Chapter 9
CHAPTER
Azrian
For fifteen cycles, Azrian had survived his service by perfecting the art of concealment. Now, because of a governess with more sarcasm than sense, that art had failed him.
Facing the Emperor and High Binder, he kept his breathing measured and face even.
The two powerful figures positioned themselves at opposing sides of the massive obsidian round table, surface littered with the detritus of power: strategic documents weighted by ivory and gold and a three-dimensional rendering of Ilvarenne, tiny threads of Shadow magic sustaining the illusion, shading Registry buildings in sapphire, gentry estates in crimson, Children sightings in amber.
He had stood here so many times before, on this very tile, breathing in the same chill, receiving orders that would turn him into legend and nightmare throughout the provinces.
But today, something shifted beneath his carefully maintained stillness.
The mark at the base of his neck pulsed once, sharp and insistent, heated metal against skin.
Emperor Tharion didn’t look up from the documents spread before him, one finger tracing patterns with deliberate slowness. The careful nonchalance of a predator who knew its prey could not escape.
Azrian remained at formal attention. His gaze flickered briefly to the High Binder, draped in layered silks, the embroidered twelve-pointed star on their pristine gloves catching light with each small movement.
Through their white veil, Azrian could feel their clinical assessment.
He’d always found the High Binder more unsettling than the Emperor himself.
At least with Tharion, one knew the nature of the predator watching.
The Emperor allowed the silence to draw out, testing Azrian’s patience for fracture points.
“You disappoint me, Azrian.” His voice, when it came, was a scalpel’s edge. “Despite your exemplary service and unimpeachable loyalty…” A single tap of his finger on the parchment. “You concealed this development.”
Azrian maintained his posture, arms at his sides, gaze level. “The manifestation was unexpected, Your Majesty. I intended to report it once properly assessed.”
“After half the Gilt witnessed it flaring at Lady Trevelyn’s Ball last night?
” The Emperor’s tone remained measured, but frost edged each syllable.
“It is rare, is it not, for the Registry to be upstaged by rumor? Yet here we are. Before the night is cold, every city in the Empire will be whispering about my Hand and the Almarien girl.”
Azrian dared not respond. The Emperor was not finished. There was never mercy in the ritual of reprimand.
“Let us recall, Hand, that your actions—your every hesitation—reflect upon the Empire itself,” Tharion said. “After all, what are we if not the sum of our instruments?”
Azrian nodded, silent. He was used to being spoken of as a tool.
The Emperor’s lips quirked into something that might have passed for a smile, had it not been so bloodless.
“You have always understood the necessity of discipline. Of order.” His eyes flickered to the High Binder.
“But you have, in this case, mistaken the value of secrecy. You know quite well all that is riding upon the success of these marks.”
The High Binder’s head tilted slightly. “Your affinity responded to hers. The Registry’s innovation has proven most effective in identifying optimal pairings.”
Cold crept through his veins. Azrian should’ve known better. He should’ve planned better. He should’ve identified contingencies, instructed his Shadow spies to find Miss Almarien for him, kept her away from the Awakening Ball… away from Ilvarenne, if need demanded it.
Instead, he assumed knowing what to expect of the marks would be sufficient to manage them. He’d only miscalculated so poorly once in his life, and it’d ended in tragedy then, too.
That he’d allowed it to happen again was unacceptable.
“Indeed,” the Emperor replied, smoothly transitioning into the practiced grace of public agreement. “A most remarkable achievement.” Then, with the slightest shift toward Azrian: “Though I would have preferred learning of your mark through proper channels.”
It throbbed again, the mark, traitor within his own skin. Azrian had built his reputation on absolute control—over his magic, over his emotions, over every muscle and breath. This mark threatened to snap said control like a twig in a storm.
“I regret the lapse, Your Majesty. It shall not be repeated.” And it was not a lie. Simply, Azrian didn’t specify which lapse he regretted.
The High Binder’s white gloves danced over their ledger.
“Destruction and Creation,” they murmured, more to themselves than anyone.
“A pairing so singular it occurs perhaps once in a hundred cycles. The Registry has deemed it auspicious in the extreme. It is imperative, Lord Vaelros, that the process be followed to the letter.”
Azrian felt their assessment crawl along his skin like insects. The High Binder had always regarded him purely as a particularly effective instrument of imperial will.
“Such rare affinities,” the Emperor mused, gliding to the window where sunlight limned the silver at his temples. Then he circled Azrian, slow, a noose drawn tight, the way one might inspect a weapon for imperfections.
“Your first marriage ended tragically,” he said, not a trace of sincere sympathy in his tone. “Your bride was… unsuitable, in retrospect. A necessary lesson in the importance of proper bonding.”
Azrian fought back the urge to respond.
Evara . Her skin, colder than Borderland mountain winds. His lips, moving in the shape of promises he could not keep. He’d begged the Registry to release her from the bond that was killing her. They had said it was nobody’s fault. Magical incompatibility. A tragic but unavoidable failure.
If they were to be believed.
His right hand spasmed once. For the space of half a heartbeat, his measured breathing faltered, the steady rhythm catching against something jagged that had lodged itself between his ribs cycles ago and never fully healed.
The Emperor’s gaze sharpened, catching the infinitesimal crack in Azrian’s composure as if he’d scented blood. Azrian straightened the fingers that had betrayed him.
“This time will be different.” The circle completed, Tharion halted before Azrian, so close that the scent of sandalwood and steel filled every breath.
“You shall court Miss Almarien, propose to her, and bond with her. You will be the blueprint all other couples shall aspire to, a union so splendid it will make all other marked individuals want to find their match, too. The public must see in the merger of your marks the apex of the new order.”
The trap snapped shut with elegant, inevitable precision.
“Your Majesty, I must question whether my duties would permit—”
“Your duties shall be adjusted accordingly. Too much is at stake with these marks; we cannot allow exceptions. Not even for you, I’m afraid.” The Emperor’s tone made it clear the matter was decided.
“And if the lady should decline?” The question emerged with more edge than intended.
The High Binder’s head tilted. “Refusal is neither anticipated nor advisable, seeing the Registry itself blesses the union.”
“Rather fortunate for her, I should think. Elevated from disgrace into the Empire’s highest echelons.” The Emperor leaned closer to ensure the High Binder could not overhear. “Her future depends entirely on her cooperation. As does yours, son.”
The endearment—false, always false—delivered the threat with perfect clarity.
Azrian knew very little of Miss Almarien. He knew she didn’t like him, and he found the feeling to be mutual. But even so, she deserved better than to become another Evara, another sacrifice to imperial control.
Azrian swallowed the acrid taste in his mouth. “Is there anything else?”
The Emperor’s eyes lingered on him for a long, uncomfortable moment, as if searching for some sign of rebellion. Apparently finding none, Tharion dismissed him, already turning back to the illuminated map.
“I shall require regular reports,” the Emperor said, not bothering to look up. “You know what the success of these marks could mean for Velyar. Do not disappoint me again, Hand.”
Azrian bowed, flawless as ever, and only when the doors sealed behind him did he breathe in deeply, air rushing into lungs tight with old pain. He’d survived Evara’s death by becoming exactly what the Empire required—precise, detached, loyal.
The perfect Hand.
Now, they demanded that he court this girl. Another test of loyalty. Another sacrifice to the Empire.
Azrian straightened, piecing himself together with the discipline of a man who had nothing left but will and habit.
This time would be different. It had to be.
Even if it meant questioning loyalties he had never before permitted himself to doubt .