Corvus's smile vanishes. "Lord Vorak, I don't think you understand the severity—"
"I understand perfectly." I take a step forward. He takes a step back. "You offered her as a treaty bride. A gesture of peace and alliance. But what you really wanted was a leash. Another way to control the cursed lords you're too afraid to fight but too greedy to leave alone."
"That's not—"
"You thought you could send us women from your prisons and asylums and we'd be grateful for the scraps. That we'd use them as servants or whores or whatever else amused us, and then send them back when you called."
I bare my teeth. "You thought wrong."
Corvus draws himself up, trying to reclaim authority. "The law is explicit, Lord Vorak. You swore an oath over the Pact Stone. Blood and magic bound. Youcannotbreak it."
"Can't I?"
I reach for the honor chain at my wrist—the enchanted shackle they clamped on me the day I signed the Compact. The physical manifestation of the oath binding me to return her.
It's supposed to be unbreakable. Forged in the royal smithies with magic old enough to predate the current kingdom. Anyone who tries to remove it without fulfilling the oath dies screaming.
I’ve worn it since the oath.
I look at it now—at the silver links marked with runes I never learned to read.
Then I grab it with my other hand.
Andpull.
The magic resists immediately. I feel it sink into my flesh like hooks, feel it trying to burrow into bone, feel the curse roar up in response—yes, break it, tear it, destroy—
The pain is excruciating.
I don't stop.
The chain shrieks—metal tearing, magic sparking, runes blazing red-hot against my skin—
And then itsnaps.
The pieces fall to the ground with a dull clank.
Blood drips from my wrist where the shackle burned me. The wound is already healing—curse-fast, ugly but effective.
Silence.
Complete, shocked silence.
Corvus has gone white. "You... that's... that's impossible—"
"Clearly not."
I can feel Annora's eyes on me. Can feel the way her magic pulses—concerned, alarmed, but not afraid.
Never afraid of me.
One of the crown soldiers breaks formation—young, stupid, probably trying to impress his commanders—and reaches for Annora.
My blade is at his throat before he completes the motion.
"Touch her," I say very quietly, "and I'll remove parts of you that won't grow back."
He freezes. Smart enough to recognize a death threat when it's pressed against his jugular.
