Page 27 of Orc’s Gallows

Era’s blind eyes flick toward him. Her expression shifts—not quite surprise, but close.

“You marked her.” Not a question. “The old way. Blood and magic and permanent binding.”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ve complicated things considerably.” Era gathers her cards with methodical precision. “The Judge can’t claim what’s already claimed. Orc mating magic is older than wrongful death, older than the accumulated centuries of execution. It supersedes lesser bindings. The Execution Hall’s wards offer no such protection—they were built to suppress what practitioners do with death magic. The Judge doesn’t use death magic. It is death magic, and there is nothing for a suppression ward to grip.”

Relief floods through me, sharp and immediate.

“But.” Era’s words carry warning. “The claiming doesn’t protect you from the Judge’s influence. It can still reach you. Still speak to you. Still try to convince you to break the mating bond willingly.”

“I wouldn’t⁠—”

“You might.” Her blind gaze pins me in place. “The Judge is patient. Persuasive. It has centuries of wrongful death to draw upon, centuries of injustice to use as leverage. It will show you things. Make you feel things. Convince you that breaking the mating bond is the only way to save everyone you love.”

Breaking the claiming bond. I hadn’t considered that possibility. Hadn’t thought about what it would take to sever the claiming Brannok seared into my skin.

“Can the bond be broken?” The question comes out firmer than I feel.

“Everything can be broken.” Era stands, tucking her cards into a pocket of her worn dress. “But breaking a mating bond requires both parties to agree. Both must want the separation. Both must perform the ritual.” She pauses at the edge of the table. “If the Judge convinces you to want that separation—truly want it—then your Warden’s desire to keep you won’t matter.”

Brannok’s hand closes on my shoulder. Not restraining. Grounding. The claiming sigil throbs where his fingers rest near it, heat spreading through my chest.

“That won’t happen.” His words are absolute. Certain.

Era smiles, but it doesn’t reach her blind eyes. “You sound very sure. I hope you’re right.” She turns toward the door. “The Judge has been dormant since the claiming. Your attack on the platform disrupted its gathering, forced it to retreat and rebuild. But it won’t stay dormant forever. Days. Weeks at most. Then it will try again.”

“And when it does?”

“Pray that your claiming holds strong enough to resist.” She pauses at the threshold, and something moves across her blind face—a hesitation, quickly suppressed. “There is a way to end it. But I won’t tell you yet.”

“Won’t?”

“Knowing how to destroy it before you understand what you’re truly facing would be like putting a noose in the hands of someone who’s never tied a knot.” She opens the door. “You’ll come back to me when you’re ready. I’ll know when that is.”

The door closes behind her.

I sit at the table, staring at the spot where Era’s cards lay moments ago. The Last Drop feels smaller now, the walls pressing in, the weight of centuries pressing down.

Brannok’s hand is still on my shoulder. The constancy of his touch anchors me when everything else seems to be spinning.

“She’s wrong.” His words are low. Meant only for me.

“About what?”

“About the bond breaking.” His fingers tighten briefly before releasing. “I’m not letting you go. Not for the Judge. Not for the council. Not for anything.”

I should argue. Should remind him that we’ve known each other less than a week, that a brand seared in desperation isn’t the same as a chosen claim, that he has no idea what he’s promised.

Instead, I press my hand over the claiming sigil on my collarbone and feel the heat of his brand thrum beneath my palm.

“Then we’d better make sure I don’t give it any reason to try.”

The dream comes that night.

I’m standing in a courtroom made of bones.

The walls are ribcages, interlocking arches of human and orc remains that curve upward into a vaulted ceiling. The floor is paved with skulls, each one bearing the face of someone I recognize—condemned prisoners whose executions I attended, whose deaths I fed upon, whose endings sustained me for one more day.