I don't want to.
The thought startles me enough that I nearly miss my footing. I force myself to lower her carefully, keeping one handon her arm until I'm certain she's steady. She sways anyway—exhaustion or fear, probably both—and doesn't look at me.
Smart girl.
A clerk materializes from the shadows—soft hands, ink-stained fingers, exactly the kind of man who's never had to kill anything—and unfurls a scroll covered in dense script.
"The terms," he intones, his voice flat with boredom. "Lord Vorak of Blackwood claims the bride Annora Vale for a term of thirty days, after which she will be returned to crown custody unharmed. Failure to comply will result in immediate forfeiture of territory and—"
"I know the terms." I step toward the stone, rolling my shoulders. The runes along my forearms are already heating, responding to the violence still singing in my veins.
Not now. Control it. Not in front of her.
The clerk's eyes flick to my arms, then away. He clears his throat. "Your hand, my lord."
I bare my palm. He produces a ceremonial blade—enchanted silver, I can smell the magic on it—and draws it across my skin in one practiced stroke.
Blood wells up, looks black in the bad light, and drips onto the stone.
The runesflare.
Magic crawls up my arm like cold fire, wrapping around bone and muscle, sinking hooks deep into marrow. The oath settles into place with a weight I can feel in my chest, a chain I've just locked around my own throat.
Thirty days. Then return her.
I'll die first.
But I don't say that out loud. Instead I force out the words of the binding, each syllable tasting like ash and iron: "By blood and stone, I bind myself to the terms of the Compact. Thirty days. No harm. Return upon the crown's demand."
A clerk clamps a silver chain around my wrist. The magic bites—cold fire sinking into bone.
The magictwists, locks tight, and settles beneath my skin like a brand.
Done.
The clerk nods, satisfied in that smug way bureaucrats have when they think they've won something. "Witnessed and sealed. The bride is yours, Lord Vorak." His gaze slides to Annora, and something oily moves behind his eyes. "Use her well."
My hand moves before I think. I have him by the throat, lifted onto his toes, claws pricking the soft skin of his neck.
"If I see you again," I say quietly, "I will remove your tongue. Am I clear?"
He makes a strangled sound that might be agreement.
I drop him.
He scuttles backward, and the Auction Mistress moves between us with the kind of false calm that speaks to long practice managing volatile lords.
"We're done here," I say, turning to Annora. She's watching me with those too-wide eyes, trying to decide if I'm her salvation or just a different kind of monster. "Come."
She follows.
Of course she does. She's terrified.
The question is:of what?
The journeyto Blackwood takes hours.
I put her on a horse—a steady bay mare that won't spook at shadows—and tell my men to form up around us. Six soldiers, all handpicked, all aware that if anyone so much aslooksat the girl wrong, I'll remove their eyes.
