chapter 20

Kael was halfway to the exit tunnel when her voice stopped him.

"Wait."

He turned.

Veyra stood at the center of the ring again, her weapon gone, her gauntlet off. She held a dagger—not ceremonial, not decorative. A short, utilitarian blade shaped like it had killed kings by accident.

Kael raised an eyebrow. "This part of the training too?"

"No," she said.

She drew the edge across her own palm in one clean, fluid motion.

Blood welled up—thick, dark, laced with golden motes that shimmered faintly before sinking into her skin again.

Then she tossed the dagger to him.

Kael caught it by the handle. It was warm. Alive.

"Cut yours," she said.

He stared at her. "You want a blood bond?"

"Don't be stupid," Veyra snapped. "I don't do bonds. This isn't divine. This is warcraft. Mortal. Pre-pantheon."

She took a step closer.

"I mark the ones I train. So if they die, it means they died in a real fight—not choking on their own fear in the dirt. You take my mark, I own your outcome. You win, I take the credit. You lose, I collect the memory."

Kael considered.

Then he drew the blade across his palm.

Blood flowed freely. Dark red. No gold. Just Kael.

They pressed their hands together, palm to palm.

The blood hissed where it met.

Between their hands, on the floor, a square of ancient blood-iron glowed faintly. A symbol formed: half a broken sword, half a flame.

When they broke apart, it remained—seared into the stone.

Veyra flexed her fingers. "You're mine now."

Kael licked his lips. "That supposed to be threatening or flirtatious?"

"Yes," she said, already walking away.

Kael looked down at the mark. Then back at her receding form.

The Knife murmured at his side. "This is not a pact of loyalty."

"No," Kael said. "It's a pact of ownership. And I'm not the one holding the leash."

He turned and walked into the dark.

The symbol on the floor pulsed behind him—once. Twice.

Then faded.