Chapter 1

Arvyn

Diplomacy. 

I have heard the word my entire life. My mother speaks it like a prayer, my father like a warning. 

Peace is a blade you must hold by the handle, not the edge, she likes to say. He prefers: Diplomacy is simply war spoken slowly.

Both of them told me to keep my temper today.

And so, naturally, my temper is already a step ahead of me.

The rival coven’s market is a sprawling, open courtyard carved from dark stone, banners snapping overhead in the cold wind. Stalls lined in neat rows. Merchants shouting. Metals and silks glinting. The scent of iron and spiced wine and… blood.

I travel with a diplomatic envoy—two scholars, a diplomat, and three guards—all of whom are older, slower, and excessively concerned with the proper forms. I am here to “observe.” Not to act. Not to negotiate. Certainly not to challenge.

I can already hear Soryn’s voice in my skull: You are a spark. Try not to ignite anything today.

And Mira’s, softer: Arvyn, listen first. Act second.

I mean to. I always mean to.

But then—

I see her.

She stands among a line of enslaved humans at the far end of the courtyard—thin, wrists bound, hair tangled from travel and rough handling. And yet she stands like a spear driven into the earth. Straight. Untouched. Unbroken.

Her eyes—sharp green, bright even against dust and bruising—meet mine across the distance.

Something hits me—hard enough that my breath stutters. A crack under my ribs. A flare of heat that rushes through every vein and nerve. My heart slams into a rhythm that is not my own—and yet, is.

Mate.

The word is not spoken. It is not thought. It simply is.

My feet move before the envoy notices I’ve left.

I cross the courtyard as though pulled by a hook through my chest. The noise of the market dims, drowned beneath the rush of blood. The closer I get, the sharper everything becomes—her scent, salt and wind and something like crushed leaves; her posture, rigid with tension; her eyes, bright with fury.

She sees me coming and does not look away. Most enslaved humans do. They lower their heads, as instructed. She meets my gaze like a blade meeting another blade.

I stop before her.

She speaks first.

“If you’re buying,” she says, voice rough but steady, “don’t pretend you’re saving.”

Her defiance hits me like a blow to the sternum—because she has no idea what she is to me. What fate just stitched between us. What fire roars against my ribs.

I swallow. Words feel clumsy on my tongue.

“I—” I try again. “What is your name?”

Her eyes narrow. “Evalie.”

Evalie. The name fits her. Sharp. Clear.

The merchant beside her sees my armor—my crest—and brightens like a vulture spotting fresh meat.

“Ah! Young prince of the Mira-Soryn line,” he says, bowing with a flourish that stinks of practiced greed. “A fine eye you have. She’s one of my strongest—”

“She’s not yours,” I say before I can stop myself.

The merchant blinks. “My lord, she is very much—”

“She is not,” I repeat, voice low. My blood is hot. Loud. Every instinct urges me forward—claim, protect, defend. It is instinctive, ancient, written in the marrow of Vrakken bone.

But Evalie’s jaw tightens. Not in gratitude.

In resentment.

She steps slightly back—not from fear, but from making space between us.

“I don’t belong to you either,” she says, voice cool.

The words land with perfect precision. A warning. A promise. A line drawn.

The mate-bond thrashes inside me—raw, insistent—but I force it still. She does not know. She does not feel it. Not yet. Not fully. For Vrakken, mate-bond strikes like lightning. For humans…it blooms like a bruise. Slow. Painful. Earned.

And chains still circle her wrists.

Just looking at them makes my vision flicker pale-silver at the edges. The Purna part of me—my mother’s blood, my grandmother’s legacy—stirs with old, dangerous power.

I clench my fists until my scars ache.

The envoy reaches me at last, breathless and flustered. Our diplomat tries to laugh lightly. “Prince Arvyn, perhaps we should focus on the negotiations we came for—”

“No,” I say, without taking my eyes from Evalie’s. “She comes with us.”

The diplomat pales. “That—would imply purchase, which would imply ownership, which—given your parents’ reforms—would imply political intent, which—”

“I don’t own people,” I snap. “I free them.”

Evalie’s eyes flicker—surprise, then something like… confusion. No belief. Not yet. She has no reason to expect mercy from Vrakken. Or from anyone.

The merchant tuts. “If your coven wants freedom so much, you may buy up every human here. I do not refuse coin.”

Coin. Blood. Politics.

Every word tastes foul.

Evalie watches me, wary but unwavering. She is not afraid of me. She is afraid of what being wanted might mean.

I step closer—not touching her—just close enough that only she hears me.

“I don’t want to cage you,” I say, voice low. “I want you safe. That is all.”

Her breath catches—not soft, but sharp—as if my words hit where her armor thins.

She looks away first.

Not in surrender. In survival.

“I don’t need saving,” she says.

“I know,” I answer. “But I need you alive.”

She goes still at that. Not melting. Not softening. But something in her posture shifts—an acknowledgement.

A flicker.

The envoy murmurs urgently behind me. “Prince Arvyn, your parents gave explicit instructions—do not intervene in market transactions today. We are here to keep peace, not provoke a dispute.”

Yes. I know that. I know that with every instinct that tries to restrain me.

But I also know this:

If I walk away, I will never breathe right again.

This is not a desire. Not pity. Not impulse.

This is the bond that shaped the history of my bloodline. This is the fire that forged Mira and Solenne before her. This is the inheritance I was born into.

If I leave her here, I betray everything I am—and everything I will become.

I turn fully to the merchant.

“What is your price?”

He names a number so high the diplomat makes a strangled sound.

I don’t blink. “Done.”

The envoy hisses. “Arvyn—”

“Record it,” I say, my voice not loud but absolute. “On my authority.”

The diplomat looks like he might faint, but he nods. Slowly. Reluctantly. Because he knows:

My word carries my parents’ weight.

The merchant bows again, pleased beyond measure. “Of course, of course. I will prepare the release papers immediately. Kindly wait while I fetch—”

“No,” I say.

Evalie lifts her eyes to mine again.

I don’t touch her. I only stand beside her, so close that our shoulders almost brush. So close she can feel that I will not leave.

“I will wait,” I say. “With her.”

The envoy retreats to handle negotiations. The merchant scurries off. The crowd moves around us like a river parting around a stone.

Evalie speaks again—soft enough only I hear.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

I turn to her. “Why?”

“Because now,” she says, voice steady but quiet, “everything that happens next is on you.”

I exhale once. Slow.

“Then I’ll face it,” I say.

She studies me—not impressed, not grateful—just… searching.

And for the first time, a shadow of a different expression crosses her face.

Not fear. Not anger.

Recognition. As if some part of her—deep, hidden—felt the bond thrumming beneath her skin.

Not fully.

But enough.

Enough to change everything.