The bells had not stopped since dawn. Each toll quivered through the marble floors, a pulse that answered the burn beneath Myrren’s bandaged wrist. She stood beneath the mirrored arches of the Hall of Crowns, where the Queen’s mark still throbbed like a hidden brand. The air was thick with rose ash and honeyroot, proof that what had happened before the mirror had not been a dream. Nobles gathered in restless clusters, silk and gold rustling like wind through flame. When the doors flung open, light flooded the chamber, too bright and too hot. Thane returned from the border front wreathed in sunlight and ruin.

Thane crossed the threshold as though he were the dawn itself come to demand obedience. His armor still bore soot from the Varros skirmish, streaks of blood and ash cutting through the gold. Yet the courtiers gasped not at the filth but at the blaze rising from his palms. Lightbinding shimmered faintly across his fingers, controlled, reverent and dangerous. The Queen did not rise, only inclined her head, a movement sharp enough to wound.

“My prince,” she said coolly, “Eirden did not summon fire into its halls.”

Thane ignored her. His gaze found Myrren across the chamber, and for a heartbeat the world narrowed to light and pulse and breath. His voice carried to every corner.
“Then let it burn. The spiral must be anchored before it devours us all.”

A murmur rolled through the nobles. The word spiral struck them like a contagion, whispers spreading, layered with perfume and panic. Spiral craft. Silent Veil rites. Her mark glows still.

Myrren felt every eye turn toward her. Beneath her sleeve, the branded spiral at her wrist seared hotter, alive and answering Thane’s words. The floor itself shimmered faintly; the marble veins glowed in concentric arcs, as though remembering older ceremonies.

He strode forward, unflinching. “Mistress Vale,” he said, and though his voice was reverent, the command in it was unmistakable. “Before the court of Eirden, I offer bond and vow. Marry me, and the rite will close the loop. Your blood will anchor the spiral; your name will cleanse the debt of shadows.”

Gasps. One noblewoman fainted. Another hissed a prayer.

Myrren’s breath caught. This was no proposal; it was a command wrapped in devotion, a vow forged from fear. Her instincts screamed to run, yet his eyes, bright and unyielding, made running impossible.

The Queen’s voice slid through the uproar like silk over steel. “Anchor the spiral,” she repeated, tasting the phrase. “How ancient of you, Thane. Have you forgotten the price of that rite?”

“I remember every price.” His eyes never left Myrren. “If she accepts, the shadows release her. If she refuses, they claim the entire court.”

The murmur rose to chaos. Nobles shouted, some demanding proof, others urging acceptance. Guards pressed forward, unsure whether to protect the prince or the scentcrafter. The heat of Thane’s lightbinding pressed against her skin like sunlight through glass.

Beneath the din, Myrren’s spiral token pulsed once, twice, three times, then went still as if the world held its breath.

She whispered his name, too softly for any but him to hear. “Thane… what have you done?”

He smiled, weary and radiant. “Saved you. Again.”

The floor flared with light, and the court broke into screams.

Seliora was the first to recover from the uproar. She rose with the grace of a blade being unsheathed, silver gown cutting through the swirl of courtiers. “Your Highness,” she said evenly, voice carrying over the clamor, “you play at salvation with rites older than the crown itself. Do you even remember how they end?”

Thane’s light flickered. “With balance restored.”

“With sacrifice,” Seliora corrected. Her gaze slid to Myrren, soft, pitiful and lethal. “If she says yes, she becomes the vessel that holds your light. Every shadow debt you have gathered, every life burned in your name, she will bear it. And if she refuses…” Her eyes swept the nobles. “Then Eirden will demand a trial. For her, for the spiral, for all of us.”

The word trial struck like a thrown dagger. Courtiers began hissing it in echo, trial, trial, a chant in perfume and panic. Scribes scurried from alcoves with scrolls already inked, their quills trembling. The smell of wax and old parchment flooded the hall; petitions would be written before the hour ended.

Myrren’s throat burned. She felt the tether tug, distant, aching, Corven’s presence flaring somewhere beyond the chamber, a shadow answering light. Beneath her ribs, the pulse of it fought Thane’s heat. If she moved, she feared both men would feel it.

