You Belong to Hawkrige

Sleep was a country she could no longer visit. After her vow in the cracked mirror, Aisling had returned to the main room, not to seek comfort, but to stand watch. She was a soldier now, and this ruined cottage was her trench. She had a promise to keep, and a war to plan.

Her father had tried to mend the door, propping a heavy table against the splintered frame—a pathetic defense against a world that had already broken in. He now sat slumped by the cold hearth, dozing fitfully. Her mother sat ramrod straight in her chair, her eyes open and staring into the middle distance, lost in a haunted past. Eireen was a small, still lump under a blanket on the settee, her breathing shallow.

The air was thick with the silence of unspoken fears.

It was in the deepest hour of the night, when the moon had bled all its silver onto the fog-shrouded woods, that the sound came. Not a knock this time, but the crunch of wheels on the muddy track outside, the jingle of a harness, the soft snort of horses. It was the sound of wealth, of power arriving to collect its due.

Tavien startled awake, his eyes wide with alarm. "They're here."

Elenya's hands tightened in her lap, the only sign of her inner turmoil.

"Stay there," Aisling commanded, her voice calm and clear. Her vow in the mirror had forged something new in her—a core of ice around the fire of her anger. She would not cower. She would not hide. She had made this her choice.

She walked to the broken door and pushed aside the table. The night air that rushed in was cold and clean, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere within. Two figures detached themselves from the mist, coalescing from the gloom like specters. Kylian Hawkrige and his ever-present shadow, Cedric.

Kylian was dressed as impeccably as before, a long coat of black wool over his silks. The cold didn't seem to touch him. He offered Aisling a smile that did not reach his piercing blue eyes.

"Punctuality," he said, his voice a low murmur that still managed to carry. "An admirable trait in a future bride."

"I am not your bride yet," Aisling countered, stepping aside to let them pass but not yielding an inch of ground in her posture. "And I was not waiting for you. I was ensuring my family was not set upon by wolves."

Kylian's gaze swept over her, a flicker of genuine amusement in their depths. "An important distinction. Though I assure you, the wolves of Westmarch know better than to hunt on Hawkrige territory."

He and Cedric entered the cottage, their presence immediately shrinking the space, their elegance a mockery of the squalor around them.

"The contract," Cedric said, his voice as crisp and emotionless as a legal document. He held a roll of heavy, cream-colored vellum tied with a black ribbon.

Her father scrambled to his feet. "Yes, yes, of course. Here." He began clearing the clutter from the main table—a half-empty bottle of wine, a plate with crumbs, a candlestick. His movements were jerky, eager to please, and Aisling felt a fresh wave of resentment.

Cedric laid the vellum on the table and untied the ribbon. It unrolled with a soft, heavy sigh, the script within as elegant and sharp as a razor. It was written in a dark, shimmering ink that seemed to shift in the candlelight.

"You'll want to read the terms, I imagine," Kylian said, gesturing to the document with a casual wave of his hand. He moved to stand by the hearth, leaning against the mantelpiece, an effortless lord in a peasant's hovel.

Aisling stepped forward, her eyes scanning the flowing script. Her parents hovered behind her, a pair of ghosts at her own funeral. The language was archaic, full of clauses about protection, provision, and patronage. But woven through the legal jargon were words that made her skin crawl. Words like allegiance, vassalage, and union.

"This speaks of a 'sacred and binding union'," Aisling read aloud, her finger tracing the line, careful not to touch the strange ink. "You called this a marriage in name only."

"All marriages are sacred and binding unions, my dear," Kylian replied smoothly. "Even the pretend ones. It must be official, for the Council's sake. And for the sake of the old laws."

"The old laws," she repeated, her gaze lifting to meet his. "The ones that govern your kind."

"The ones that govern us all," he corrected gently. "Blood, bone, and magic. They are far older and more powerful than the Council's petty rules. This contract honors them. It must, to have any real power."

"It says here," she continued, her voice sharp, "that I will be under the 'exclusive protection and authority' of House Hawkrige. 'Protection' sounds a great deal like 'ownership' when written in this ink, my lord."

