But I’m watching her face. Watching the way her eyes widen slightly at the noise before she controls it. Watching her jaw tighten.
And I’m listening to the voices that don’t join the chant.
War Captain Thraz stands near the back, arms crossed over his massive chest. His tusks gleam in the firelight as his mouth twists into something between a sneer and a scowl. He doesn’t chant. Doesn’t pound his spear.
Neither do the six warriors flanking him.
There it is.
The seeds of rebellion. Thraz has been ambitious for years, testing boundaries. And now I’ve handed him a weapon—a human tribute I’ve claimed publicly, bound myself to before the clan.
Weakness, he’ll call it. Dishonor. But is that enough to suspect treason of someone with me for so long? I would like to think not.
I bare my teeth in what might be a smile and let my eyes glow brighter—a warning only an idiot would miss.
Thraz looks away first.
The chanting dies down gradually, fading to expectant silence.
I raise one hand, and Myrka steps forward from the shadows beside the throne. Black Iron Priestess, keeper of the old magics, older than sin and twice as mean. She carries iron shackles across both palms.
Simple but effective. Black iron bands with silver runes etched into the surface—not magical, just marking. A physical symbol that this human belongs to me now.
One for each wrist.
I’ve never used ceremonial shackles before. Never had reason to. The tribute system doesn’t usually require it—most humans are too terrified to run, and the ones who do try don’t get far.
But I reach for them now, and the iron is cold in my hands.
Myrka’s milky eyes fix on my face. “You certain, Warlord?”
“Yes.”
“Once shackled with the Claiming Iron, she bears your mark before the clan. Your protection. Your responsibility.” Her voice is dry as old leather. “You ready for that?”
“Yes.”
She grunts and steps back.
I lift Zoraya’s left wrist—the one already bound in runechains—and snap the ceremonial shackle around it just above the existing restraint. The metal moves easily, clicking into place with a sound that echoes through the silent hall.
She sucks in a sharp breath at the cold touch of iron.
Then I take her right wrist and fasten the matching shackle there. Click. Lock. Mark of ownership.
The silver runes gleam against the black iron—wolf heads with jaws open, the same symbol that marks my banners and my armor. Property of the Iron Warlord, written in metal for all to see.
She stares down at the shackles, then back up at me. There’s no magical connection, no mystical bond. Just cold iron and political reality.
The crowd roars approval again, louder this time. The ceremonial shackles mean she’s not just a tribute. She’s mine in a way that goes beyond property. Beyond politics.
Zoraya’s breathing hard, staring at the bands around her wrists. When she looks up at me, there’s murder in her eyes.
Good.
I let the corner of my mouth curl. “Kneel.”
It’s a test. A public test that everyone in this hall will remember.
