Sabine’s breath broke.
For a few stolen minutes, there were no priests. No screens. No ledgers. No crown orders or search warrants or dead brides reduced to devotional lies.
Only choice.
Only answer.
Only the terrible tenderness of wanting someone inside a place built to turn want into obedience and finding, beneath all that stone, an older rule.
Consent or nothing.
When they finally parted, both were breathing hard.
Lucien rested his forehead against hers.
“The bond changed,” he said.
“Yes.”
“If the chamber recognizes this version of it…”
“It may not be able to force the other.”
“Or it may punish us for trying.”
Sabine touched his bandaged palm.
“Then we make sure it has witnesses when it shows its teeth.”
A sound came from above.
Faint.
Metal against stone.
Lucien’s head turned.
“We have to go.”
They left the chapel in darkness.
Lucien led her back through the hidden passages, faster now. The palace seemed awake in places it had not been before. Twice they stopped for footsteps. Once Lucien pulled her into a recess so narrow she had to press against him from shoulder to hip while two wardens passed beyond the stone.
Neither of them breathed until the footsteps faded.
At the bride wing entrance, Lucien caught her wrist before she stepped away.
His face was shadowed, but his voice was clear.
“If Serast calls the final sequence before I reach you, do not kneel.”
“I know.”
“Do not give Maelor your hand.”
“I know.”
“The final vow begins through the palm. The blood. The answer. If they force one part, deny the next.”