“Enough.” The Queen’s voice sliced through the noise. “Let the court remember, this is not a wedding hall.” Her tone was ice over flame. “Prince Thane, your father still breathes, however faintly. You cannot claim vows before a dying king’s throne.”

Thane bowed his head, though defiance radiated from him. “Then I claim them before the spiral itself.”

A shudder rippled through the chamber as light raced along the mirrored walls, reflecting the golden flare of his binding. Myrren felt the burn beneath her bandage flare in answer, the spiral at her wrist glowing through linen like a coal through snow.

Seliora stepped closer to her. The motion looked like comfort; only Myrren heard the warning beneath.
“Listen to me. Say yes, and you lose him.”
Her glance flicked toward the shadowed balconies where Corven stood half-seen. “Say no, and they will hang you before the week ends.”

The words stole Myrren’s breath. She wanted to answer, to ask what choice remained, but the tether pulled harder, Corven’s silhouette twitching as if in pain. His hand flexed once against the railing, a silent plea.

The Queen’s gaze tracked the motion, understanding flickering like a knife’s reflection. “Ah,” she murmured, “so the shadow still claims her.”

Gasps followed. One noble cried out, “Silent Veil mark! The tether is alive!”

Guards shifted uneasily. Someone whispered, “Summon the Seers, let them test her for spiral craft.”

The Queen raised a hand. “No. Let her speak.”

Every sound vanished. Even the bells outside seemed to still.

Myrren’s voice came raw and quiet. “If I speak, I condemn one of you. If I stay silent, you will destroy us all.”

Thane stepped forward, desperation cracking his calm. “Then bind yourself to me, Myrren. Let the spiral end here. Let me burn so you do not have to.”

The words should have sounded like mercy. Instead they reeked of smoke and inevitability.

Seliora’s whisper brushed Myrren’s ear once more. “You cannot save both light and shadow. Choose which death you can live with.”

Light flared again. Shadow trembled. Myrren could taste iron in the air. Between them, the spiral pulsed once, heartbeat, omen, promise.

The chamber smelled of fire and frost. Light dripped from Thane’s hands, scattering across marble that still shimmered faintly with the spiral’s glow. Myrren could feel the court’s breath around her, hundreds of hearts beating against the same fear.

She turned toward the dais. “You all think a marriage will save you. But the spiral isn’t a chain you can bless. It’s a wound that remembers.”

The nobles recoiled. Aedric spat, “Blasphemy. She speaks like the Veil.”

“Because she’s seen what the rest of you pretend not to.” The voice came from the shadows above. Corven stepped forward, his presence pulling the light thin, the air cooling with every word. “You would bind her to fire when she already bleeds shadow. Do you know what happens when light and shadow share the same vessel?”

The Queen’s eyes gleamed. “Yes,” she said softly. “Equilibrium. Or destruction. Depending on which burns first.”

Thane rounded on him, flame seething around his wrist. “You forfeit your right to speak, oath-breaker.”

Corven’s answering smile was small and sorrowful. “And you, golden prince, forfeit your right to love.” The tether between them thrummed, sharp enough that even the crowd seemed to feel the ache of it. Myrren clutched her sleeve as the spiral brand pulsed red beneath the cloth.

“Stop,” she gasped, but the sound only fed the echo. Light surged. Shadow coiled. For a heartbeat, the spiral carved across the floor flared alive, an ancient sigil answering its two anchors.

Seliora seized Myrren’s arm, dragging her back before the circle of light could consume her. “Do you see now?” she hissed. “This is why the prophecy repeats. Their devotion is poison, their love the catalyst.”

The Queen rose. Every torch bent toward her, flames bowing like courtiers. “Enough,” she said, and even Thane’s magic gutted. “You speak of wounds and chains and prophecy, yet none of you can end it. The spiral feeds on indecision.” Her gaze speared Myrren. “So choose.”

Myrren’s breath trembled. “There must be another way.”

The Queen descended the steps, each footfall measured as a heartbeat. “Then find it,” she whispered, so close Myrren smelled the myrrh and ash on her skin, “before they did.”

Thunder cracked beyond the windows. The lightbinding flickered out. Shadows folded back into Corven’s silhouette. For one impossible instant, Myrren felt both of them tethered to her pulse, one heartbeat shared between flame and night.

The floor went dark, and the bells began tolling again.