A slow smile played on Kylian's lips. He pushed himself off the mantelpiece and walked toward the table, his movements silent, predatory. He stopped on the other side, leaning forward on his hands, bringing his face closer to hers over the expanse of the contract. The candlelight carved shadows under his cheekbones, making his eyes seem to burn brighter.

"Do you know what happens to beautiful, rare things left unprotected in a place like Westmarch, Aisling?" he asked, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "They are stolen. They are broken. Or they are consumed." He held her gaze. "I am offering you the protection of the most dangerous predator in the forest. Is that not a form of freedom?"

"Freedom?" she scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her. "That is the word a wolf gives to the sheep when he promises to kill all the other wolves."

His smile widened, and for the first time, she saw a genuine spark of delight in his eyes. He was enjoying this. The fight in her, the defiance—it was a game to him.

"What a clever sheep," he purred. "But you are no sheep, are you? You are something else entirely." He straightened up. "The terms are the terms. They are ironclad and non-negotiable. They will keep your family safe and your name clean. All it requires is your signature."

Cedric produced a small, elegant silver case and opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of dark velvet, were not a quill and inkwell, but a single, sharp stylus fashioned from obsidian, and a small, wickedly sharp silver knife.

"This contract is not bound in common ink," Cedric stated, his voice flat. "It is a blood pact. A drop of your blood is required to seal it."

Aisling's heart hammered against her ribs. Blood magic. The oldest and most dangerous kind. The stories whispered in Cinderglen were full of such tales, of deals made with the old nobility that could never be unmade.

"Aisling, please," her father whispered, his voice trembling. "Just sign it. For Eireen."

She glanced back at her sister, still asleep, her face peaceful for the first time all night. For Eireen. This was her choice. Her sacrifice. She would not show them her fear.

She turned back to the table and held out her hand, palm up. "Then let us be done with it."

Kylian's eyes met hers, a silent challenge passing between them. He picked up the small silver knife. He did not ask Cedric to do it. He rounded the table and stood before her, so close she could feel a strange cold radiating from his body. He took her hand.

His touch was like ice. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up her arm. His skin was impossibly smooth, like polished marble, but his grip was like steel. He held her gaze as he turned her hand over, his thumb gently brushing the center of her palm. Her breath hitched.

With a quick, precise movement, he pressed the tip of the silver knife to the pad of her index finger. It was a brief, sharp sting. A single, perfect drop of crimson welled on her skin, shockingly bright against her pale flesh and the cold silver of the blade.

He released her finger and took the obsidian stylus from Cedric. He dipped its tip into the droplet of her blood. Then, he offered it to her.

"Your name," Kylian said softly. "Here." He pointed to the empty line at the bottom of the vellum. Aisling Marielle Rutherford.

Her hand was shaking, but she took the stylus. Its surface was cold and smooth. She leaned over the contract, the scent of old parchment and something metallic rising to meet her. With a deep breath, she pressed the tip to the vellum.

The moment it touched the surface, a shockwave of energy, of cold fire, sizzled through the stylus, up her arm, and down her spine. It was an invasive, intimate feeling, as if a thread of ice and lightning was weaving itself into the very core of her being. The ink of her name glowed with a brief, ruby-red light before settling back into shimmering black.

She gasped, pulling her hand back as if burned.

"It is done," Cedric announced.

But it wasn't. An intense, burning sensation erupted in the palm of the hand Kylian had held. She looked down, her heart seizing. There, on her skin, a mark was etching itself into existence. Fine, silvery lines appeared as if drawn by an invisible needle, searing themselves into her flesh. They formed a complex, elegant sigil—a stylized hawk with its wings unfurled, entangled with thorny, blooming roses. The crest of House Hawkrige.

It was a brand.

Aisling stared at it, a wave of violation and horror washing over her. This was not just a signature. This was a claim.

Kylian gently took her hand again, his fingers tracing the outline of the fresh, silvery mark. The burning subsided to a dull, tingling ache.

"There now," he murmured, his voice laced with a possessive satisfaction that made her blood run cold. "You belong to Hawkrige. And we always, always, protect what is ours."