I bite back a scoff, forcing my expression neutral as we continue through the settlement.
We stop every few meters. Bram exchanges pleasantries with merchants, nods at laborers, plays the benevolent overseer withpracticed ease. Each time, his hand remains possessive on my arm.
A cluster of younger girls watches from beside the well. Their eyes track me with something that makes my chest ache.
Awe. Envy.
One whispers to another, giggling behind her hand while staring at Bram's fine clothes and controlled elegance.
They shouldn't want this.
They shouldn't look at me like I've achieved something worth celebrating. Like being sold off to some ancient elven man who sees them as decorative livestock is an aspiration. They should want independence—real partnerships built on choice, not necessity. The kind of love my parents had before my mother died.
Bram stops again, this time speaking with an elder about trade quotas.
I stand silent, smiling when expected, nodding when prompted.
But beneath the performance, certainty anchors me.
This marriage isn't happening.
Azrathiel will help me dismantle it piece by piece until public opinion shifts and Bram loses interest or leverage. And if somehow everything fails—if the contract isn't enough—I can order Azrathiel to kill him outright and disappear somewhere new.
The thought steadies my breathing.
Except... starting over means abandoning what my parents built. What every human family here fought to secure. Life in Protheka isn't kind to our kind—we're outnumbered, controlled, vulnerable to dark elf whims. What exists in this settlement is rare. Hard-won.
My father worked himself into an early grave to maintain it.
I won't throw that away unless there's no other option.
Here, at least, I have a foundation. A house with my name still attached to it. Neighbors who remember my family with respect. If I can outlast Vaelra and Mariselle, if I can make Bram leave without burning every bridge behind him, I'll still have something.
Somewhere new is unpredictable. Unknown.
Here I have a shot.
Bram's grip shifts, drawing me closer as we approach another cluster of onlookers.
"Smile wider," he whispers.
I do.
But I picture Azrathiel's ember-veined hands instead—steady, possessive in an entirely different way.
Soon.
Bram stops in the market square where a pair of merchants lean against stacked crates, discussing shipment delays. He releases my arm just long enough to gesture broadly at the settlement around us.
"The ceremony will be held here," he announces, voice carrying. "Open air. Public witness. A proper union between our peoples."
The merchants nod respectfully, offering congratulations that sound rehearsed.
Bram continues, detailing arrangements—imported wine, musicians from the Undercity, seating for settlement leaders and dark elf dignitaries alike. Each word drips with self-satisfaction.
I stand silent, hands folded.
Movement catches my peripheral vision. Mariselle sidles closer, that saccharine smile plastered across her face—the one she wears when Vaelra's watching but venom's already on her tongue.