The certainty in those words surprises even me.
But it's true.
Somewhere between the auction and now, between touching her and being touched, between fearing my curse and feeling itquietin her presence...
She became mine.
And I became hers.
"Sleep," I murmur, pulling the furs over us. "We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
She curls into me, one hand resting over my heart.
"Don't let go," she whispers.
"Never."
I mean it.
Even if the king sends armies.
Even if the Compact demands her return.
Even if it costs me everything.
I'm not letting go.
LIGHT IN THE DARK
Annora's POV
Days don’t pass so much as theyblur—smearing together in the cold belly of Blackwood until I’m not sure which morning is which. I learn the fortress by feel: the stair that creaks on the third step, the corridor that always smells like iron and smoke, the patch of sun that crawls across my window for ten whole minutes before the clouds swallow it again. I patch split knuckles and torn palms in the infirmary, and I try not to notice how the men stop flinching when I reach for them—like my hands have become something other than trouble.
And in the quiet moments, when I’m rinsing blood from cloth or grinding herbs with a stone pestle, that warmth wakes under my skin. Not a miracle. Not a choir of angels. Just a soft pulse in my palms, a faint glow I feel more than see—like my body is remembering a language it was never allowed to speak. Vorak watches it happen with an expression that makes my throat tighten, like he’s terrified of hoping. Like he’s already decided I’m the only thing keeping him human.
But the crown doesn’t stop being the crown just because I’m far away from its jeweled teeth. The oath they pressed into my life doesn’t vanish because Vorak’s bed is warm and his handsare careful. Some nights I wake with my wrist aching, as if an invisible chain has yanked hard enough to bruise bone.
Some mornings I catch Vorak staring out over the battlements, jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, like he can see the next cruelty marching toward us through the snow. We don’t say the number of days left—because naming it feels like surrender—but it’s there anyway, counting down in the spaces between my breaths. How long before they come to collect? How long before they decide the contract is only ink… and they have steel? I tell myself I’m not afraid anymore.Not the same way.And still, when the horns sound in the distance, my pulse stutters—because I know exactly who they’re coming for.
I wake to screaming.
Not the controlled shouts of soldiers drilling in the courtyard. Not the rough banter that drifts up from the barracks at dawn.
Terror.
Raw. Ragged. The sound of men dying.
I'm out of bed before I'm fully conscious, my bare feet hitting cold stone, heart already racing. The pre-dawn light filtering through the window is wrong—too orange, too thick.
Smoke.
I stumble to the window and the world drops out from under me.
The courtyard is a battlefield.
Vorak's soldiers are fighting in tight defensive formations, shields locked, blades flashing. But they're being pushed back by a wave of men in black and silver—the Crown's colors. Theremust be fifty of them, maybe more, pouring through the main gate like ants through a breach.
Steel rings against steel. Someone screams. A body falls and doesn't get up.
