“It is,” I admit. “But it’s the only one we have and it is the price we pay for order. It’s the cost of keeping the world safe from your chaos. It’s all we have and you need to adapt to it.”
“Why?” she asks.
Her question hangs between us, the words sharper than any rapier.
It would be easier if she didn’t survive.
The thought is venom, coiling in my mind, whispered by the darker parts of me I usually indulge. If Zara were gone, I could move on. The blood weave would dissolve, my brothers would understand, and the fragile balance of power I’ve built would remain intact. A stubborn, reckless witch who wields her magic like a cudgel wouldn’t threaten everything I’ve spent centuries crafting.
But the ebon chain won’t let me.
It isn’t just the magic. I’ve spent days convincing myself that it is, that every maddening thought of her, every protective instinct, every spark of something more is a trick of the weave, binding me to her as surely as it’s bound her to me. Yet, even as I tell myself this, I know it’s a lie.
I want her to survive.
Worse, I want her to thrive.
And I don’t want anyone except me to control her. I don’twant another warlock taking her power or subjecting her to degrading treatment. That privilege is mine, and only mine. That pleasure is mine. Only mine, because I’ve earned it.
The admission cuts deeper than I expect, and I want her to choose me. The realization is a jagged wound that won’t heal. I want Zara to survive and be happy, and for it to be because she’s chosen me. Not just because the weave demands it, or because she’s the key to stabilizing the chaos she’s unleashed, but because of something I can’t quite name. Something I don’t dare name.
“Because you have a choice,” I say finally.
“Which is?”
“If we cannot break the blood weave, we’ll have to find a way for you to survive in my world. With me. For me.” I hesitate as the words catch in my throat. “The easiest way would be to submit to me. To my magic and my control. In all ways, at least in public.”
Zara shakes her head and I pray one of the Gods will smite me down.
They don’t and I’m left with no choice.
“If you won’t submit, you’ll have to marry me.” I lift my eyes to the heavens as she gasps in horror. “It’s the only way the warlocks will accept you, Zara. As my slave or my wife. You may choose which one, but either way, they’ll see you as mine. You’ll be protected.”
Zara freezes.
Her lips part slightly, but no sound comes out. Shock doesn’t just color her face—it overtakes her completely. Her pale skin grows even paler, her emerald eyes widening as if she’s just been struck by lightning. Slowly, she shakes her head, as though trying to clear away what she’s just heard, as though I might take it back.
Gods, I wish I could.
She blinks several times, and then the silence shatters. “You can’t be serious.”
I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. “I wish I weren’t.”
The room is thick with the faint scent of damp wood and smoke, the kind that clings stubbornly to old beams and stone hearths. The fire in the corner crackles weakly, its warmth struggling against the draft that seeps through the warped shutters, carrying with it the faintest trace of scorched magic. Shadows cling to the walls, distorted and restless, as if even the faint light of dawn is wary to settle here, leaving the air heavy with an uneasy stillness.
Zara’s anger stirs the air, the sparks of her magic flickering like the last vestiges of a fire struggling to survive in winter. Her fury feels as tangible as the deathly quiet surrounding us, both alive, both threatening to combust.
“This isn’t a choice,” she snaps, her voice rising.
Her hands clench into fists at her sides, and for a moment, the faint scent of sharp, crackling ozone prickles through the air. Zara’s magic is sparking, along with her temper, and both are dangerous.
“You’re telling me to pick between a gilded cage and an iron one. Both with your leash around my neck.”
“I know it sounds…”
I stop myself, biting down on the word cruel.
Of course, it sounds cruel.
