"So, you three really don't know anything about the traitor?" Cassian asked, his voice calm but edged with quiet pressure.
The three newly marked slaves stood before him, their faces blank and eyes hollow. The crimson sigils on their shoulders pulsed faintly — no longer the raw, burned flesh from when they were first branded, but smooth, etched markings that glowed faintly with the same hue as Cassian's Domain. Unlike the crude slave magic used to make Brigid his slave, these marks were far more refined — crafted through the cult's methods, infamous across the continent for perfecting the art of enslavement long after other kingdoms had outlawed it.
They didn't just enforce loyalty; they rewrote will. With a single command, Cassian could make them forget, remember, or obey as if they were intricate machines molded by his words. It was efficient — disturbingly so.
