Chapter 18
ARATUS
She chooses her father.
I watch from the crystal windows of my study as Edgar Montgomery's carriage pulls away from the palace gates, carrying my omega back to the human world.
The wheels crunch through snow that parts before them like a curtain, my magic ensuring their passage despite the storm that should make travel impossible.
A final gift. Or perhaps cruelty—making her departure smooth when her return will be anything but.
She didn't look back. Didn't even glance toward the palace as the carriage rounded the first bend. Just sat rigid beside her father, wrapped in the human coat that will provide no real warmth against the cold that lives in her bones now.
The bond stretches between us like a wire under tension, carrying echoes of her determination and the growing ache of separation. She's trying to convince herself this is freedom, that choosing the lesser of two prisons counts as victory.
Let her believe it. For now.
I settle into my chair and pour three fingers of whiskey, savoring the burn as it goes down. The alcohol does nothing to dull Fae senses, but the ritual provides a familiar comfort as I contemplate what comes next.
She thinks she's escaped. Thinks her father's love and human medicine can somehow undo what I've made her into. The ignorance would be charming if it weren't so completely futile.
The preservation magic ensures she'll remember every moment of our claiming with crystal clarity. Every time I filled her completely, every grateful sob when my knots locked us together, every whispered "thank you, alpha" when I gave her exactly what her body craved.
She'll compare every breath of freedom to those perfect memories. Every human meal will taste like ash compared to food I fed her by hand. Every night alone in her childhood bed will remind her of how perfectly she fit against my chest, how safe she felt in my arms.
Her omega nature will reassert itself within days. The ache will start small—just a hollow feeling where contentment used to live. Then it will grow, spreading through her chest like poison until every breath hurts and every moment feels incomplete.
The dormant bond I created isn't merciful.
It's a leash with enough slack to let her think she's free while ensuring she can never truly escape.
She'll age slowly, neither human nor Fae, belonging to neither world.
Her magic will leak out in uncontrolled bursts, marking her as other wherever she goes.
And through it all, she'll remember what it felt like to be complete.
Perfect manipulation disguised as mercy. I should be celebrating the artistry of it.
So why does the palace feel so empty?
I drain my glass and pour another, studying the flames in the fireplace that seem dimmer without her presence to reflect off the crystal walls.
The ice sculptures in the courtyard have stopped moving, frozen in poses that somehow manage to convey grief.
Even the magic itself feels muted, as if the stones remember what they've lost.
Foolish sentiment. She was property, nothing more. Beautiful, responsive property that I shaped exactly to my specifications. Her absence is an inconvenience that will resolve itself when biology drives her back to where she belongs.
The whiskey tastes bitter on my tongue.
By evening, reports begin arriving from my border scouts. I break the wax seal on the first dispatch with hands that remain perfectly steady, though something cold settles in my stomach as I read.
My Lord,
The Montgomery carriage reached Millhaven settlement at dusk. The girl barely managed the walk from carriage to inn, leaning heavily on her father's arm. Innkeeper's wife noticed her pallor, brought extra blankets. She touched nothing of the evening meal.
Will continue observation as ordered.
Captain Morris
I set the letter aside and pour another whiskey. She's already feeling it—the wrongness of being separated from her alpha, the hollow ache where the bond used to carry my presence. Her body recognizing that it's been cut off from its source of completion.
The second report arrives near midnight.
Lord Aratus,
The girl retired early but appears to sleep poorly. Innkeeper reports sounds of distress from her chamber—crying, calling out names. Father sits vigil outside her door.
She asked for tea at dawn but could not keep it down.
Morris
Good. The sooner she understands the futility of this choice, the sooner she'll return.
But when I try to return to my correspondence, the words blur together. Something about her crying, about Edgar keeping watch like she might disappear. The image bothers me in ways I can't name.
The scrying glass on my desk begins to glow with pale light, and I know without looking who's calling.
"Oberon," I acknowledge, not bothering to hide my irritation as his face materializes in the crystal depths.
"Aratus." His voice carries the weight of millennia, patient as stone. "I hear your omega has... departed."
