38. Chapter 38 #4
He flinched. Good.
"I didn't know." His voice was low. "About the betrothal. About any of this. I thought—"
"You thought what? That I'd find out and just forgive you?" I was shaking with rage now. "You knew your father. Knew what he was capable of. You let us come here thinking we had leverage, and you never once said 'he's expecting this. He's already three moves ahead.'"
"I was trying to protect—"
"You were trying to manage me." I closed the distance between us. Close enough to see the pulse jumping at his temple. "Just like him. Just like everyone in this godsforsaken palace. The only difference is you had the decency to braid my hair while you did it."
The tether flared between us—his hurt, his frustration, flooding through despite his walls.
I shoved it back at him.
"Stay out of my head."
"I'm not—"
"And stay away from me." I stepped back. "You bought my intact status? Fine. Congratulations. But you don't get to buy my forgiveness. You don't get to sacrifice yourself and have me fall into your arms like this is some kind of fairy tale."
I walked toward the door. Stopped with my hand on the handle.
"You chose your father. You chose his throne. You chose to sound exactly like him to get what you wanted." I didn't turn around. "And it worked. So stop pretending you're anything different."
The worst part wasn't what he'd said. It was what he didn't say after I stopped talking.
No defense. No denial. No "you're wrong" or "let me explain" or anything that would have given me something to swing at. Just silence. The same silence he'd given his father—measured, strategic, a male deciding which losses were acceptable.
I was an acceptable loss.
I left him standing in the Soul-Smith's laboratory, surrounded by instruments designed to tear souls apart.
Let him see how it felt.
The chemical smell of the laboratory still clung to my skin, and my hands were still shaking. The Suppressor waited in the corridor. I let him fall into step behind me, let the guards bracket me, let the grey dress swallow me whole.
I didn't go back to my room. I went to theirs.
The guest wing was three corridors east—I'd counted the turns when they'd dragged me past it. The guards didn't stop me. Maybe the King wanted to see what I'd do. Maybe they didn't have orders for this.
Maxx opened the door before I knocked. He took one look at my face and stepped aside without a word.
Serenya was sitting cross-legged on a narrow bed, the Codex open in her lap. Dreadscale stood at the window, arms folded, patiently memorizing guard rotations in the garden below.
I sat on the floor. Leaned my head against Serenya's bed.
She didn't ask. Just shifted her knee until it leaned against my shoulder. A warm, steady weight.
Maxx settled against the opposite wall, stretching his legs out, and the room went quiet—just the scratch of Serenya's ink on parchment and Dreadscale's slow, even breathing from the window.
Serenya’s knee stayed against my shoulder and I closed my eyes.
ERYNDOR
She left me in the laboratory.
The door slammed. Her fury trailed behind her like smoke—a scorched line through the tether that tasted of copper and conviction. Every word she'd said was a blade, and every blade had landed exactly where she'd aimed it.
Good aim. As always.
I stood in the Soul-Smith's laboratory and let the silence settle. The fire crackled. Glass vessels caught the light in colors that had no names. The Smith watched me with the careful patience reserved for volatile materials.
I wasn't looking at him. I was counting.
Three nights until the ceremony. The King needed my Mark and Vivienne's Mark performing in tandem, which meant he needed me functional, which meant he needed the tether stable, which meant he needed Amaria alive, close, and calm enough that the bond didn't shred us both on the dais in front of thousands of witnesses.
The King needed me willing.
The King had never needed me willing before. He'd needed me obedient, compliant, broken in the specific way that made a weapon reliable. Willingness was a different commodity. It implied choice. And choice implied the capacity to choose otherwise.
I turned to the Soul-Smith.
"Leave."
He blinked. Glanced at the door the King had exited through, calculating whose authority outranked whose.
"Now."
He left. Gathered his instruments into a leather case with trembling hands and scurried through the back passage like something with too many legs.
The laboratory was mine.
I crossed to the worktable. Picked up the probe the Smith had been reaching for—the one he'd described as an "encourager." Thin. Barbed at the tip. Designed to hook into the soulweave and pull.
I snapped it. Dropped both halves on the stone floor.
The Soul-Smith wanted to strip her consent out of her one nerve at a time. Call it encouragement. Call it what it was—torture dressed in clinical language, designed to make her soul stop holding on.
She would choose freely or she would not choose at all. And I would make sure of it.
Then I walked to the King's private study.