There were no torches in the ritual chamber.
Only light that shouldn't have existed.
Cold. Flickering. Blue.
It came from the walls — lines etched into stone in symbols I'd never seen. Symbols that didn't glow… they pulsed.
Like something alive.
Something breathing beneath the surface.
I stood in the center.
Alone.
The priest who led me here said nothing. He pointed at the slab — a long, flat altar of white stone dusted with salt and silver ash.
I didn't ask what it was for.
I didn't have to.
I climbed onto it slowly.
Laid flat.
The robe was pulled aside — not torn, not rushed — as if this was all part of something sacred.
The stone was cold beneath my spine.
Not cruel.
Just final.
Hands moved across my ribs. Across my chest.
They weren't gentle. But they weren't cruel either.
They were precise.
The first mark came without ceremony.
A brand — a literal brand — made of gold and obsidian, lowered to the center of my chest.
No one told me to breathe.
So I didn't.
I just closed my eyes.
And waited.
The sound it made was soft.
Like a sigh.
And then—
fire.
Not hot.
Not wild.
Not flame.
Something deeper.
The feeling of being rewritten.
Of being made to carry a word too large for your skin.
A shape burned into muscle — slow, exact.
When it lifted, I couldn't breathe.
The room spun.
The silence stretched.
And then the pain came.
Not sharp.
Full.
Like my body had been filled with something that didn't belong.
Something that now lived beneath the skin.
I didn't see it.
I didn't have to.
I could feel the name written into my chest.
Each letter.
Each line.
Kael.
I thought it was over.
I was wrong.
There was movement at the edge of the circle.
Soft. Soundless.
And yet, the room changed.
The air turned colder.
The walls pulled in.
And I knew.
Kael had entered.
He didn't speak.
He didn't approach.
But I felt him behind me.
To the right.
Watching.
Always watching.
A second brand was placed in his hand.
But this one was different.
Thinner.
Sharper.
Surgical.
A needle of blackened silver.
Its tip glowed with a red that was not flame.
The kind of red you see behind your eyes when you close them too long.
He didn't hand it to anyone.
He didn't offer it.
He stepped forward.
And pressed it to the space just below my bellybutton.
The pain was instant.
But not because of heat.
Because it entered.
Through skin.
Through muscle.
Down.
Into bone.
The spell took root like a claw.
It didn't burn.
It hooked.
It rearranged something inside me — not with rage, but with finality.
Like a door being locked from the inside.
I gasped.
But no sound came.
Because I could feel it:
my magic — not sealed.
Not suppressed.
Erased. Rewritten.
Re-shaped.
The spell didn't stop at the seal.
It threaded into my core.
And tied itself to him.
To Kael.
I don't know how I knew that.
But I did.
As long as Kael lives… this magic remains.
As long as Kael breathes… this bond stays whole.
(And if he dies…?)
I don't remember passing out.
Only that one moment I could feel his hand — not on me, but near.
Hovering.
Then darkness took everything.
When I woke, I was dressed again.
The robe had been replaced.
My body ached — not from the surface, but from the inside.
A cold, deep ache that pulsed when I breathed.
The room was empty.
The lights gone.
Only silence remained.
I sat up slowly.
My chest stung.
I pulled the fabric down.
The mark was there.
Elegant. Small. Red-gold.
Not burned like a wound — etched, like it had always been part of me.
Kael.
Written in the old script.
Not stylized.
Not ornamental.
Just… final.
I touched it.
It pulsed beneath my fingertips.
Not heat.
Not light.
Weight.
Then I lowered my hand.
To my stomach.
Just beneath the navel, something tugged.
Inside.
Bone-deep.
It didn't hurt.
But it ached.
Like a string being pulled from far away.
A hum, like pressure behind the ribs.
And when I closed my eyes…
I felt him.
Kael.
Not in the room.
Not in the hall.
But present.
Somewhere in the palace.
Breathing.
Watching.
And now —
inside me.
I curled into myself and didn't speak.
Because there were no words left.
Not anymore.
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