You cannot destroy me without destroying yourself. We are bound, warden. Your life is my cage. Your death would be my freedom. The presence presses closer, colder. Would you risk releasing me to save her? Would you doom the world to keep one small human breathing?
It’s the same question the King has asked a hundred times, in a hundred variations. The same bargain it’s been offering since the binding began. Surrender. Let go. Stop fighting and become part of something greater.
The answer has never changed.
But the reason has.
“Choice.” The word comes out steady. Certain. “That’s what the binding never understood. That’s what you never understood. I chose to bind myself to this forest. I chose to contain you. And when Xela grabbed my hand during the Engine’s attack—when she refused to let go—I chose her.”
The King’s presence wavers. Uncertainty bleeding through its ancient malice.
“You thought the ritual made me your prisoner. But I was never trapped. I stayed because I chose to stay. Because containing you was worth the cost.” I step forward, feeling the bond pulse with each heartbeat. Feeling Xela’s presence at the edges of my awareness—solid, steady, an anchor that the King can’t touch. “Now I have something else worth choosing. Someone else. And that makes your cage stronger, not weaker.”
Impossible. I am eternal. I am the accumulated vengeance of centuries. I am?—
“Hungry.” I cut through the King’s grandstanding with brutal truth. “You’re hungry. And the binding limits your feeding. I don’t have to destroy you. I just have to outlast you. Every death in Briargrave goes through me first—gets filtered through my will before it reaches you. That’s why you’ve been growing so slowly. That’s why you’re still trapped here instead of spreading across the Veillands.”
The King’s presence recedes slightly. Wariness entering its cold regard.
“Xela is bound to me now. Which means she’s bound to the filtering process too. Another layer between you and the vengeance you crave.” I smile—a predator’s smile, learned from the entity I’m facing. “You didn’t just fail to kill her. You made her into another prison wall.”
Liar.
“Truth.” I hold up my hand, show the bark-scars that lace my forearm. The same patterns are forming on Xela’s skin—faint for now, but visible. Evidence of the bond taking root. “She’s mine now. Part of the binding. Part of the cage. And every day she stays with me, the bars get stronger.”
The King’s rage hits me like a physical blow. The Heartgrove shudders. Roots erupt from the ground in every direction, thorns erupting from the bark, vines whipping through the air with killing force.
I stand my ground. Let the forest rage around me without responding.
And when it’s over—when the King’s fury has spent itself and the grove falls quiet again—I’m still standing. Xela is still behind me, protected by the bond that should have been the King’s weapon but has become its cage instead.
You think this changes anything. The King’s voice is quieter now. Sullen. The woman will die eventually. All humans do.And when she does, you’ll be alone again. Vulnerable again. I can wait.
“Then wait.” I take Xela’s hand, feel her fingers lace through mine. “I’ve got time.”
We turn our backs on the King. Walk out of the Heartgrove with our fingers intertwined, leaving the entity to stew in its impotent rage.
Behind us, the crown of thorns gutters. The dark fire dims.
The King may be eternal. But eternity is a long time to spend watching the bars of your cage grow stronger.
FORTY-THREE
THAROS
We camp at the edge of the Heartgrove that night. Close enough to monitor the King, far enough to breathe without feeling its presence pressing against our minds.
The fire I build is small—just enough to heat water for Xela’s wounds. She lets me tend them without complaint, her body relaxed against mine as I work. The trust in that relaxation does strange things to my chest.
“You were bluffing.” Her voice is soft, pitched for my ears alone. “About the binding making me another prison wall. You don’t actually know if that’s true.”
“I know enough.” I finish wrapping her shoulder, press a kiss to the bandage before letting her shirt fall back into place. “The King believes it. That’s what matters.”
“And if it calls your bluff?”
“Then we improvise.” My arms wrap around her, pulling her back against my chest. Her body fits perfectly—curves settling into angles, warmth bleeding into warmth. “I’ve been improvising for a long time. I’m good at it.”
“Arrogant.”
