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“The decree remains.”

“Then your ceremony is decoration.”

“Ceremony allows the court to witness order.”

Beatrix’s mouth flattens. She has found the bars of the trap and discovered they extend in every direction.

I understand the impulse to test each one. I once believed force could break them.

Above Zira, the seven divine sigils watch without fixed faces. No god will intervene. Demons who ask for such aid confess themselves unworthy of receiving it.

This choice belongs to me, though the Council has stripped away every acceptable answer.

Refusal would challenge the authority I enforce in the arena. It would expose House Obsidius to division and leave Beatrix subject to another assignment. Acceptance places her beneath my roof, inside my protection, and directly within reach of every enemy who understands what she once meant.

The old calculation returns in a new form.

Protect her by surrendering what she believes I should defend.

I incline my head to Zira.

“House Obsidius hears the decree.”

It is acceptance of fact, not gratitude. The Council knows the distinction and chooses not to contest it.

Zira turns toward the adjoining ceremonial arch. “Then take your assigned position.”

I move from my mark.

Beatrix remains where the Council placed her. Her green eyes follow every step. Anger, injury, and unanswered questions stand between us with the strength of a fortification.

I stop at her side.

My shoulder rises far above her head. The difference in our size makes the Council’s language of protection sound almost reasonable. Beatrix’s posture makes clear how little she accepts it.

Ten years ago, I left her alone beneath Galmoleth’s storm.

Now the Matrons return her to me as a duty.

I face the Council with her beside me and accept the imposed bond without mistaking it for surrender.

7

BEATRIX

Draxon stands beside me as if the Council carved him from the same black stone as the chamber.

His shoulder rises above my head. Slate-grey carapace covers his body in fitted plates, scarred in places where weapons once found him. Long black hair falls over the right side of his face and brushes the blunt remains of his broken horn. The other horns spiral high enough to announce his rank from across the chamber.

He has changed since the demon I knew.

The younger Draxon carried violence openly, impatient for any insult to give him reason to use it. The arena-master holds that violence behind stillness. His control does not make him safer. It makes every movement appear chosen.

Ten years ago, I knew the difference between his anger and amusement by the angle of his head.

Now I know only that he did not give the Council my name.

I resent the relief his answer brings.