Chapter 22

Rain

Mate Bonding Ceremony

The air was thick with smoke and chanting.

A thousand voices rose in perfect, bone-deep unison — a guttural hymn older than the stones beneath our feet. Drums pounded, deep and relentless, like the pulse of something ancient and long-buried, now stirring awake. Above, the night sky sagged under a curtain of black clouds, and the thin, sickle moon bled sickly silver light over the clearing.

I stood at the edge of the circle, dressed in my red dress, my skin scrubbed raw until it stung, my hair pinned with bone clasps. I might've looked clean — but inside, I felt like filth.

Every part of me screamed to run. To bolt for the woods and never look back. But my fingers clung tight around the dagger hidden beneath the folds of my skirts, the runes etched into its hilt pulsing faintly in time with the steady drumbeat, hungering for blood.

The prince never came.

Not at dusk, when the women dragged me like an animal. Not as they led me through the Hollow, past staring faces and creepy statues made of bones.

Not even when Ramus took his seat — high and terrible upon the throne of skulls, draped in red robes that looked too wet to be fabric.

And when the old monster saw me, his mouth curled in that cold, predator's grin that turned my stomach to ice.

"Come forth, my beautiful bride," Ramus called, his voice slicing through the chanting like a blade.

Hands closed around my arms, dragging me forward. I stumbled, my bare feet slipping over damp roots slick with blood and something darker. The ground reeked of old death.

I looked around, frantic, hoping — praying — to see a shadow move, to see Eric emerge from the trees, sword drawn, to tear this place apart.

But no one came.

They just watched. Their faces twisted with cruel amusement, some of them laughing. Because everyone here knew marrying King Ramus was worse than death itself.

They hauled me to the altar — a crude stone slab, black with ancient stains. Ramus raised a goblet and the gathered horde roared. The prince was there now, standing at his father's back, his expression carved from stone. But for a flicker of a heartbeat, his gaze met mine.

A signal.

A small flick of his finger toward his belt.

And there, buried in the folds of his robe — another dagger.

He had lied.

Two blades. Two assassins.

Had I been the distraction? A decoy? Or was he going to finish this himself, after all?

My pulse hammered in my ears. No time to wonder.

Ramus lifted the ceremonial dagger — a vicious, curved thing, its edge alive with black light. He began the invocation, ancient words thick with power, making the very air shudder.

I felt it. The pull. A force like unseen hands clawing at my skin, trying to rip my soul from my bones. The medallion at my throat — the one the prince had slipped me — seared hot, pulsing with each terrified beat of my heart.

The dagger rose.

The chanting hushed.

And then — a howl.

Low. Long. Distant.

Another answered.

Ramus whipped his head toward the trees. "What in the hell—"

A storm of sound tore from the forest as shapes burst from the shadows. Wolves. Huge, snarling beasts, eyes like molten gold, fur bristling. They fell upon the guards like fire on dry kindling, rending flesh from bone.

The crowd screamed.

In the chaos, the prince moved.

His blade flashed, aiming for his father's back.

But Ramus was faster.

The ancient bastard spun, seizing the prince's wrist. His face twisted in something beyond rage.

"You ungrateful little wretch."

They struggled — and gods, how was that old man still this strong? That was when I knew: if I didn't move now, it was done.

I ran.

Straight for them.

The dagger slid from my sleeve into my palm, a perfect, natural fit. Ramus turned, his cold gaze landing on me just as I drove the blade up into his heart.

There was no resistance.

The runes blazed white-hot as the dagger bit into flesh, into bone, into whatever passed for a soul inside that rotting carcass.

Ramus jerked, his mouth opening in a soundless scream, eyes wide. A darkness thick as oil gushed from the wound, his ancient blood.

The ground quaked.

The pyre ignited in unnatural blue flame.

The prince stumbled back, his face pale, blood spattered, stunned.

And then — Ramus crumbled.

Not fell.

Crumbled.

