Chapter 11 Ilyra
ILYRA
Iwake to pale morning light filtering through the shutters, my body stiff from sleeping on the floor beside my bed. The events of last night rush back—shadow and flame, burning script across my walls, the weight of power settling into my bones like winter cold.
I lift my palm to the light. The silver scar gleams against my skin, proof that I didn't dream any of it. The mark pulses faintly, as if responding to my attention.
Azrathiel. The name carries weight now, bound to me through blood and covenant law. I wonder if he'll truly be able to stop this wedding, or if I've simply traded one form of captivity for another.
The floorboards creak beneath Vaelra's footsteps in the hallway below, followed by the clatter of pots in the kitchen.
I dress quickly in yesterday's clothes and braid my hair with practiced efficiency.
Whatever happens next, I need to appear normal.
Compliant. At least until Azrathiel makes his move.
I descend the narrow stairs, noting how the house feels different now. Smaller somehow, as if the walls can no longer contain what I've become.
"Finally." Vaelra doesn't look up from where she's measuring flour into a wooden bowl. "The fire's nearly dead and we're out of eggs again. Hurry up with breakfast—there's much to discuss."
I stoke the coals back to life and set water to boil for porridge. The mundane tasks feel strange after last night's otherworldly encounter. My hands move through familiar motions while my mind churns with possibilities.
"Ilyra." Vaelra's voice carries a note of satisfaction I haven't heard since Father died. "Lord Hethryn has sent formal notice to the settlement council. The engagement is now official."
The wooden spoon slips from my fingers, clattering against the pot's rim.
"I see." I retrieve the spoon and continue stirring. "How efficient of him."
"Indeed. Which means wedding preparations begin immediately." She sets down her measuring cup and fixes me with her calculating stare. "The ceremony will be held within the fortnight. Lord Hethryn prefers not to delay once decisions are made."
Of course he does. I force my expression to remain neutral while my pulse quickens. A fortnight. Azrathiel has fourteen days to deliver on his promise.
Mariselle appears in the doorway, already dressed in her best blue wool despite the early hour. Her hair falls in perfect waves around her shoulders, and her cheeks carry the flush of excitement.
"Mother says I'm to help coordinate the festivities." She perches on the edge of a chair like a cat claiming territory. "It'll be such an honor to assist with your transformation."
"Transformation?"
"Well, you can hardly attend your own wedding looking like a scullery maid." Her laugh tinkles through the kitchen. "Lord Hethryn will want you properly presented. Clean, dressed appropriately, trained in basic etiquette."
I continue stirring porridge while fury builds in my chest. "Trained?"
"Don't take offense. You've simply never had the opportunity to learn proper comportment." Mariselle examines her nails with studied casualness. "But don't worry—I'm sure you'll adapt quickly to life as a kept pet."
The words dg into my gut. I set the pot aside before I do something reckless with boiling water.
"Is that what you think I'll become?"
"It's what you are becoming." She tilts her head, grey eyes bright with malice. "An ornament for Lord Hethryn's collection. Really, it's more than most humans in our position could hope for."
Vaelra nods approvingly. "Mariselle understands the realities of our situation. This arrangement secures protection for the family. I hear he's already requested shipments for the wedding—and for us."
"And what happens when Lord Hethryn grows bored of his ornament?"
Mariselle shrugs. "Then you'll have served your purpose. But perhaps if you're very good, very obedient, you'll retain his interest longer than most."
The silver scar across my palm flares with sudden heat. Perhaps if Mariselle knows so much about it, she should be the one to marry him. But no, not Vaelra's perfect daughter. They're just going to throw the spare out in hopes that it brings them the short-lived comfort Bram is offering.
All at my own expense.
That night, I wait until the house falls silent before retreating to my room.
The floorboards settle with familiar creaks, and somewhere in the distance, a night bird calls across the settlement.
I sit on the edge of my bed, palm turned upward, watching the silver scar pulse faintly in the moonlight.
"Azrathiel." I whisper his name like a prayer, though I'm not certain how summoning works through infernal contracts.
Shadow pools in the corner where the walls meet, thickening until his form emerges from the darkness.
Tonight he appears more solid than before, his obsidian skin catching stray moonbeams. The cracks of red etched into his flesh glow softly, and those gold-flecked eyes fix on me with predatory focus.
"The wedding preparations have begun." I keep my voice low, though Vaelra and Mariselle sleep on the other side of the house. "They're moving faster than expected. A fortnight."
He steps closer, and the temperature in the room drops several degrees. "Specify your requirements."
I've spent the day considering this. "Bram needs trade approvals for the ceremony—fabrics, ceremonial items, probably food for the celebration. Without those shipments, the wedding can't proceed as planned."
"Interference targets?"
"The trade council that grants shipping permissions. The caravan routes. Whatever bureaucracy he depends on." I stand, meeting his gaze directly. "Make it look like normal delays—weather, paperwork, anything that won't point back to your intervention."
Azrathiel nods once, a sharp gesture that speaks of centuries commanding lesser beings. "Understood." He turns toward the window, then pauses. "Your stepfamily suspects nothing?"
"They think I'm resigned to my fate." The words taste bitter. "Mariselle spent the afternoon explaining how I'll be trained like a pet for Lord Hethryn's entertainment."
Something flickers across his features—too quick to interpret, but those red marks on his skin flare brighter for a moment.
"She finds amusement in your suffering."
"She finds security in my sacrifice." I wrap my arms around myself against the sudden chill. "They both do."
Azrathiel's expression remains impassive, but those celestial chain markings along his shoulders pulse once with white light. "The delays will begin tomorrow."
He dissolves back into shadow, leaving me alone with the scent of sulfur and the promise of interference.
Three days pass before the effects become obvious.
Vaelra paces the kitchen like a caged animal, her usual composure cracking at the edges. She's already reread Bram's latest message twice, her knuckles white where they grip the parchment.
"The shipping manifests are delayed pending review." She looks up from the letter with barely contained frustration. "Apparently there's been some confusion with the trade council's approval process."
Mariselle frowns from where she's mending one of my old dresses—presumably for the ceremony. "What sort of confusion?"
"Administrative oversight, according to Lord Hethryn's correspondence. Three separate caravans have been stalled outside the settlement for inspection. The council claims they're missing proper documentation."
I continue kneading bread dough, keeping my expression carefully neutral. "Perhaps it's just coincidence. The council has been stricter since the mine incidents."
"Coincidence." Vaelra's laugh carries no humor. "Lord Hethryn specifically arranged these shipments. His trade agreements are always in perfect order."
"Well, surely it will resolve itself soon," Mariselle says, though uncertainty creeps into her voice. "These things usually do."
Vaelra sets the letter aside with sharp movements. "It had better. The ceremony cannot proceed without proper materials, and Lord Hethryn grows impatient with delays."
Through the window, I glimpse figures moving near the settlement's main gate—Bram's people, most likely, dealing with whatever bureaucratic tangle Azrathiel has woven around their carefully laid plans.
The bread dough yields beneath my hands, and I allow myself the smallest smile.