked terrifyingly small. Her silver hair fell in a smooth curtain, and she faced the crowd without flinching. But she looked past them, past every single face in the crowd. She was looking for me.
I took a half-step toward the edge, driven by a desperate need to reach her. Theron grabbed my arm, keeping me from moving forward.
“Don’t, Aion,” Theron warned, his hold on me unyielding. “We agreed to the proxy. If you step out there, she loses her shield.”
I forced myself to stop. I was her sanctuary, yet the laws of the Moirae demanded I stand as a silent spectator. I had never felt the humiliation of my threadless existence so acutely.
“Behold Medea,” Phix said, her golden tail twitching slowly. “Do not be fooled by her mortal fragility. She carries a gift many of you have prayed for.”
Phix leaned forward over the rostrum, her dark, depthless eyes sweeping the packed tiers. “Her touch unweaves flesh. Every thread she encounters is instantly, irrevocably dissolved. Even we, the Thanatos-blessed, will find no safety in her embrace. To touch her is to be unmade.”
A heavy, absolute stillness fell over the agora. On the stage, Medea tensed.
She still thought like a hunted mortal, expecting the city to recoil from her touch as if it were a plague. But in Asphodelia, she was the type of bride who only appeared once a century.
The silence shattered into a roar of desperate, reverent hunger. It was the sound of stagnant immortals witnessing a miracle and craving the one release they were denied.
A nekroi rose from the front row, his parchment-colored skin trembling over brittle bones. He leaned forward, his eyes burning with fanatic zeal. “To feel the thread snap. To know the truth of the void without waiting for the Moirae’s shears.”
In the middle tiers, a massive cyclops placed a heavy hand over his chest. “We endure for centuries, stagnant and woven tight. Without the Weavers’ permission, we cannot dissolve. But this woman… she is the loophole.”
The elite of Asphodelia leaned over the stone railings, their energy signatures flaring in a chaotic riot of religious fervor and desire. They didn’t see a terrified, lonely woman standing on the obsidian. They saw a divine instrument. They saw a fast track to the sacred unweaving.
If any of them laid a hand on her skin, they would simply dissolve back into the ambient energy of the city. The Moirae were allowing this, which meant they were silently sanctioning whatever fate befell their children.
The nekroi hurled a heavy leather sack onto the stage. The glowing stones spilled across the black glass, reflecting in Medea’s wide eyes. “Ten thousand death crystals.”
The cyclops vaulted over a bench, throwing his heavy arms wide. “Fifteen thousand.”
From the upper tiers, one of Phonos’s sisters screeched, “Twenty thousand. I will give her the spoils of a hundred battlefields.”
I flinched. Alecto and Megaera were family through Daphne, and they knew the truth about the plan. Neither of them intended to have anything to do with Medea. Their simple participation gave the bidding war weight, through the authority of House Keres. But it still hurt to see.
The bidding war escalated, transforming the agora into a temple of desperate offerings. The air grew thick with the smell of scorched dust as the raw, accumulated energy of the bids hummed against the floorboards.
I watched Medea shrink into herself. She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, overwhelmed by the crashing waves of devotion.
My fingers dug into the cold rock of the gallery railing. The stone fractured, fine webbed cracks spreading silently beneath my grip. The anger inside me burned hotter, an agonizing, unfamiliar fire. If not for Theron's steady grip, I would have possibly lost my mind.
“It is as I thought,” I whispered. “They don’t see her. They only see an executioner.”
“She is a blessing from Thanatos,” Theron corrected quietly, his amber eyes fixed on the stage. “They cannot understand she is meant for you, not for them. Let them shout. It’ll be over soon.”
He was right, but that changed nothing. Why were they allowed to shout, while I was forced to languish in silence? Why did they have the right to bid for a bride, while I did not?
Down below, the nekroi shook with the effort of his final offering. “Thirty-five thousand death crystals. My entire estate. My hoarded vaults. All for one touch of the unmaking.”
The crowd quieted. Thirty-five thousand was an astronomical sum. The cyclops lowered his head in quiet defeat and sat down. Alecto folded her wings, giving up. House Keres could have matched that, but the pretense was no longer necessary.
Phix stood on her rostrum, absorbing the spectacle of the city’s desperation. “Thirty-five thousand crystals.” Her voice rang clear through the sudden silence. “Do I hear more?”
The silence stretched, heavy and inevitable. Medea looked up at the gallery. Her gaze finally found the deep shadows where I stood. Even if she couldn't see me, she knew where I was. But it wasn't enough.
The profound, quiet despair in her eyes pierced directly through my chest. A look that twisted the knife of my own inadequacy. She was bracing herself. She knew what came next.
