The dark pressed in on her so hard it felt heavy. Like it had weight. Like it wanted to sit on her chest and keep her there.
Sylvera's wrists were on fire.
The cuffs bit deep. Not just metal. Not just chains. The runes burned every time she moved, and the pain was so sharp it made her eyes water. Blood ran down her hands, warm at first, then sticky. It smeared over the cuff and her skin and the rope, and it didn't even help. Nothing slipped. Nothing loosened.
She pulled anyway.
The runes hissed.
Heat flared up her arms like someone had pressed a blade to her skin.
She nearly cried out.
Nearly.
She bit down on the gag until her jaw ached and her teeth felt like they might crack.
No sound. Not for him.
The carriage lurched again.
Not like a cart.
Not like wheels.
This was… wrong. Wet and thick. Like the whole thing crawled forward instead of rolling.
Sylvera felt it under her knees. The floor pulsed. A slow thud. Then another. Like a heartbeat.
The walls swelled once.
Then drew back in.
She swallowed hard and tasted bile.
No. No, this can't be real.
Wood didn't do that.
Wood didn't breathe.
Gods… it's alive.
The smell inside the carriage was making her dizzy. Blood gone sweet with rot. Metal. Magic. It burned her throat every time she tried to inhale. Under it all was something fouler, older. Like something dead had been kept alive too long.
Sylvera tried to breathe small. Shallow. It didn't help much.
Don't scream. Don't. Don't give him that.
A low chuckle drifted through the dark.
"Impressive," Lorian murmured.
Her head snapped up.
He was sprawled across from her, relaxed, like this was a ride home after a feast. No golden armour now. No shining king. Just black clothing, fine and soft and expensive. The cuffs were stained dark, wet-looking, like he'd washed his hands in someone.
Torchlight leaked through cracks, cutting his face into sharp lines.
His eyes caught the light.
Silver.
Glowing.
Not human.
Not even trying to look human.
In his hand he held a dagger. Small. Pretty. The kind of pretty that kills you.
He twirled it once. Twice. Lazy.
Then he leaned forward.
Slowly.
The blade rose until it hovered under her chin.
"Don't look so grim," he said softly. His voice was warm in that sick way. "You should feel honoured."
He tilted the dagger and dragged it along her throat. Not cutting, just tracing. Down her skin. Across her collarbone.
Her heart slammed so hard it hurt. She hated that it did that. She hated that her body still reacted.
"Out of all the witches in my kingdom…" His breath brushed her cheek. "…you caught my eye."
Sylvera didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Her jaw locked tight, fury held behind her gag like a knife she couldn't throw.
The dagger stopped over her chest. Pressed lightly right where her heartbeat was loudest.
Lorian smiled.
"Do you know what these cuffs are made of?" His gaze flicked to her wrists. Then back to her face.
He didn't wait.
"The bones of the last witch who thought she could leave me."
For a second everything inside her went hollow.
Then rage rushed in and filled the space like poison gas.
The carriage jolted hard.
Sylvera slammed into the wall. Pain shot up her spine. The floor shivered underneath her again, not like wood but like flesh. Like it enjoyed the impact.
Outside, the trees blurred past, but they weren't normal anymore. Bark black as burn scars. Branches twisted into shapes that looked too much like hands.
Even the moon was wrong.
Red and smeared and bleeding into the clouds.
Sylvera dragged breath through the gag in short gulps. The cuffs burned. Her wrists felt torn open. She could feel blood running, could feel it drying and sticking.
She pulled anyway.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Her arms shook. She kept pulling.
Lorian watched her like she was entertainment. Like he had all night.
"You'll never break them," he said lazily, tapping the dagger against his knee. "Every mile we travel, you belong to me a little more."
Sylvera glared.
If her eyes could kill, he would've been dead three times over.
His smile deepened. Slow. Mean.
"Good," he murmured. "Keep fighting. It makes me want you more."
She wanted to spit at him.
She wanted to scream.
Then—
Scritch.
A sound dragged across the roof.
Slow. Sharp. Ugly.
Sylvera froze.
Scritch. Scritch.
Something was on top of the carriage.
Moving.
Circling.
Waiting.
Her pulse jumped wild. Her skin prickled. She strained to hear past her own breathing.
Lorian didn't even look up.
He tipped his head back slightly, the faintest smile touching his mouth. Like this was planned.
Like he was waiting for it.
Then he spoke softly, sweetly, like greeting a friend:
"Right on time."
The scraping grew louder, slow circles overhead.
Then it stopped.
Right above her.
Sylvera's breath broke.
Lorian leaned forward. His dagger rested on her thigh now, light but sharp. His gaze locked hers and didn't let go.
"You'll meet them soon," he whispered. "They've been waiting for you."
The carriage slowed.
Chains clanked.
A lock screamed.
Then light split the dark as the door groaned open. Torchfire poured in, harsh and bright.
Sylvera blinked hard. Her eyes stung.
They weren't in Blackthorn.
They weren't anywhere she knew.
The world outside looked broken. Jagged stone fangs tore out of the earth. Trees stood twisted and black, limbs bent like bodies caught mid-scream.
And above it…
A castle.
Huge. Cruel.
Built of obsidian stone with red veins pulsing faintly through it, like something trapped inside was still alive. The sky bled crimson behind spires crowned with bone.
Magic hung in the air thick as smoke. It pressed into her lungs. It tasted bitter.
Lorian slid the dagger back into his belt.
Then he picked her up.
Easy.
Like she weighed nothing.
His arms were iron. Hard. Unmoving.
And still his touch was gentle.
That gentleness made her stomach lurch. It felt worse than roughness. Roughness was honest. This was not.
Sylvera thrashed once, hard. The gag bit her tongue. Pain flashed bright. Her nails dug into her own palms until blood came.
Lorian smiled like it pleased him.
"Easy," he murmured, stepping out into the night. His breath warmed her ear. "The court doesn't like it when their gifts are bruised."
Gifts.
That word turned her stomach.
Outside air hit like a wall. Damp stone. Rust.
And something sweet under it.
Sickly sweet.
Rot trying to smell like flowers.
Then she saw them.
The court.
They stood waiting in silence, lined up like nightmares wearing skin.
A duke stood closest, stomach split open and stitched with black cord. The wound still leaked thick dark liquid, pooling around his boots. Behind him, women glided forward like ghosts. Their faces were covered in porcelain masks fused to bone, and thin red lines ran from the eye slits like tears.
The guards were worse.
Their armour wasn't just armour.
It was fused to flesh. Plates veined with something alive, pulsing faintly.
She could hear it too. A whispering under the steel.
Every head turned toward her.
All at once.
Then the whispers started.
"Fresh meat…" someone hissed.
"Pretty witch…" another voice purred.
"How long will she scream?"
The words crawled over her skin cold.
Sylvera's heart slammed. The ropes cut deeper into her wrists, raw and wet. She dragged her hands anyway, hard enough to blister. She refused to let them see fear. She refused to give them that too.
Lorian's fingers tightened on her waist, anchoring her against him. His mouth dipped to her ear, voice sweet and deadly.
"Welcome," he whispered. "To your new forever."
Her stomach turned to stone.
Then he smiled into her hair and his words sliced clean through the night.
"This isn't where you die, Sylvera." A pause. Low. Certain. "This is where you become mine."
Her lungs burned.
Her blood screamed.
But her soul—
her soul spat fire.
Not yet. Not ever.