I did not sleep.
I lay on a bed carved from obsidian stone, draped in fabrics that breathed warmth instead of softness, and listened to a palace that refused to be silent.
It whispered.
Not in words—never in anything so mercifully clear—but in presence. In awareness. The fire in the hearth shifted when my thoughts sharpened. The sigils etched into the walls dimmed when I forced myself to breathe slowly, then brightened again when my pulse spiked. Somewhere beyond the warded doors, something vast moved, paused, and waited.
The Demon King had not lied.
The palace felt me.
And worse—it seemed to be deciding what I was.
I turned onto my side, staring at my palm. The mark had settled into my skin fully now, no longer glowing, but unmistakable: a faint, intricate pattern like veins of dark glass beneath flesh. When I pressed my thumb over it, warmth bloomed—not pain, not pleasure, but recognition.
Shared burden.
The phrase echoed again, uninvited.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
"I didn't ask for this," I whispered to the empty room.
The bond answered anyway.
Not with a voice this time, but with a sensation that rolled through my chest like a tide pulling back from shore.
Awareness.
Not Malrik's thoughts—thank whatever gods still listened—but his state. A distant, controlled tension. Purpose layered over exhaustion. He was awake. Moving. Working.
Watching.
The realization unsettled me enough that I sat up.
The bed had no canopy, no bars, no locks. The door across the chamber stood open, revealing a short corridor lit by low-burning firestones. No guards. No chains.
Not a prisoner, he had said.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood.
The floor warmed beneath my bare feet as if adjusting to my weight. I took a cautious step forward, then another. The air shifted—not hostile, but alert.
"Fine," I muttered. "We'll do this your way."
The corridor curved gently, guiding rather than confining. As I walked, images appeared along the walls—etched reliefs that moved subtly, like memories replaying themselves when no one was watching. Battles. Treaties. Crowns changing hands in blood and fire.
And always, at the center of them, Malrik.
Younger in some. Barely more than a boy in others. The crown sat too heavy on his head in those early scenes, his posture rigid with the effort of not collapsing beneath it.
My chest tightened.
The bond pulsed softly.
No, I thought sharply. Not sympathy. That's not—
The sensation eased, but did not disappear.
I reached the end of the corridor and stepped into a vast inner chamber open to the sky. Or what passed for sky here: a ceiling of dark crystal through which a slow-moving red glow pulsed, like a heartbeat stretched across eternity.
The courtyard below was empty, save for a single figure standing at its center.
Malrik.
He was not armored now. He wore simple black garments, his horns unadorned, his sword resting point-down against the stone. His head was bowed, eyes closed, as if in meditation—or restraint.
The bond tugged.
I did not hesitate this time.
The moment I stepped onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard, his eyes opened.
He looked up.
Not startled. Not surprised.
Resigned.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
His voice carried easily, resonating through the open space.
"And yet," I replied, gripping the stone railing, "here I am."
He studied me for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. "The palace guided you."
"Yes."
"That confirms it," he said quietly.
"Confirms what?"
He straightened, sheathing his sword with deliberate care before moving toward the stairs that spiraled up to meet the balcony. Each step he took sent a subtle vibration through the stone beneath my feet.
"It is adjusting," he said as he climbed. "To you."
"I don't want it to," I said.
He reached the top and stopped a few paces away, keeping distance between us. The bond hummed—strained, but controlled.
"The palace does not care what we want," he said. "Only what the contract demands."
"And what does it demand?" I asked.
His gaze flicked briefly to my marked hand. "Balance."
I laughed, sharp and humorless. "That's convenient. Vague enough to excuse anything."
"It has justified wars," he said. "This is… restrained, by comparison."
I fell silent.
The red glow overhead pulsed again, slower now.
"You felt it, didn't you?" he asked. "The pull."
"Yes," I admitted. "Like gravity."
He nodded. "The bond seeks proximity. Not constant—but intentional."
"So you brought me here to keep me close," I said. "Not for safety. For control."
His eyes hardened. "For survival. Mine. Yours. Possibly both realms'."
That got my attention.
"You think I could destabilize things just by existing," I said.
"I think," he replied carefully, "that if the wrong faction realizes what the contract has done, they will attempt to remove you."
A chill slid down my spine. "Remove."
"Assassinate," he said plainly. "Discredit. Break the bond by breaking you."
The bond flared—hot, furious.
Malrik stiffened, teeth gritting. "There. That. That reaction alone is proof."
I pressed my marked palm against my chest, breathing through the surge. "Then why tell me?"
"Because you are not fragile," he said. "And because you deserve to know the cost of wearing my crown by proxy."
"I'm not wearing your crown," I snapped.
"No," he agreed softly. "But it is beginning to rest on your head anyway."
Silence stretched between us, heavy with things unsaid.
Finally, I asked, "What happens next?"
His mouth tightened. "Next, we test the bond. Carefully."
"And if it doesn't like being tested?"
A corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Then it will remind us who truly holds authority."
The thought should have terrified me.
Instead, something inside me—reckless, buried deep—leaned forward.
"Start with something small," I said.
His brow furrowed. "Such as?"
I met his gaze. "You said it reacts to proximity. To intention. So let's be intentional."
I took a step closer.
The bond surged—not painfully this time, but vividly. Awareness sharpened, threading between us like a live wire.
Malrik's breath hitched.
"Seris," he warned.
"Tell me to stop," I said. "And mean it."
He searched my face, jaw tight. For a heartbeat, I felt his hesitation—not doubt, but fear of what control might cost him.
Then he said, quietly, "Don't."
The bond answered with a low, satisfied hum.
I stopped.
The sensation settled, coiling rather than striking.
Malrik exhaled slowly. "Good. You can resist."
"So can you," I said.
"For now," he replied.
The red glow overhead pulsed again, brighter.
A distant bell tolled—deep, resonant, wrong.
Malrik turned sharply toward the far end of the courtyard.
"That," he said, "is not scheduled."
"What does it mean?" I asked.
"Visitors," he replied. "And not ones I invited."
The bond tightened, alert and alive.
He looked at me again, eyes dark with resolve. "Go back to the ward. Stay there."
"And if I don't?"
His gaze flicked briefly to my marked hand. "Then the palace will decide whether you are guest… or catalyst."
The bell tolled again.
Closer this time.
As he turned and strode toward the courtyard gates, the bond flared with a single, chilling certainty.
Whatever was coming had already felt me.
And it was not afraid.