Choose,I think.Choose freely.
Because some part of me—the part that remembers what it felt like to have autonomy stripped away—needs to know she truly wants what comes next. That she isn't simply trading one form of bondage for another.
The officiant clears his throat. "Miss Dain? Your response?"
Her throat works as she swallows hard. Bram's grip on her hand visibly tightens, knuckles whitening with possessive pressure.
"I..." Her voice wavers, then strengthens. "Well, I…"
Azrathiel. Please. I... need you.
The sound of my name ignites something primal in my chest. Not the binding of contract magic—this burns deeper, hotter, more essential than any infernal law.
She needs me. Not my power, not my interference.Me.
The shadows around my form begin to writhe with anticipation as I prepare to descend.
I step from shadow into flame.
The manifestation tears through reality like molten metal through parchment. Infernal fire erupts from the cobblestones beneath my feet, spiraling upward in columns of white-hot fury that scorch the air itself. The temperature spikes so violently that frost forms on nearby windows from the sudden contrast.
My true form unfolds in stages—first shadow, then substance, then something far beyond mortal comprehension. Seven feet of burnished obsidian skin stretched over predatory muscle, ember-veins pulsing beneath the surface like captured lightning. The chains across my shoulders and ribs blaze white-hot, marking me as both condemned and consecrated.
Wings of living shadow spread wide enough to eclipse the morning sun, casting the entire square into sudden twilight. My eyes burn gold as molten coin, fixed with absolute authority on the trembling assembly.
"This union is forbidden."
My voice rolls across the square like distant thunder, carrying the weight of infernal law behind each syllable. The wooden dais creaks ominously beneath Bram's suddenly unsteady feet.
"Under covenant magic, the infernal plane marks this union as a violation of the covenant. Any who challenge this decree will burn."
The square erupts.
Screams tear through the morning air as humans scatter in every direction, trampling decorations and overturning benches in their desperation to flee. Children wail as mothers snatch them up, pressing small faces against shoulders to shield them from my presence. Elder Corwin drops his ceremonial scroll, parchment catching fire before it hits the ground.
The dark elf witnesses fare little better. Their supernatural composure cracks like thin ice, violet eyes wide with recognition of what I truly am. One actually stumbles backward off the dais, silk robes tangling around his legs as he hits the cobblestones hard.
"Infernal Lord," someone whispers—prayer or curse, I cannot tell.
Bram staggers, his pale skin now ashen with terror. His mouth works soundlessly as he stares up at my towering form, all predatory confidence evaporated like morning mist. The violet eyes that once assessed Ilyra like livestock now dart frantically between my burning gaze and the nearest escape route.
"You cannot—this is not?—"
"Cannot?" The word drips with lethal amusement. "Mortal, I am bound by no law you comprehend. I am the law."
Vaelra collapses to her knees somewhere in the panicking crowd, hands pressed to her mouth as she rocks back and forth. Mariselle has simply fainted, crumpled in her finery like a discarded doll.
Yet through the chaos, through the terror and screaming and desperate flight, one figure remains perfectly still.
Ilyra gazes up at me with that same gentle smile she wore when I traced every curve of her body with reverent hands. Her dark eyes hold no fear—only recognition, satisfaction, and something deeper that makes the chains across my chest flare brighter.
She looks at me like I am salvation rather than damnation.
Like I am hers.
33
ILYRA