Asset.
The word hammered home the hard truth. She wasn’t a person in this room. She was a resource to be allocated, a tool to be sharpened, a bandage to wrap around whatever bled.
Serenya smiled like she had knives behind her teeth. “Such a flattering title. It suggests you’re optimistic about my life expectancy.”
The Storm elder’s eyebrows rose slightly. The Bone elder leaned forward with unhealthy curiosity. But Archon’s expression never wavered—smooth as polished marble and twice as cold.
“Your humor serves you well, Miss Vex. Though I wonder if your compatibility with our weapon proves equally... durable.”
Our weapon.Not Vaelrik. Not even the Shadow Scourge. Just another tool in their arsenal.
Vaelrik stood at her side like a silent monolith, but she caught the flicker in his smoky eyes—controlled fury held by a thread thinner than spider silk. His mere presence shifted the room’s dynamic. The Ember elder stiffened slightly. The Storm elder’s gaze flicked toward the exits. The Bone elder leaned forward with fascination that bordered on hunger.
Only the Obsidian elder seemed bored, as if Vaelrik’s leashed destruction had become routine.
But Serenya realized something crucial. Vaelrik wasn’t here as a willing participant. He was here because they’d forced him into it, just as they’d forced her. The room knew it. The tensionin his jaw and the way his hands remained carefully still at his sides—he was a caged predator pretending to be domesticated.
“Your recent engagement in the Weeping March proved... illuminating,” Archon continued, producing a series of diagrams that unfolded across the chamber’s central table like accusations. Red marks spread across maps like infection, showing the plague’s methodical advance toward Cinderhollow.
“Effective containment,” he said, nodding toward Vaelrik with approval that felt like poison. “And unexpected compatibility with our weapon.” His gaze settled on Serenya. “Your combined efforts yielded remarkable results.”
Serenya studied the plague patterns, her curse scholar instincts taking over despite her fury. The spread wasn’t random—like she suspected, it spiraled inward with deliberate intent, each outbreak positioned to maximize psychological impact while testing defensive responses.
“The only way forward,” Archon announced with serpentine satisfaction, “is a dual-containment protocol. Long-term partnership between witch and dragon. Indefinite stabilization until the crisis resolves.”
Indefinite.The word hit like a slap. Not weeks. Not months. Until the plague ended—or until she died trying to stop it.
The audience of nobles watched her like she was livestock being appraised for auction. Not a woman who’d just risked her life saving civilians. Not a scholar whose expertise they desperately needed. Just a living bandage to wrap around Vaelrik’s curse and pray it held.
Without warning, a guard stepped forward carrying a black-metal band etched with interlocking Obsidian and Ember runes. The ward-shackle pulsed with contained power, its surface reflecting the volcanic light like captured starfire.
Serenya’s stomach dropped. The binding sigil hadn’t been enough. Of course it hadn’t been enough.
“A safety measure,” Archon explained with practiced courtesy that never hid the knife. “To ensure the binding remains stable should the initial sigil weaken over time. Drakebrand magic, when channeled through prepared metal, creates more... permanent resonance.”
Permanent. The word echoed in her skull like a death knell.
“How thoughtful.” Serenya took the shackle, letting it dangle from her fingers like a mockery. “Nothing says ‘valued team member’ like magical restraints.”
The band thrummed warm as she fastened it around her wrist, responding to Vaelrik’s shadowfire with hungry recognition. She’d studied theoretical applications of cross-magical binding with metal, but feeling it firsthand was like having her soul tuned to someone else’s frequency.
When the Storm elder made a cutting remark about “witch magic requiring proper management,” Vaelrik’s shadowfire stirred in response—and the ward-shackle heated like a brand against her skin. Pain lanced sharp and sudden up her wrist, biting deep enough to steal her breath.
She swallowed the gasp before it could escape, refusing to give the room the satisfaction of seeing her suffer. But Vaelrik’s eyes snapped to her instantly, narrowing with something disturbingly close to guilt—or awareness. She couldn’t tell.
The pulse between them told her more than his expression. It revealed a truth the Council had conveniently omitted: their magical binding cut both directions now. Not harm—resonance. His curse brushed against her senses when it surged, and when pain spiked through her, it reverberated back to him. A shared feedback loop masquerading as a ‘safety measure.’ Their magic—and their suffering—were now intertwined by design.
“Perfect resonance,” Archon observed with cold satisfaction. “This partnership will be most... educational.”
SIX
VAELRIK
The formalities dissolved like smoke as the four elders dispersed from the Council chamber with practiced smiles that never reached their eyes. Veiled threats wrapped in courtly language lingered in the air behind them.
Stay compliant, witch. Don’t give attitude, weapon.
Vaelrik stepped closer to Serenya, his presence filling the space between them like gathering thunder. The ward-shackle around his wrist pulsed in rhythm with hers, black metal etched with runes that bound them tighter than chains. His voice dropped to a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the stone itself.
