Page 10 of Wicked Depths

I press my palm to the contract.

The moment my skin meets the swirling magic, it surges to life, wrapping around my wrist, climbing up my arm in glowing silver script before vanishing into my skin—a brand, a mark, a binding.

The magic seals itself into my bones. The contract burns bright, then fades into nothing, absorbed into the very air around us.

It is done.

The deal is struck. I step back, dragging my eyes over Vaela’s smirking lips, the way she tilts her chin, victorious. Let her think this bargain will end when the king is nothing but a pile of bones beneath my feet. Let her believe that I will honor my side of this agreement.

She is mine now.

And I have no intention of ever letting her go.

I wave a hand, magic curling around my fingertips, and the heavy chamber door creaks open.

Morrin sweeps in, his onyx wings flaring slightly as he lands, a woven basket clutched in his talons. Inside, fresh fruit glistens like scattered gems, alongside a jug of water, the finest I allow within my walls.

Vaela lifts a brow. “Generous.”

I smirk, stepping past her, my cloak brushing against her bare shoulder as I go.

"I won’t have you dying before you’ve fulfilled your end of the deal, little siren."

Her gaze follows me, sharp and unreadable.

I stop at the door, glancing over my shoulder, my voice a whisper of fire against her skin.

"Rest well. You will need your strength."

Then, without another word, I leave her to the silence of my castle.

I stride through the dimly lit corridors of Varethorne, my boots striking against the ancient stone, the sound swallowed by the vast, empty halls. Shadows coil in the corners, creeping along the towering obsidian walls, shifting in time with the flickering sconces that barely keep the darkness at bay.

This castle has stood for centuries, carved from the very bones of the mountain it rests upon, its black stone infused with old magic. The vaulted ceilings stretch impossibly high, adorned with jagged iron chandeliers dripping with candlelight. Gothic arches frame the long hallways, their twisted designs resembling ribs, like the castle itself is a slumbering beast.

And the Sentinels guard its heart.

They stand in the periphery of my vision, silent as death, cloaked in the very shadows that birthed them. Their presence is felt rather than seen, their movements like a whisper of wind through the corridors. The faint glint of steel beneath their dark hoods is the only indication they are real—watching, waiting, always vigilant.

One steps from the darkness as I pass, inclining his head in a subtle, measured movement, his violet eyes glowing faintly beneath the heavy fabric of his hood. Another lingers at the next archway, standing motionless, a living shade carved from the void.

They do not speak.

They do not need to.

They are bound to this place, tethered to the castle’s magic as much as I am to its throne.

And they are waiting for my command.

Varethorne is not a place of warmth. It never has been.

It is a fortress. A throne of fire and shadow.

And it is mine.

I move swiftly, weaving through its winding corridors, past heavy iron doors that guard rooms filled with ancient tomes, enchanted artifacts, and things no one else should ever awaken.

It is too quiet.

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