"Temporarily."
"Hmm." His ancient eyes study me through the glass. "The prophecy grows unstable without her. Other courts report similar disturbances."
"She'll return. The dormant bond ensures it."
"Will she?" There's something in his tone that makes my jaw clench. "Or will she simply fade away, taking the prophecy's stability with her?"
I lean back in my chair, meeting his gaze with the arrogance that has served me for centuries. "You doubt my methods?"
"I question your understanding of what you've actually accomplished." His image flickers slightly, shadows playing across his features. "Tell me, Aratus—when she returns broken and grateful, will you have claimed a mate or a ghost?"
I dismiss the scouts and return to my study, where correspondence waits from other courts.
Prince Thorian writes of concerning magical fluctuations, Lord Kael reports unusual weather patterns in his territory.
The prophecy grows more unstable with each passing day, as if my omega's absence has disrupted some crucial balance.
Another reason she must return. The magic itself demands it.
But when I try to focus on the political implications, my attention keeps drifting to the empty chair beside my desk.
The one where she used to sit during my evening correspondence, reading her own books while providing silent companionship.
How she'd look up occasionally to ask questions about magical theory or court politics, her brilliant mind engaging with concepts that challenged her.
The chair sits empty now, and the silence feels oppressive in ways I didn't anticipate.
The conversation ends abruptly as he cuts the connection, leaving me staring at blank crystal.
A ghost. The word echoes in my mind as I refill my glass.
Day two brings Edgar's first letter, delivered by a courier whose horse steams in the cold.
Lord Aratus,
I write to inform you of my daughter's condition, as you expressed... interest in her welfare. She grows weaker despite every care. The human physicians can find nothing wrong, yet she fades before my eyes.
She asks often about the palace, about you, though she tries to hide it. Yesterday she wept when a winter wind brought the scent of pine through her window.
If there is any mercy in you, any treatment that might ease her suffering, I beg you to share it. She chose freedom, but this is not freedom—it is a different kind of captivity.
A desperate father,
Edgar Montgomery
I set the letter aside, but my eyes keep returning to the words. She wept when a winter wind brought the scent of pine.
The second day stretches endlessly. I try to focus on court business, but every task feels hollow. The empty tea service sits untouched on the side table. The chair beside my desk remains vacant.
By evening, restlessness drives me to pace the halls like a caged wolf.
Day three, the scrying glass glows again just after dawn.
"She's dying," Oberon says without preamble.
"Impossible. The dormant bond sustains—"
"Look for yourself."
The crystal shifts, showing me a vision that makes my blood freeze. Elise in a human bed, thin and pale as parchment. Her silver hair has lost its luster, and the frost patterns on her skin flicker weakly. She stares out a window toward the north with eyes that see nothing.
"The dormant bond is killing her slowly," Oberon continues. "Draining her life force without providing sustaining connection. Ingenious cruelty."
"She'll adapt. Humans are resilient."
"She's not human anymore. You made sure of that." His voice carries centuries of disappointment. "When she dies—and she will die, Aratus—the prophecy dies with her. Six hundred years of planning, destroyed by your need to prove ownership."
The vision fades, leaving me staring at my own reflection in the dark glass.
Day four brings a physician's report Edgar includes with his letter.
Patient presents with symptoms consistent with wasting sickness of unknown origin. Refuses most food, speaks little, exhibits signs of severe melancholia. Pulse weak and irregular. Recommend immediate consultation with specialists from the capital.
Dr. William Harrows
Edgar's accompanying letter is barely legible.
She collapsed in the garden today. Simply... fell. As if her strength had left her all at once. She asked if the bond could be reactivated, then wept when I said I didn't know.
Please. If you have any humanity left, help her. Or let me bring her back to you. I cannot watch my daughter die by inches.
Edgar
I crumple the letter, then smooth it out again. Let me bring her back to you.
The admission of defeat should please me. Should prove the thoroughness of my conditioning, the impossibility of escape.
Instead, something cold and unfamiliar settles in my chest. Something that might be shame.
