Jassyn’s throat closed, though all he wanted was to scream. He fought to drive the knife inward, to prove that something—anything—still belonged to him. Even if it was only the manner of his ending.
But the coercion’s grip ran deeper than his will.
Then the whispers returned.
You’ve always been so good at listening,she crooned into the hollow of his memory, her voice stroking grooves worn deep by repetition.Show them again how sweet you can be, darling.
Praise and command lingered in his skull, coaxing surrender into devotion until obedience itself glittered like a prize. Every muscle trembled as he battled the blade, denying the echo of the voice that had taught him how to bend.
Elashor clicked his tongue and plucked the knife from Jassyn’s grip. He tossed it aside, the clatter ringing finality.
“There now,” he said, smoothing the front of Jassyn’s armor. “We can’t have our trophy marring itself, can we?”
Jassyn couldn’t even blink when telepathy shimmered again, the filaments sliding into his temple.
“You will never raise a hand against yourself or others,”Elashor said, the order sinking barbs into Jassyn’s mind.“You will serve. You will stay devoted. That’s all you were ever made for.”
The command arrived without thunder or pain, carrying only the faint sensation of threads drawing tight, a weave knotted and pulled until no seam remained.
When Elashor turned and beckoned over his shoulder, Jassyn’s body obeyed again. They passed through a corridor of hedges clipped into rigid symmetry, every wild branch disciplined into order.
The path widened, opening into a private courtyard. She reclined across a chaise beneath a flowering arbor, wisteria spilling like a curtain behind her.
Farine.
Her golden hair lay coiled in coronet braids, stray strands softening a face honed to an arch elf’s ethereal sharpness. Gossamer silks clung in spectral veils and rings constellated every finger, each jewel pulsing with ensnared Essence.
She didn’t rise. Altars never did. They waited until others knelt. And Jassyn had, again and again.
Around her, nobles lounged in the shade, sipping wine from crystal chalices. They snuffed Stardust dotted on painted nails, pupils blown wide, their laughter loose and unguarded.
At the garden’s edge, a dais bore bodies entwined in carnal rhythm, ecstasy performed as a pageant. One female at Farine’s feet rose from her nest of velvet cushions and stepped into the scene, easing herself astride a man already flushed and ready. As she sank down, a low moan slipped from her throat. The court answered with a flutter of applause like acknowledging a toast well spoken.
Not a single gaze registered Jassyn as more than an offering restored to Farine’s temple. He felt their eyes prying him open, his spine already remembering how to hold still just enough to seem willing.
He hated it. And beneath that hatred, something fouler lurked.
A ruined part of him slackened with relief. His shoulders dropped, his body remembering how to bow. Performance demanded nothing but anticipation of the next command.
Shine when summoned. Please when ordered.
His name no longer mattered, only the bloodline seared into his bones. Choice had never breathed in this place. All he had to do now was forget the life he’d dared to build for himself.
And what had freedom truly given him except things meant to be ripped away? A taste of power. A glimpse of love, gentle where every other touch had scarred. The fragile hope of healing, clotting over wounds that had never closed.
Lykor.
Jassyn had chosen him with a trust he hadn’t known still lived within himself. For one brief, impossible moment, he’d believed it might matter. That giving himself wholly could steer the ending toward something new.
But this wasn’t a tale where love rewrote the script.
He hoped Lykor would stay far away. Better he never come searching. If he saw Jassyn like this, he wouldn’t understand.
While Lykor had been forged in fury, sharpened by fangs bared to the world, Jassyn had survived by turning surrender into the illusion of choice. Lykor would only see the wreckage and call it defeat, believing the fight already lost.
A hush rippled through the garden, though Farine hadn’t spoken. She lifted her chin, and a nearby harpist strangled their final note. One of her lacquered nails rose, and the coercion inside Jassyn cinched tight.
His knees struck marble before thought could surface, the crack echoing at the heart of her court.
