The branding iron hissed.
Kael bit his lip as two guards pressed his bare back to the cold ceremonial slab. The scent of scorched flesh hung in the air like incense.
"Unbound," the priestess declared, her voice cold. "Twenty-two summers. No partner. No awakening. Let his shame be seen."
The mark glowed—an open circle, incomplete. The symbol of magical impotence.
Kael stood, trembling but proud. They wanted tears, but he gave them silence.
In Thorne, magic only bloomed with a Bond—a merging of soul and flesh, consummated in a sacred ritual. Nobles did it by seventeen. Commoners by twenty. Anyone Unbound by twenty-three was cast into shadow.
The court watched from above. Faces hidden behind masks, sipping from silver goblets.
He locked eyes with one woman.
She didn't wear a mask.
Didn't look away.
Her lips curled into a smile.
That night, Kael wandered through the lower alleys of Thorne, the brand on his back still raw. He drank too much. Fought a beggar for breathing too loud. And eventually slumped against a wall near the Spellbrothel gates.
Then he saw her again.
The woman.
Not noble. Not commoner. Something else.
She stepped from the shadows like the moon slipping from clouds. Long dark hair. Black leather corset. A whisper of silver chains.
"You bled well," she said.
"I've had better days."
"You looked beautiful when they burned you."
"You're sick."
"Only a little," she said, kneeling before him. "My name is Seren. And I came looking for you."
Kael laughed. "Didn't think 'Unbound bastard with anger issues' was your type."
"You have no idea what my type is."
She touched his chest. Heat spread. His breath hitched.
Then she whispered, "Would you like your magic?"