His body turned to ash, dissolving into the wind, his final scream shivering through the clearing as the bond — whatever hellish tether held this place together — shattered.

The drums stopped.

The chanting died.

The Hollow fell into a suffocating, impossible silence.

The fire still crackled on the pyre, sending twisting streaks of blue flame into the night sky. The air stank of blood and smoke. All around me, bodies lay scattered like broken dolls — guards, cultists, people who hadn't run fast enough. The wolves were gone now, their work done, leaving nothing but silence and soaked, bloodstained dirt behind them.

I stood right in the middle of it all, the dagger still in my hand. Ramus's blood clung to the blade, thick and sticky, like it didn't wanna let go. My limbs shook, the adrenaline that had carried me this far draining out of me like a tide going out. I felt… empty. Hollow, even.

And then I saw him.

The prince stood a few steps away, his face streaked with blood and soot, the blue firelight catching in his eyes. He turned, looking over what was left of the crowd. Survivors — battered, bloodied, scared outta their minds. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

Then he raised his hand.

"Kneel."

The word cracked through the clearing like a whip. For a second, everything held still. Not even the wind moved.

Then a woman — older, with a torn shawl and blood on her face — dropped to her knees. Another one followed. Then another. And like a damn chain reaction, every last one of them fell. Heads bowed. Shoulders slumped.

I felt my stomach twist.

No. No, no, no. This wasn't the plan.

He lifted his voice, and when he spoke again, it was heavier. Darker. Something sharp underneath it.

"By blood and blade, by the death of Ramus, I claim the Hollow. I am your king now."

A cheer went up. If you could call it that. More like a terrified, desperate sound people make when they know they don't have a choice. My throat tightened. My fingers gripped the dagger so tight my knuckles ached.

I stepped toward him, my voice cutting across the night.

"That wasn't the deal. You told me you didn't want this. You said you wanted to burn this place down."

He turned to face me, a slow, unreadable smile curling at his lips.

"Did I?"

My stomach dropped. A cold, sick kind of dread settled in my gut.

"You swore, damn it. You promised you'd set me free."

He laughed — low, dark, cruel.

"That was before you killed a king."

His voice softened, almost like he was talking to a child.

"They saw you, Rain. The people saw what you did. You're too valuable now. I'm sorry, but you belong to me."

I felt something in me snap. My hand tightened around the dagger's hilt.

"I belong to no one."

His face changed. The humor slid away, like a mask being stripped off. All that was left underneath was cold, hard calculation.

"I've changed my mind, little flame."

He stepped toward me. I could feel every eye in that clearing on us, nobody daring to breathe too loud.

"You'll stay. Not as a prisoner…"

He gave a cruel little smile.

"…but as my queen."

The words hit like a slap. My heart slammed against my ribs.

"I'd rather die."

His jaw clenched. For a second, I thought he might actually strike me. But he didn't. He just raised a hand and pointed to one of his soldiers — a massive brute with a scar so deep it split his face like a canyon.

"Take her."

I bolted.

Didn't think, didn't hesitate. I turned and ran, legs screaming, lungs burning. I made it maybe three steps before rough hands grabbed me from behind, yanking me back. I fought like hell, teeth bared, dagger slashing out. I felt it slice across someone's cheek, hot blood spraying my hand.

But there were too many.

Hands grabbed my wrists, my arms, my shoulders. I kicked, screamed, cursed at them all. I didn't care how many were watching.

"Lock her in my tent," the prince — no, the king — ordered, his voice cold enough to freeze bone.

"Hurt her, and I'll have your heads."

They dragged me through the mud, my boots digging trenches in the blood-soaked earth. I kept fighting. I didn't care if I died right there.

As they hauled me away, I looked back one last time.

He was still standing there by the fire. His face was blank. No anger. No grief. Just the faintest trace of cruel satisfaction.

That look stayed with me long after the blue flames vanished from sight.

The Hollow had a new king.

And me?

I'd just traded one cage for another.