The dark pressed in like a second skin.
Sylvera's wrists burned where the cuffs bit deep, slick with blood and magic. Every time she pulled, the runes hissed, flaring hot enough to sear her flesh. She bit down on the gag to smother the cry. She would not give him the sound.
The carriage lurched again, a wet, sickening motion—not wheels turning, but something crawling. She felt it in the floor beneath her, pulsing like a heartbeat. Warmth soaked through her skirts. The walls swelled once, then contracted in a slow rhythm that wasn't wood breathing—because wood doesn't breathe.
'Gods… it's alive… really…'
The stench curled around her—blood gone sweet with rot, the metallic tang of magic, and something older, something fouler that burned her throat raw.
'Don't scream. Don't give him that.'
A low chuckle broke the silence.
"Impressive," Lorian murmured.
Her gaze jerked up.
He lounged across from her, a king draped in shadows. His golden armour was gone, replaced by black—fine, soft, and soaked at the cuffs with someone's blood. The faint torchlight leaking through the cracks cut sharp lines over his face, catching on the silver gleam in his eyes. They glowed like a beast in the dark.
In his hand—a dagger. Small. Elegant. Deadly. He twirled it lazily, then leaned forward. The blade caught the light as it rose, slow, deliberate, until it hovered just under her chin.
"Don't look so grim," he said softly, his voice a velvet rasp. "You should feel honoured."
He tilted the blade, tracing the line of her throat, down—slow, obscene—over the hollow of her collarbone. Her pulse slammed so hard it hurt.
"Out of all the witches in my kingdom…" His breath brushed her cheek, warm and dark. "…you caught my eye."
She didn't move. Didn't flinch. Her jaw locked, her fury a blade she held behind her teeth.
The dagger stilled flat against her chest, pressing lightly where her heart thundered. Lorian's smile curved like a blade.
"Do you know what these cuffs are made of?" His gaze dropped to her bound wrists, then back to her face. He didn't wait for an answer.
"The bones of the last witch who thought she could leave me."
Her stomach hollowed. Heat scalded her lungs, choking her with rage.
The carriage jolted violently, throwing her against the wall. The floor shivered under her spine like a living thing savouring the weight of her.
Outside, the trees blurred by—but they weren't green anymore. Their bark was blackened, limbs twisted into clawed hands scraping against the sky. The moon dripped red, bleeding into clouds that curled like smoke.
Sylvera dragged air through her gag in short, sharp gulps. The cuffs burned. Her wrists were raw meat. She didn't care. She pulled anyway. Again. Again.
Lorian watched her like a man studying scripture. Calm. Certain. Hungry.
"You'll never break them," he said lazily, tapping the dagger against his knee. "Every mile we travel, you belong to me a little more."
She glared at him through the dark, fire sparking behind the ice of her fury. If looks could kill, the dagger would've been in his throat.
His smile deepened, slow and sinful.
"Good," he murmured, voice sliding like smoke. "Keep fighting. It makes me want you more."
Then—
Scritch.
The sound crawled down the roof. Slow. Sharp. Like claws dragging over bone.
Sylvera froze.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
Something was on the carriage. Circling. Waiting.
Her pulse leapt wild. She strained to listen past the pounding in her ears.
Lorian didn't move. He just tipped his head back, the faintest curve touching his mouth. And then he spoke, soft and sweet, like a lover greeting an old friend:
"Right on time."
The scraping grew louder, dragging slow circles overhead, until it stopped—directly above her.
Her breath shattered against the gag.
Lorian leaned forward, his dagger resting lightly on her thigh now, his gaze locking hers like chains forged from silver fire.
"You'll meet them soon," he whispered, and his smile burned through the dark. "They've been waiting for you."
The carriage slowed.
Chains clanked. A lock screamed.
Light split the dark as the door groaned open, torchfire spilling like blood. Sylvera blinked against the glare—and choked.
They weren't in Blackthorn anymore.
The world outside was wrong.
Jagged stone fangs tore the earth. Trees stood twisted and blackened, their limbs warped like bodies mid-scream. Above them, a castle reared high—built of obsidian stone veined with pulsing red, like a heart petrified mid-beat. The sky bled crimson behind spires crowned with bone.
Magic hung thick as smoke, pressing into her lungs with every breath.
Lorian slid the dagger back into his belt. Then, with obscene ease, he scooped her up. His arms locked like iron, yet his touch was disturbingly gentle, as if he were carrying a bride instead of a prize ripped from the edge of the world.
Her body thrashed once, hard. The gag bit her tongue. Her nails carved bloody crescents into her own palms.
He only smiled.
"Easy," he murmured, warm breath curling against her ear as he stepped into the night. "The court doesn't like when their gifts are bruised."
The air outside hit like a wall—damp stone, rust, and something sweeter. Sickly sweet. Rot masquerading as flowers.
And then—she saw them.
The court.
They waited in silence, a tapestry of nightmares stitched from human ruin.
A duke stood nearest—stomach split wide, crudely stitched with black cord, but the wound still leaked, thick ichor pooling at his boots. Behind him, women glided like wraiths, faces locked in porcelain masks fused to bone, their eye-slits bleeding faint trails of red like tears.
The guards were worse. Armour fused to flesh, plates veined with something that pulsed faintly—alive, whispering beneath steel.
Every head turned toward her.
And the whispers began.
"Fresh meat…" hissed one voice, thin as a blade.
"Pretty witch…" purred another, slick as venom.
"How long will she scream?"
The words crawled over her skin like chains of ice, wrapping, tightening.
Sylvera's heart rammed her ribs. The ropes cut deeper, raw and wet, but she dragged her hands hard enough to blister. She would not break.
Lorian's fingers tightened on her waist, anchoring her against the solid wall of his body. His mouth dipped to her ear, his voice curling like smoke, sweet and lethal.
"Welcome," he whispered. "To your new forever."
Her stomach turned to stone.
And then he smiled against her hair, his words slicing clean through the night: "This isn't where you die, Sylvera." A pause. Low. Certain. "This is where you become mine."
Her lungs burned, her blood screamed, but her soul—her soul spat fire.
'Not yet. Not ever.'