Day five. The hours crawl past like wounded animals. I find myself standing at windows, staring south toward lands I can't see. The palace feels wrong without her—too cold, too quiet, too empty of the life that made these ancient stones sing.
A new letter arrives near sunset, Edgar's handwriting shakier than before.
Lord Aratus,
She spoke today. First words in two days. Asked if I thought you missed her. When I couldn't answer, she smiled—the saddest expression I've ever seen.
"He doesn't miss me," she said. "He misses what he made me into. There's a difference."
She understands, perhaps better than either of us, what has been done to her. What choices remain.
I will not beg again. But I will say this—whatever you decide, decide quickly. I don't think she has many days left.
Edgar
I read the letter three times before the words truly sink in. She understands. She knows the difference between missing her and missing what I shaped her into.
The scrying glass flares to life again, and this time Oberon's image is sharp with urgency.
"You're running out of time," he says without greeting.
"She's stronger than she appears."
"Is she? Look again."
The vision that fills the crystal makes my breath catch. Elise sits by a window, her profile ethereal in moonlight. But it's not beauty—it's the translucence of someone fading from the world. She's speaking to someone just out of view.
"I'm not afraid of dying," her voice drifts through the magical connection. "I'm afraid of what I'll become if I don't."
"She's choosing death over returning to you," Oberon's voice cuts through my shock. "Choosing the same path your sister took, rather than accept a life without choice."
The vision fades, leaving me staring at darkness.
Day six brings no letter. The silence stretches like a held breath.
I pace the palace halls, following routes that once echoed with her laughter, her arguments, her magnificent fury. Now they're tombs of crystal and ice, beautiful and utterly lifeless.
The scrying glass remains dark. Even Oberon has given up his interventions.
Day seven. Dawn finds me at my desk, staring at blank parchment. I've started a dozen letters, written words I can't send. Commands. Threats. Pleadings that die before reaching the page.
The latest report from my scouts arrived before sunrise:
My Lord,
The girl grows weaker by the hour. Father has summoned specialists from the eastern provinces, but they can do nothing. She asked this morning if you would come if she were dying. When told no one had contacted you, she nodded as if she expected nothing else.
She sleeps most of the day now. When awake, she stares north toward the mountains.
Morris
By afternoon, desperation drives me to my feet. I can end this with a word—reactivate the bond, summon her back to the palace where her omega nature would restore her health within hours. She'd return grateful, broken, ready to accept any terms I offered.
But the woman who would return wouldn't be the one I claimed. It would be a hollow shell, grateful for scraps of affection, too damaged to ever challenge me again.
Perfect submission achieved through perfect cruelty.
At sunset, the scrying glass flares one final time. Oberon's image appears, but he's not alone. Behind him, I can see other figures—ancient powers from courts across the realm.
"The prophecy fails," he says without preamble. "Magic bleeds from the world as we speak. Other bonds weaken in sympathy with yours."
"She lives," I say, though the words taste like ash.
"Barely. And when she dies—and she will die, Aratus—you'll have destroyed more than one stubborn omega. You'll have unraveled the magical framework that holds our worlds together."
The vision shifts, showing me Elise one last time. She lies in a human bed, thin as parchment, her silver hair dull against white pillows. But her eyes are open, staring at nothing, and her lips move in words I can't hear.
"What is she saying?" I demand.
"She's forgiving you," Oberon replies. "For not understanding the difference between love and ownership. For breaking something beautiful to prove you could."
The vision fades, leaving me alone with the weight of what I've done.
She's dying. Not from any human ailment, but from the slow starvation of a dormant bond that takes without giving. She's fading away like a flower cut from its roots, and I'm the one who wielded the blade.
I could save her. Could reactivate the bond and watch her bloom back to health in my arms. Could have her grateful and willing and perfectly submissive within days.
Or I could let her die free, choosing her own destruction rather than accepting the life I offered.
The whiskey tastes like ashes as I pour another glass and settle in to wait for morning.
By dawn, I'll have to choose what kind of monster I want to be.
The bond pulses weakly, carrying echoes of her fading heartbeat. Each beat fainter than the last.
Time is running out.