The first thing she noticed was the smell.
Not blood this time — not yet.
Ash.
Faint. Clean. Cold.
Yue stirred slowly, the ache in her limbs familiar now, like a cruel friend. Her skin felt tight where wounds had begun to scab. Her lips were dry. Her throat burned. And the weight in her stomach — low, silent, steady — hadn't left.
She opened her eyes.
This wasn't the ruin.
She lay on a platform of polished stone carved into the shape of an open flower — petals wide, rimmed in silver. Around her, the walls rose in a gentle curve, molded from dark obsidian veined with white lines like bone. The ceiling was domed, cracked at the top. Moonlight streamed through in a perfect ring, illuminating the floor — which was not flat, but carved in relief.
Dozens of figures danced across the stone — wolf, serpent, phoenix, crane — caught in various poses of battle and devotion. The art was old. Older than memory.
She sat up sharply.
Her robe had changed.
It was clean. Pale blue. Untorn. Laced in silver at the throat and wrists — elegant, almost ceremonial. Her hair had been combed. Her feet were bare but washed.
Someone had touched her.
Her fingers flew to her neck.
The brand was still there. Still hot. Still pulsing with… him.
She swung her legs off the altar, landing too hard. Pain jolted up her knees. She stood quickly, ignored the flare in her stomach, and scanned the room for exits.
One door. Or rather, a split in the wall — tall, narrow, veiled with white cloth. The cloth moved faintly, though there was no wind.
Yue stepped lightly toward it, each movement careful, braced for ambush.
But there was nothing. No guards. No chains. No shadow waiting.
She reached the edge of the veil, hand trembling, and pushed it aside—
A breath.
Not hers.
He was there.
Sitting on the steps of a sunken dais, back against the far wall. Bare-chested again, his arms draped over his knees, his golden eyes half-lidded, glowing faintly in the moonlight.
He didn't look up.
Didn't speak.
Just… watched her.
Like he had been watching the entire time.
Yue's breath caught.
Her foot slid back involuntarily.
The silence stretched.
He tilted his head slowly — a motion almost beastlike — and said, quietly:
"You woke slower than I expected."
"You woke slower than I expected."
His voice was smooth, neither warm nor cold, as if he were stating the weather. It didn't match the rest of him—the bare chest streaked with faded bruises, the wild black hair falling into his face, the tension in his shoulders so perfectly still it could only be deliberate.
Yue didn't respond.
She remained behind the veil, one hand tightening around its edge like it was a shield. Her eyes darted to the walls, the exits, the patterns on the floor.
The moonlight cast his face in silver shadow. He hadn't moved.
"You brought me here," she said.
"Obviously."
"You changed my clothes."
"I cleaned your wounds. The clothes were already here."
She narrowed her eyes.
"And you just watched me while I slept?"
Now he looked at her. Really looked. His gaze was slow and invasive, like heat rising through silk. Not sexual—possessive.
"You called me," he said simply. "Watching you sleep is the least I've done."
She took a sharp step forward. "I don't remember you."
His head tilted again, just slightly. The kind of motion an animal makes when a sound is almost familiar.
"But I remember you," he said. "Every breath. Every word. You cried into my mouth."
"You're lying."
"You begged me to stay."
She froze. Her fingers curled into fists.
"You—" Her voice cracked. "You're saying I wanted this?"
His gaze didn't flinch.
"I waited," he said softly. "You were afraid. I stopped. You came back. I stopped again. You climbed into my lap and kissed me until your knees bled. You said—"
"Shut up."
He stopped. Not because of her voice. Because he had made his point.
She was trembling.
"I don't remember any of that," she hissed.
"I know."
Silence.
She stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast. The brand on her neck flared. She pressed her palm over it instinctively.
He looked at her hand.
"You still feel it?" he asked.
"I feel pain."
He nodded, slowly. "Then the bond held."
She ripped her hand away from her neck.
"You don't even have a name."
He blinked once. Then smiled—thin, sharp.
"I was called Rin. But I belong to no House. Not anymore."
She swallowed. "You're a bastard, then."
"I'm worse," he said. "I'm a secret that survived."
She threw the nearest object—a fragment of statue, jagged and heavy.
It hit his shoulder with a dull thud. He didn't dodge. Didn't flinch. Just tilted his head again, brushing stone dust from his skin.
"I'll kill you," she said.
"I already offered you the knife. You dropped it."
That silenced her.
She stood there, breathing hard, robe trembling around her calves.
And he sat on the steps, not watching like a man—but like something older.
Like a beast who'd once laid at her feet.
Yue kept her distance now.
Not because she feared him—though she did.
But because every time he looked at her, the mark on her neck pulsed like it was listening. Like it could hear his gaze. And worse—she felt it answering.
"You marked me," she said. "This isn't a metaphor. You branded me like an animal."
"I branded you like a claim," Rin said evenly. "Because you offered blood in a sacred place. I didn't invent the rite. I just answered it."
She crossed her arms, robe sleeves hiding her clenched fists.
"There was no ritual."
He tilted his head again. "There was glass. There was moonlight. There was your name in my mouth. You bled when you begged me. That's all the rite requires."
"Stop."
"Why?" he asked. "Because your mind can't remember what your blood already knows?"
She took a step forward. "What did you do to me?"
His gold eyes darkened.
"You called. I woke. That is the law of Soulmarking."
She blinked. "Soul… what?"
He sighed.
"Two Veins resonate across a boundary—normally during extreme fear, pleasure, or death. If one bears the Echo Vein, and the other is Cursed or Glass, a tether may form. You bled. I broke. Our bloodlines collided."
