The rot stabilizes.
I stare at the glowing stones, the breath seizing in my chest. The curse is fully ignited, yet the air is completely clear. The estate is not destroying itself. It is protecting her.
Vaelor stands at the end of the null-iron path, his sword half-drawn, his entire frame rigid with disbelief. He looks at the stable, contained output of Blackflame magic, then up to where Mireya stands flawlessly intact within my immediate shadow. This defies every magical law documented in the Undercity archives.
"Withdraw," Vaelor barks, his voice tight, stripped of its previous arrogance. "Pack the mats. Withdraw immediately."
The enforcers scramble, hauling the heavy null-iron backward, desperate to escape the perimeter. Within moments, the courtyard is empty, the rusted gates standing open to the encroaching fog.
I do not regard them as they flee. I look only at Mireya.
"Inside," I say, the word a raw, ragged exhale.
I escort her up the steps, the Blackflame lines fading back into the stone as my curse recedes into a manageable simmer. The heavy oak doors slam shut behind us, the deadbolts sliding into place by the sheer force of my will.
"They will not return," I tell her, the possessiveness still clawing at my throat. "I will restrict all court access. The mandate be damned."
She touches her upper arm where the gauntlet bruised her skin. "They will try to force a breach if you lock them out."
"Let them try." I turn away from her, the friction of her proximity too much to bear while the adrenaline still poisons my blood.
I leave her in the main hall and ascend the stairs to my private study.
The heavy stone door seals behind me. I walk to the dark mahogany desk and drag the original parchment of Theryn Duskryn’s mandate from the drawer. I spread it flat, the edges of the paper curling slightly from the decay in my fingertips.
I trace the elegant, diplomatic script down to the final paragraph.
...authorized lethal containment of Lord Khaelor Venn if the subject’s curse destabilizes beyond acceptable thresholds.
I read the words again, the political implication of the trap perfectly clear.
Theryn does not want the curse cured. He does not care about Mireya’s immunity. He sent her here because he believed a human anomaly would violently agitate the magic, forcing the destabilization he needs to legally execute me and claim the Venn estate.
But she did not destabilize the curse. She anchored it.
I look toward the heavy oak door, my mind mapping the distance to where she stands in the hall below. She is the only key to controlling the cataclysm in my blood. Which means Theryn’s plan has failed.
And a man like Theryn Duskryn does not accept failure.
If the Archmagister realizes that Mireya is the only thing keeping the monster of Venn Manor sane, he will not target my curse anymore.
He will target her.
7
MIREYA
For two days, the heavy ironwood doors of the main hall remain bolted against the Undercity. For two days, the monster of Venn Manor avoids my shadow entirely.
The silence is a suffocating miasma, a heavy, airless pressure that binds me the moment his footsteps fade. I sit in the dusty confines of my assigned wing, tracing the crude maps I have drawn of the estate, but my focus is a frayed thread. My mind constantly circles back to the salt-rimed courtyard. To the blinding, apocalyptic heat of his unleashed curse.
Release her, or I will liquefy the armor to your flesh.The raw, feral possessiveness in his gravel-strewn voice echoes against the inside of my skull. He did not merely shield a court-mandated research subject. He risked immediate execution. He dared Theryn Duskryn to wage a siege, all to stop a soldier from bruising my arm. The question ofwhyburns my throat, a heavy, unasked demand. But every time I venture toward the central stairwell to seek him out, the ambient rot thickens in the corridors, a silent, volatile warning to keep my distance. He is a man caged by his own terrifying lack of restraint, terrified of the instinct that drew him out of the dark.
That night, the oppressive atmosphere of the manor bleeds into my sleep.
I do not dream of the chanting witches or the black fire. I dream of the quiet.
I am standing in the shattered dining hall, the air freezing and metallic. The shadows part, and Khaelor steps into the meager light. He does not wear the heavy velvet cloak. His chest is bare, the ashen-violet expanse of his skin mapped entirely by the jagged, pulsing veins of his affliction.
