38. Chapter 38 #3
She shoved me inside and disappeared. The door clicked shut, sealing the Suppressor outside.
The room was a laboratory. Glass vessels lined the walls, filled with liquids in colors that didn't exist in nature.
Brass instruments gleamed on wooden tables—things with prongs and needles and purposes I didn't want to imagine.
A fire burned in a massive hearth, casting dancing shadows across the ceiling.
And in the center of it all, two figures waited.
The King. And beside him, a male in robes the color of dried blood, his fingers stained with a slick, black residue—a mixture of calligraphy ink and clotted gore. His eyes—pale, watery, too wide—fixed on me like I was a specimen pinned to a board.
"Ah." The King smiled. "The Rupture. Right on time."
The door behind me opened again. I turned.
Eryndor.
He was flanked by guards, his face still wearing that cold mask from the courtyard. But when his eyes found me—just for a moment—something cracked beneath the surface.
Then the King gestured, and the fae in blood-red robes moved toward us.
"The Soul-Smith will examine the bond," the King said. "To assess its... condition."
The Soul-Smith circled us like a vulture.
He didn't touch. Just looked. His pale eyes tracking the tether between Eryndor and me.
"Fascinating," he murmured. "The weave is extraordinary. I've never seen filaments this dense."
He leaned closer. I resisted the urge to slap him.
"The integration is nearly complete. Another few weeks, perhaps a month, and the souls will be indistinguishable.
" He straightened, turning to the King. "If we do the Soul-Rend now, the boy's heart will stop before his soul-half clears his chest. The connection is too tight. We need him softer. More... pliable."
Soul-Rend. Heart will stop.
"Wait." Panic flared in my chest. "The bond-weavers said it couldn't be broken. That trying would kill us both."
Eryndor stepped forward, his voice sharp. "The bond-weavers of Liraeth have studied tether bonds for centuries. They told us severance was impossible—that the Marks would rather destroy their hosts than be separated."
The Soul-Smith glanced between us like we were furniture that had learned to speak.
"The elders," he said slowly, as if explaining something to children, "cling to archaic methods. Ritual circles and moonlight incantations. Prayers to gods who stopped listening centuries ago." He waved a dismissive hand. "Their ways are... quaint. But limited."
"Limited?" Eryndor's jaw tightened. "They've preserved tether-bonding knowledge since before this kingdom existed."
"Preserved it, yes. Advanced it?" The Soul-Smith smiled thinly. "Hardly. They treat the soul like something sacred. Untouchable. I treat it like what it is—a mechanism. And mechanisms can be dismantled."
A chill crawled down my spine.
"How do we relax it?" The King asked.
"We cannot force it, Sire. Force only makes the spirit clench harder.
It is a defense mechanism." The Soul-Smith paused, tapping the air above Eryndor’s chest. "But the bond is responsive to will.
If the spirit invites the severance... if there is no resistance to the knife... the weave goes slack with the ritual."
The King turned to me, a slow understanding dawning in his eyes. "If they consent to the severance willingly?"
"Then the Soul-Rend ritual becomes possible. Consent loosens the weave. Makes the threads more... cooperative." The Soul-Smith smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. "They must want to be free of it. Truly want it. The soul cannot be fooled."
The King faced me. "You're suffering," he said. His voice had changed—softer now. "I can see it. The bond is a parasite, eating you both alive. The pain when you're apart. The violation of having another soul melded into yours without permission."
He stepped closer. I held my ground.
"This is a clean way to end it. The ritual of severance. Liberating. Permanent. You would be free of him forever." His grey eyes—Eryndor's eyes—searched my face. "But the spirit must be willing. You must ask me for the cure. I cannot force freedom upon you."
He let the words settle. Let me feel their weight.
"Think on it. The offer stands."
My heart hammered. Freedom. Silence in my head. No more phantom pain, no more of Eryndor's emotions flooding into mine.
The tether pulsed. A warning? A plea?
I ignored it.
"I want it," I said. The words tumbled out, desperate. "I consent. Do it. Sever us."
Through the tether a cascade of pure violence hit me.
It slammed through the bond hard enough to steal my breath. Possessive. Furious. The feeling of claws sinking into something they would not release. Then Eryndor clenched his fists and shut his eyes and it was gone.
The King smiled, but the Soul-Smith cleared his throat.
"Excellent," the Smith murmured, picking up a wicked-looking probe from his tray.
"Of course, 'willing' is a spectrum. If the ritual fails...
if the bond resists... we will need to encourage the soul to detach.
Pain is an excellent loosener of spiritual grip.
A few weeks in the lower labs, stripping the resistance layer by layer... "
The King didn't correct him. He just watched me.
And I realized: This wasn't an offer. It was an ultimatum. Agree and risk death, or refuse and face torture.
"No."
Eryndor's voice cut through the laboratory.
The King turned. "Excuse me?"
Eryndor stepped forward, ignoring me completely. His eyes were fixed on his father, and every line of him vibrated with finality.
"I will do the public healing you proposed. I will marry the Princess. I will wear whatever collar you put on me." He held his father's gaze. "But the Soul-Smith does not touch Amaria. The Alchemists do not examine her. No ritual. No probes. No 'encouragement.'"
A muscle ticked in his cheek.
"Not until we know—both of us know—that it's safe. That the severance is guaranteed clean. Until then, she stays untouched."
He caught my eye. Looked away.“Until we know willingness is absolute.”
They stared at each other. Father and son. King and prince.
I stood three feet away, and neither of them looked at me. Not once. They were negotiating my life like I was livestock at auction.
"Interesting," the King murmured. "You've developed a spine since you left."
"I learned from watching you."
A long pause. The Soul-Smith shifted nervously by his instruments. The fire crackled.
Then the King smiled.
"Agreed."
Eryndor's expression didn't change. He simply nodded once—cold, formal, final.
"This transaction is complete," he said.
The King turned and walked toward the door, pausing at the threshold.
"The public healing ceremony is in three nights’ time. I expect you both presentable." His eyes found mine at last. "Enjoy your intact status, girl. My son bought it at quite a premium."
The door closed behind him.
The silence lasted three heartbeats.
Then I laughed. It came out ugly. Bitter. The kind of sound that scrapes your throat raw on the way out.
"That was very pretty." I slow-clapped, the sound obscene in the laboratory's hush. "The tortured prince, sacrificing himself for the poor feral fae. Your father must be so proud—you learned his theatrics perfectly."
Eryndor's mask cracked. Just a fracture. "Amaria—"
"While I get to be grateful?" The word came out serrated. "Grateful that the prince who lied to me for months decided to trade one leash for another?"