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“That is not comforting.”

“It is limited.”

“You are a dark elf lord with chaos magic. Your definition of limited may need examination.”

She moves to the medicine table and begins arranging the cups. Her motions are brisk enough to communicate anger without the connection.

“Why is this happening?” she asks.

“The marriage rite may have created a foundation.”

“A legal rite allows you into my mind?”

“Not alone. Morwen’thir marriages are sanctioned beneath the Arbiter because the pair becomes one household balance. Among dark elves, that balance may support a magical bond.”

“No one disclosed that before I signed.”

“No one expected a human to form one.”

“How convenient.”

“The assumption was based on centuries of precedent.”

“Precedent established by dark elves who never considered humans worth studying.”

Her conclusion is unpleasantly plausible.

“Intimacy strengthened the foundation,” I say. “Your contact with active chaos magic may have completed it.”

“I did not use magic.”

“You directed your will against a magical wound while touching me. Chaos responds to intent.”

“So marriage, intimacy, and your magic created this connection.”

“Most likely.”

She hands me the first cup. “Your certainty remains inspiring.”

I drink. The medicine is bitter enough to numb my tongue.

“What are its limits?” she asks.

“We cannot hear ordinary thoughts. We cannot search memories. We cannot compel speech or action. Strong emotions and simple images may cross, particularly through touch.”

“Can I hide something from you?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“You are doing it now.”

“I am thinking about pushing you back onto those pillows.”

“I received no image of it.”

“That was not what I was hiding.”