The sea was black glass when it broke.
They came in silence—shadows in the surf, cloaked in bramble-dark armor, moving too fast for mortals to follow. Elma felt the shift before she saw them: the air thickening, the system purring in her skull like a cat that smelled blood.
Calista laughed near the firepit, wine spilling from her glass, bare feet sinking in sand. Too drunk to notice. Too vulnerable.
Elma spun, hair whipping, as smoke bombs cracked against the beach. Screams tore through the crowd as donors scattered, silk and linen dissolving into chaos. A clawed gauntlet clamped around Calista's wrist before she could blink.
"Run!" Elma bellowed, already moving.
She slammed into the first scout, heel to his jaw, teeth cracking like glass. Another wrapped a chain of thorns around her arm. She twisted, ripping free, the barbs scoring red into her skin. She caught a dagger mid-air, turned it, shoved it into a throat. The scout dropped, choking on bramble and blood.
But there were too many.
Four locked around Calista, dragging her backward toward the tide. She screamed—high, broken, raw. Elma lunged, tearing through one, then another, blood spraying hot across her arms.
The third drove a fist into her ribs. She staggered. The fourth tightened the chain. Calista's glass slipped, shattering in the sand.
"ELMA!"
Her name split the night like lightning. Elma hurled herself forward—just in time to watch Calista vanish into the smoke, carried into the sea.
The system sang in her ear.
[Failure: Protect the Wife]
Penalty pending.
The smoke cleared. The guests whimpered. The sand held blood and broken glass and nothing else.
Elma was on her knees, chest heaving, hair plastered to her cheek with sweat. She wanted to tear the ocean apart with her bare hands.
Instead, she dragged herself back to the mansion.
Nitron was waiting.
The west library burned with firelight though no logs crackled in the hearth. It was his aura, leaking, setting the air itself aflame. He stood behind the black stone desk, but the desk looked small tonight, like it was trying to hide from its owner.
"Elma," he said. Her name sounded like ash.
She stepped inside. Her silk was torn, stained red. Her hair tangled. She knelt automatically, though her body screamed.
"They took her," she said.
The silence that followed was worse than fury. Then he moved.
She had seen Nitron angry before. She had seen him punish, control, dominate. She had never seen him rage.
The desk splintered under his hand, shards flying. He crossed the room in a breath and caught her by the throat, lifting her until her toes barely scraped the rug.
"You let them take her," he hissed. His eyes weren't coals anymore. They were furnaces.
Elma clawed at his wrist, heat searing her palms. "There were—too many—"
He threw her. Her back hit the shelves. Books exploded into the air like frightened birds. She gasped, ribs screaming.
"Excuses," he snarled.
She rolled to her knees, but his kick slammed into her side, knocking her across the rug. Pain seared. She spat blood, crimson on white silk.
The system didn't intervene. It purred.
[Leash Enforcement: Active]
Loyalty threshold: 57%
Penalty sequence engaged.
Nitron seized her hair, dragging her up, forcing her to look at him. "You think I keep you because you're pretty? Because you moan well? No. You are here because you win. You destroy. Tonight you failed."
His fist cracked across her jaw. White light burst behind her eyes.
"Do you know what she is to me?" he growled. He didn't wait for an answer. His fist came again, slamming into her stomach. She doubled, choking.
"She is not a pawn. She is not replaceable. She is—" His voice broke, for the first time Elma had ever heard. "…mine."
Through the pain, through the fire in her lungs, Elma understood. Nitron wasn't punishing her because she'd failed. He was breaking because Calista was gone.
He loved her.
The realization hit harder than the blows. Nitron Vale, the demon who ruled systems and leash, who never bent, loved someone. And it wasn't her.
Elma coughed blood and laughter together, curling it into a grin. "So that's it. You're bleeding for her."
His grip on her throat tightened. He could have snapped her neck with one twitch. Instead he dropped her. She crumpled, coughing.
"Get her back," he said, voice like ice laid over fire. "Or I'll make sure you remember this night every time you breathe."
The system glowed.
[New Quest: Retrieve the Wife]
Failure Condition: Termination.
Elma pushed herself upright, shaking, bruised, jaw aching. She wiped her mouth, smearing blood across her cheek. "Then use me," she rasped. "Use me like the weapon you claim I am. I'll bargain with Thorn. I'll cut them. I'll crawl into their beds if I have to. But I'll bring her back."
Nitron stared at her, breathing hard. The fire around him dimmed, banked but not gone. Finally, he nodded once. "Do it. But know this—if she returns harmed, you'll wish they had killed you."
Elma bowed, ragged. "Yes, Master."
It took three days.
Three days of messages carried in blood, of midnight meetings in alleys that stank of fish and piss, of bribes paid in secrets and bodies. Thorn wanted Calista alive. She was leverage, not spoil.
Elma gave them what they wanted: fear. A whispered promise that Nitron's leash was unbreakable, that keeping the wife would only bring ruin. She painted pictures with words, of heads on spikes and houses burned until ash replaced legacy. And when that wasn't enough, she seduced the weakest link in their chain, dragged moans from lips that weren't supposed to part, and traded climax for information.
In the end, Thorn bent.
Calista returned in a black carriage, blindfolded, wrists bruised but body otherwise untouched. She stepped into the mansion like a ghost, diamond ring still glinting, hair tangled, eyes vacant.
Nitron didn't touch her. He simply nodded once, as if confirming an inventory.
Elma watched from the shadows, her ribs wrapped, her face mottled with purple and yellow bruises, burns striping her arms like cruel jewelry.
Later, in the quiet of her chamber, the curtain stirred. Calista entered without knocking.
She stopped short when she saw Elma—jaw swollen, lip split, arm in a sling, bruises blooming across her collarbone.
Her eyes filled with fury. "What happened to you?"
Elma smirked through bloodied teeth. "What do you think? He blamed me. Beat me until I understood exactly how much he loves you."
Calista's hands trembled. "You're lying."
Elma shook her head slowly. "First time he ever raised a fist in true rage. Not punishment. Not performance. Rage. All for you."
Calista pressed her hand to her mouth, eyes wet. She took a step forward, then another, until she stood over Elma's bed. Her tears burned down her cheeks.
"Don't you dare take his blows for me," she whispered.
Elma chuckled bitterly. "Too late."
Something snapped in Calista then. She turned, storming toward the door. Elma caught her wrist weakly. "What are you doing?"
"Ending the joke," Calista spat. "He thinks I'm his porcelain doll. He thinks he can threaten me into silence, beat you into obedience, and still keep his throne. He doesn't know what I am when I stop pretending."
Her eyes burned like fire under glass. "He doesn't know that I am more dangerous than he will ever be."
The system chimed, not in warning but in something almost like delight.
[New Flag: The Wife Revolts]
Status: Active.
Risk: Unstable.
Potential Outcome: War in the Master's House.
Calista brushed her thumb gently across Elma's split lip, rage trembling under tenderness. "Rest. Heal. The next time he touches you, I'll be the one drawing blood."
She left, crimson skirts snapping like a banner.
Elma lay back, smiling through the ache. For the first time since she'd worn the leash, she believed the house itself might bleed.