Drokhar takes a step forward. His free hand reaches for me—not to restrain, but to touch. To feel the mark that ties us.
The King intercepts the movement, turning my body away.
Careful. The mating bond is powerful, but it won’t help you here. It tells you where she is, not what’s inside her. It alerts you to danger, not its source. You can feel that she’s in trouble—but you can’t feel me. Can you?
THIRTY
ARADYA
Isee the truth of it hit him. The mark burns on both our skins, calling to each other, but it can’t show him what’s happening inside my head. Can’t give him any way to fight an enemy that lives in the space between my thoughts.
“What do you want?” The words come out rough, controlled fury barely leashed.
I’ve already explained it to your mate. Peace. Closure. An end to centuries of accumulated silence.
The King pauses.
And payment. The dead were denied their final words. Someone must acknowledge that crime—must accept responsibility, pay the price that justice demands.
“You want me dead.”
I want you judged. There’s a difference, though I understand if you can’t see it. You’ve spent so long dispensing summary execution that the concept of justice must seem foreign.
Drokhar’s teeth grind together. His blade doesn’t waver.
“And her? What happens to her if I submit to your judgment?”
She becomes my voice. My permanent channel. The bridge between my realm and the living world, through which the dead will finally be heard.
The King uses my hand to gesture at the spartan room, the weapons on the walls, the life of violence that surrounds us.
Is that so terrible? She’s already dedicated her existence to speaking for the dead. I’m offering her the chance to do it on a scale she never imagined.
“She’s not a tool.”
Neither am I. But we’re both what our purposes have made us.
The King tilts my head, studying Drokhar through my borrowed gaze.
You could have been different, you know. If someone had taught you to listen instead of burn. If someone had shown you that the dead deserve voice instead of silence. You might have been her partner in this work instead of her opposite.
“Enough.” Drokhar’s voice cuts through the King’s words like his blade through dead flesh. “Release her. Now. Whatever you want from me, I’ll give it—but not while you’re wearing her like a mask.”
The King goes still.
I feel its attention sharpen, its vast consciousness focusing on Drokhar’s words. The offer he made.
You’d surrender yourself? Trade your life for hers?
“I’d do whatever it takes to get you out of her head.”
Interesting.
The King lowers to a whisper—my whisper, the register I use for channeling.
I thought you would fight. Rage. Try to cut me out with that blade you’ve used to silence so many of my subjects. Instead, you offer yourself. Willingly.
“I’m not offering anything until she’s free.”