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“Have you tried being apart?” Serena asks, searching for a weak point in the braid.

Eden nods, her fingers twisting tightly in the velvet skirts. “Yes.”

“And?” Serena prompts, leaning in.

“I felt like I was being hollowed out,” Eden whispers. “Like my heart was being squeezed in a fist, and if I took one more step, it was just going to pop. I couldn't breathe. I thought… I thought I was going to die right there and then.”

“It was the same for me,” I agree, the memory of that sickness sending my stomach flipping.

Serena’s finger jabs directly into the shimmering, curdled mess of the tether, causing both Eden and I to gasp in discomfort. She tries to hook a nail into the place where my obsidian thread disappears into Eden’s red knot, pulling and twisting as if trying to unpick a bird's nest.

“By the fires below,” she hisses, her face twisting in a grimace as she fights the resistance of the magic. “It’s like trying to untie a knot made of wet slugs and lightning.”

She pulls her hand back, a faint trail of black smoke rising from her fingertips. “What were the terms when you drew the blade, mortal? What did you promise him?”

“I... I didn't promise him anything,” Eden stammers, shrinking back into the chair. ““I wasn’t even calling for him. It… It was an accident.”

“Accidents are for spilled ink, you foolish, lace-covered meat-sack,” Serena snarls, waving her hand with a dismissive flick. The shimmering, ugly braid of red and obsidian snaps out of existence, the light vanishing instantly. “This is a bind that’s fused down to the bone. A blood-bind is a transaction—the kind used by the High Council or the Devil herself. It’s a closed loop. A legal, airtight cage built on a price. A trade. Do you understand what I’m saying, Malachi?

“The nuances of occult theory usually bore me to tears, Serena,” I drawl, rolling my eyes. “I know it’s making our lives a logistical nightmare. Beyond that? My eyes usually glaze over the second someone starts talking about anything to do with… this sort of stuff.”

Serena groans. “You waltzed into a bind with no exit clause. You’re not just tethered to her; you’re stuck in a stalemate with the universe. Without a price to be paid, there is no end to the contract. It’s a bridge to nowhere, and you’re both standing in the middle of it while the foundations rot with her mortal timeline.”

“Can’t we just... cut it?” Eden asks, her voice trembling as she looks at me for some kind of reassurance I know I can’t give to her. “There has to be a way to unpick it.”

“No,” Serena says, shaking her head. “I could try a heavy-duty meat cleaver, but last time the cleanup took weeks. You'd both be mush, and I'd have no one to bill for the upholstery.”

The bag of jelly in my arms shifts, letting out a soft, delighted coo as it reaches up to pat my cheek with a tiny, damp hand, only for me to swat it away.

“Rhaziel, take this thing before I drop it,” I snap, blindly lifting it over my shoulder.

“Watch the head, you brute!” Serena hisses, her eyes flashing as her brother gingerly takes it into his own arms.

“The brat’s skull is fine,” I snap. “If we don't sever this bind, a Warden’s going to turn her in to mush anyway. Give me the dirty version, Serena. How do we do it?”

Serena taps her nails against the desk. “I’d need a Void-Glass Scalpel. It’s high-end medical tech for flesh-sculptors—very precise, very expensive, and remarkably good at slicing souls without making my colleagues complain about the screaming.” She lets out a dry scoff, flicking a stray bit of parchment off her desk. “Naturally, I don't have one. I’m a 'respectable' consultant now, and butcher's tools are so hard to sanitize between clients.”

“Right. So where do I get one of those?” I ask.

“The Slag Heaps,” she responds flatly.

The Slag Heaps… The armpit of the Ninth. It’s a lawless sprawl of stolen souls and illegal skins—great for pit-fights on a Friday, but a death sentence for a mortal. She’d be picked apart like a rotisserie chicken before we cleared the first gate.

“You're fucking joking, right?” I ask with a raised brow.

“Do I look like I'm joking, Virezeal?” Serena leans back, crossing her arms over her chest, a cruel little smirk tugging at her mouth. “By the sounds of everything I just heard, it’s all going to go to shit if you don’t go there. Either she’s a snack for the Slag-dwellers, or she’s an 'unauthorized variable' for the Wardens. Take your pick, Malachi. At least in the Heaps, she has a chance to hide in the trash.”

I shoot her a look of pure, unadulterated venom. “How the fuck am I supposed to manage it? Look at her. I might as well walk her in there with a 'Free Samples' sign around her neck.”

“Not my problem, Virezeal,” Serena says, inspecting her ink-stained cuticles with a cold indifference. “I’m a consultant, not a travel agent for the terminally stupid. Figure it out or start picking out a coffin—maybe a double-wide for the two of you.”

Rhaziel chimes in from the corner, still bouncing the babbling demon infant who’s trying to pull on one of his horns. “You could always just use some of Serena’s perfume to mask her scent a little,” he suggests with a shrug. “Douse her in that shit. It’s heavy enough to cover the smell of a rotting soul-pit; it’ll definitely drown out a little bit of fresh soap and blood.”

Serena’s head snaps toward him, her eyes narrowing. “That 'perfume' is an extract of fermented nightshade and sulfur-blooms, Rhaziel. It costs more than your quarterly salary.”

“Serena. If she gets caught, the Wardens won’t just take her,” I say, already reaching out a hand. “They’ll trace the tether too. They’ll find out who looked at the knot. They’ll find you.”

Her jaw works for a minute before she lets out a huff and produces a small, ornate amethyst bottle from one of her drawers, sliding it across the desk. “Fine. Only a few spritzes though!”