"You mean," she said tightly, "you imprinted on me."
He gave her the barest nod.
"And now I'm what?" Her voice rose. "Your mate? Your toy? Your broodmare?"
"No," he said softly. "You're my anchor."
She froze.
"You think I'm proud of it?" he added. "That I asked to be dragged out of death by a girl with glass skin and no memory?"
She shook her head. "No memory because of you."
"No memory," he replied, "because you tried to sever the bond. And failed."
She went still. Completely.
"What?"
He stood slowly. Not threatening. Just rising.
"You screamed after. Not during. After it was done. After the bond was sealed. You screamed so hard your Vein shattered."
Yue's mouth parted. No sound came out.
He continued: "You wanted to forget. Your blood didn't."
She took a shaky breath. "That's not possible."
He walked toward her—not quickly, not slow. And she didn't move.
"You feel it now, don't you?" he whispered. "When I speak. When I breathe. The bond."
She didn't answer.
He stopped just beyond reach.
"It's not chains," he said. "It's roots. You're growing inside me. I'm inside you. It won't go away."
She stared at him.
"You're insane."
"I was," he said. "Until I found you."
Her heart beat too fast. She hated how still she'd become.
"What happens now?" she whispered.
He looked toward the broken door beyond the chamber.
"Now?" he said. "Now they come for you."
The sound rolled across the broken stone like thunder wrapped in silk.
Distant. Hollow. Bone-deep.
A horn.
No — four horns. One low, one high, one broken midway through, and one almost silent: the court's call for claim retrieval. The sound used when they discovered survivors.
Rin's eyes snapped toward the door.
His shoulders straightened, but he didn't flinch.
Yue froze. "What was that?"
He didn't answer immediately. His chest rose once, then fell, slow and calm.
"They've found the sky-palace," he said. "They know someone lived."
She felt her throat close.
"They're coming?" she whispered.
"Not yet. They'll send bloodhounds first. Then scouts. Then priests."
"And you—" she stepped back—"you'll run."
Rin turned to her. His gaze sharpened.
"No."
She blinked.
He crossed the space between them slowly, deliberately. But instead of touching her, he did something unexpected.
He dropped to his knees.
Kneeling.
Head slightly bowed. Not submission — offering.
"If you leave without me," he said, "you die in the snow. Or worse — in silk."
She stared down at him. The fire in her belly from before began to smolder again, not fear — defiance.
"If you come with me," he said, "you'll beg to die. Often."
She waited for the threat. It didn't come.
"Pick."
She swallowed. "Why would I ever go with you?"
His gaze lifted. Something old sat behind his eyes.
"Because I'm the only thing that scares them more than your child."
Her breath hitched.
"And because the bond won't let you get far," he added, quiet now. "You'll bleed out before dawn."
Silence stretched.
She took a step back, but didn't turn. He remained kneeling, still, inhumanly calm, like a creature waiting to be leashed or freed.
And then she felt it — a flare under her skin, white-hot and blinding. The brand on her neck burned. Her stomach twisted.
She gasped.
Rin's eyes flicked to her belly.
"They're testing range," he said. "They're trying to mark you from afar."
She crumpled forward slightly, hand pressed to the brand, gasping.
He reached out.
"Don't—" she hissed.
But his fingers only grazed the back of her hand.
The pain stopped instantly.
Her eyes snapped to his.
"You can't fight the brand," he said. "But I can quiet it."
Yue slapped him.
Her hand cracked against his face with a sound that startled even her. It echoed through the stone chamber like something breaking.
Rin didn't react. Not a flinch, not a blink.
A drop of blood bloomed at the corner of his mouth. He reached up with two fingers, touched it, and looked at the smear as if confirming a rumor.
Then, slowly, he licked the blood from his fingertip.
Not playfully. Not theatrically.
Just… precisely.
Yue backed away.
"I'm not yours," she said, voice shaking. "I'm not anyone's. I didn't ask for this."
He rose to his feet, and suddenly the space between them didn't feel large enough.
"No one asks," he said. "Not for the brand. Not for the bond. Not for the blood."
"Then undo it."
"I can't."
"Liar."
He looked at her—truly looked—and for once, there was no amusement. No beast. Just something exhausted and old.
"I would," he said. "If I could. If it would keep you safe."
She faltered. The words didn't match the man. Or the monster.
"You said I could choose," she whispered.
He nodded.
"And this is your choice." He gestured to the open doorway, where the cold wind had begun to curl through the cracks in the chamber.
"Walk through that door alone, and you will bleed out before the mountains take your breath. If the Vein doesn't kill you, the court will. Or the beasts they send to drag you back."
She stared at him.
"Or?" she said.
He took a step closer, and this time, she didn't move.
"Or," he said gently, "you walk beside me. You let them see the mark. You let me stand between you and the people who want to cut you open for your child."
"You think I'll become your wife?"
"No," he said. "You already are."
She swallowed.
"I'd rather die."
He nodded. "You might."
She laughed—bitter, breathless. "Then what do I get?"
He paused.
"My name," he said at last. "My Vein. My beasts. My protection. Until the child comes. After that—"
He let the sentence hang.
After that… she'd be someone else. Or dead. Or divine.
She looked down at her hands. They were clean now. But her palms still bore the memory of broken glass.
She stepped toward the door.
He didn't stop her.
She paused at the threshold.
Behind her, he said:
"You already belong to me.
That's what the mark means."
She didn't turn around.
She walked through the door—and didn't hear him follow.
But still, as the moonlight touched her skin again, the brand warmed like it knew…
he wasn't far behind.