“Fifty thousand.”
The new offer echoed through the agora, far louder than it should have. The crowd turned as one.
Skaros emerged from the shadows of the harvesters’ box. Every muscle in his leonine body was rigid, his scorpion tail glinting with poison at the tip. “I pledge fifty thousand death crystals for the death-touched bride, Medea. And I’ll go higher than that, if I must.”
A murmur of absolute shock rippled through the tiers.
The cyclops leaned over his railing, staring at Skaros. “How does a harvester command a hoard rivaling that of the Moirae?”
Skaros ignored him. He kept his amber eyes fixed entirely on the sphinx. “The crystals are already in the vault, Phix. I can pay.”
The monsters fell silent. Skaros was an elite harvester, a working soldier who dragged raw energy back to the city. He didn’t have that kind of wealth. But no one would lie to Phix. No one would ever dare.
I myself had no idea why Skaros had agreed to do this. I hadn’t spoken to him. Phix had been the one to come up with the whole arrangement.
It was just as well. Even knowing that he was helping us, I could barely make myself look at my friend.
The other bidders backed away from the railings. To challenge fifty thousand crystals was to invite total financial ruin.
Phix moved with the decisive grace of a predator closing a trap.
“The bid stands at fifty thousand.” Phix swept her gaze over the defeated crowd. “A claim of such magnitude cannot be challenged. However, as is the absolute law of the agora, the final choice remains with the bride.”
She turned her dark gaze to Medea.
“Medea.” Phix’s voice dropped, carrying directly to the center of the stage. “The harvester Skaros has offered an unprecedented fortune for your hand. Do you accept his claim?”
Medea stood perfectly still on the obsidian floor. She looked at Skaros, our choice, our way forward. Then her gaze drifted back up to the gallery, locking onto the darkness where I stood.
A heavy, agonizing ache settled into my core. This was the only legal shield against Jason. If she chose Skaros, she would become a citizen of Asphodelia. She would be safe.
But she would be legally bound to him. Not to me.
“Show her,” Theron murmured. “Step into the edge of the light, Aion. Let her see you.”
I forced myself to move. I stepped just to the edge of the shadows, letting the ambient light of the braziers catch the broad curve of my shoulders.
It was the only quiet strength, the only love, I could offer her across the dark distance.
I would bear the humiliation of this moment if it meant she survived.
Medea saw me. Her shoulders slumped, the panic fading into sheer determination. She straightened her back, accepting the weight of her new chains. “I accept.”
The curved basalt walls of the amphitheater carried the simple words to every tier.
The reaction from the crowd was immediate—a collective, hollow groan of profound disappointment.
The nekroi sank to his knees, his hands covering his face in grief over his denied salvation.
The energy in the amphitheater deflated, the religious fervor turning into bitter, heavy resentment.
Phix ignored their despair. She unfurled her wings and lifted her paws in satisfaction. “The claim is recognized!” she declared, her voice ringing out to seal the transaction. “Medea is bound to Skaros.”
Phix’s decree carried a magical weight that severed the final hopes of the watching monsters. It was done. The most valuable bride who had ever set foot in Asphodelia had now found a groom.
The crowd began to disperse, a low, defeated rumble of conversation filling the air as the monsters retreated to their dens.
Skaros pushed himself up from his seat and descended the stairs with a slow, heavy gait. His massive form cast a long shadow over the stage. He didn’t approach Medea. Perhaps he knew that his own ability to play along with this farce had its limits.
As for Medea… She took one last look at Phix and Skaros, then fled the stage. I stayed frozen. I’d never felt more of a failure than I did today.
“It’s over, Aion,” Theron said softly. He pushed off the wall, his hand falling from my arm. “Jason can’t touch her now.”
“I should have found another solution. It shouldn’t have come to this.”
“It’s a shield, Aion. Nothing more. Skaros knows exactly what he’s doing.” Theron stepped into my line of sight, forcing me to look at him. His amber eyes were grave, reflecting the weight of a man who understood the cost of miracles. “You did the only thing you could.”
I looked down at my hands. Death energy shifted sluggishly beneath my bronze skin.
I could shatter stone and harvest the most volatile energies in the Wilds.
I’d been crafted by the most skilled blacksmith in Alia Terra.
Yet, standing in the silence of the emptying amphitheater, I felt no more powerful than the simplest hammer.
“I did nothing, Theron,” I whispered. “I broke my promise and surrendered her to another.”
No matter how many times I told myself it was for the right reason, one truth would never change. I’d been unable to help my mate. And now, our chance to have a real future together was permanently gone.