The parchment waited on the obsidian table like a predator.
Ink glistened.
Edges curled.
The wax seal bore Kael's sigil.
But the text inside—
It belonged to the council.
They called it a binding of loyalty.
But Elara knew better.
It was a leash.
A royal pact once reserved for the wolf king's most trusted commanders—warriors who would die before disobeying.
But she wasn't a warrior.
And this wasn't trust.
It was fear.
The contract shimmered faintly as she approached, the old magic embedded in its ink pulsing in warning.
Across the top, in gold script:
"I give my blood to the throne,my will to the kingdom,and my life to the oath."
Kael stood beside her.
His jaw locked.
His body rigid.
"They want me bound," Elara said quietly.
"They want to control you."
"You could stop them."
Kael didn't answer.
Because he couldn't.
If he interfered again, after breaking the ritual trial…
His throne would fracture.
His legitimacy would rot.
And so she stepped forward.
Picked up the ceremonial blade.
Pressed it to her palm.
"Wait," Kael said sharply.
She turned.
Met his gaze.
He shook his head.
"I'll take half."
"What?"
He walked to the table.
Rolled up his sleeve.
Picked up a second blade.
"I'll sign it too."
Elara blinked.
"This is meant to bind me."
"It's meant to silence you," Kael said. "But they won't silence us both."
Gasps echoed around the chamber.
An elder rose to object.
"You will weaken yourself—"
"I will strengthen what matters," Kael snapped. "And if the kingdom fears her voice, let it fear mine louder."
He sliced his palm.
Blood dripped onto the pact.
The parchment hissed.
Elara followed.
Cut deep.
Let her blood meet his.
The runes flared gold.
Then black.
Then vanished.
The pact was sealed.
Pain came instantly.
Like needles under the skin.
A slow, crawling venom that moved up Elara's spine and wrapped itself around her lungs.
Kael staggered.
His hand clutched the edge of the table.
"Elara," he gasped.
She collapsed to her knees.
Gasping.
Sweating.
Fingers digging into stone.
But the pain—
It was shared.
Not mirrored.
Not split.
Joined.
As if the venom had not halved itself—but reached into both of them to twist the same root.
They were bound.
Not as servant and master.
Not as ruler and consort.
But as co-sacrifices.
When she could breathe again, Kael was already kneeling beside her.
His hands trembled as he brushed sweat-soaked hair from her face.
"You idiot," she rasped.
"You bled first," he said.
"You didn't need to follow."
He cupped her face.
His thumb traced the faint echo of the collarbone tattoo.
"I'll always follow."
"Even into poison?"
He smiled—sharp, sad.
"Especially into poison."
Later, when the crowd had dispersed and the pain became a memory instead of a punishment, Elara sat with Kael in the council chamber, their fingers interlocked on the armrest between their chairs.
She studied his hand.
The scar from the pact still fresh.
Still red.
Still real.
"You've sworn a lot of things," she whispered.
He turned to her.
"But this one," he said, "I didn't swear alone."
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"I used to think you saved me."
"I did."
"No," she murmured. "You didn't pull me from the dark. You just stood still long enough for me to see I could stop running."
He was quiet for a long time.
Then whispered:
"You're not the girl I saved from the fire.You're the reason I'd burn in it again."