The hall was too bright. Candles burned in tall iron sconces, mirrors throwing their light into every corner until there was nowhere to hide. Vale banners hung high above, black stitched with silver, the crest of the Master House glowering down on the guests gathered below.
This wasn't dinner. This was spectacle.
Elma stood in the center of the marble floor, leash glyphs faintly glowing across her collarbone like a brand. Every breath ached. She wore white again—Nitron's choice, always his choice—thin silk that clung like it wanted to be torn. She looked like a sacrifice. Maybe she was.
Nitron hadn't announced it as punishment. He'd called it an audit. The word slid like oil, but everyone understood. This was theater. The Master showing the leash-witch wasn't his equal. She was property.
Donors crowded the balconies, their jewels glittering, their whispers thick as smoke. The rumor mill had been howling since the banquet. The wife and the witch disappear together. Tonight, Nitron would put a collar on that fire.
Calista sat to his right, dressed in emerald silk this time, diamonds like frozen rain at her throat. Her mask was flawless: distant, regal, untouchable. But Elma felt the ache even across the distance—the pulse of DP-3 punishing them just for looking too long.
Nitron rose. He didn't need to raise his voice. The room bent toward him.
"Rumors rot," he said calmly. "Tonight, we cut the infection before it spreads."
He gestured, and the leash answered.
Heat seared through Elma's bones, a pulse so sharp she nearly buckled. Glyphs crawled across her skin, burning bright enough that everyone could see. She grit her teeth until her jaw ached, refusing to cry out.
[Audit Mode: Public Execution]
Violations: 2 (unauthorized vector, illicit contact).
Penalty: Nerve sear sequence.
Her knees hit marble anyway. Pain lanced through her spine, electric and endless, every nerve screaming at once. The crowd gasped. Some turned away. Most leaned closer.
Nitron descended the dais, cloak trailing like stormclouds. He stopped just short of her, eyes blazing furnace-red. "What are you?"
Elma's lips split on a grin. "Your favorite show."
The leash flared. She screamed, body convulsing. Blood slicked her lip, running crimson down her chin.
Nitron crouched, his voice soft but carrying. "You think defiance feeds you. But it only feeds me."
His hand brushed her jaw—calm, possessive. The glyphs hissed. Pain doubled.
Her vision blurred. But through it, she saw Calista. Perfect mask. White knuckles on the arm of her chair. A single tremor in her throat when Elma screamed. No one else noticed. Elma did. It was enough.
"Then eat," Elma rasped, spitting blood on the marble between them. "Choke on me."
Gasps erupted. Nitron's eyes narrowed. The leash shrieked. For one horrifying moment, she thought her heart would burst in her chest.
And then—
The shard in her pocket pulsed.
Cold flooded her nerves, cutting through the fire. The Frostspawn sigil whispered against her skin, intercepting the leash's current. Not stopping it. Twisting it.
[Foreign Schema Detected]
Override: Partial.
Risk: Catastrophic backlash.
Elma's scream broke into a laugh. A mad, ragged, blood-slicked laugh that echoed against the marble. The guests recoiled. Nitron's fury deepened, but confusion flickered there too.
She forced herself to her feet, body shaking, silk clinging damp with sweat and blood. "See?" she panted, voice wrecked but loud. "You can't leash hunger. You only make it hungrier."
The room buzzed—half fear, half awe. Donors whispered furiously behind jeweled hands. Rumor meter climbing by the second.
Nitron straightened slowly, studying her like she was a puzzle he hadn't solved yet. "Careful, Elma. A leash can always tighten."
She bowed, mock-sweet, hair falling like a curtain to hide her grin. "Then tighten it. You'll only strangle your own throne."
The leash punished her again, heat slicing through her ribs. But the shard dulled it, ate part of it. She didn't fall. She didn't break. That was the victory.
Nitron's gaze flicked to Calista, then back to her. He saw too much, and not enough. He gestured, dismissing her like a servant. "Get her out of my sight."
Kade appeared at her side instantly, silver eyes unreadable. He caught her arm, guiding her toward the side doors. She staggered, but she didn't collapse.
The guests' whispers followed like smoke.
The witch laughed at the leash.
The leash doesn't hold her.
She bleeds for the wife.
The system purred, smug.
[Rumor Meter: 61%]
New Narrative: The leash-witch endures. The leash-witch laughs.
They reached the empty corridor. Kade let her go, his hand lingering half a second too long on her bruised arm. "You're either suicidal," he murmured, "or you've found something."
Elma wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing blood. "Maybe both."
He tilted his head, silver eyes catching faint light. "If you have… hide it better. He'll gut you just to see what you're made of."
She smirked, shaky but alive. "Then I'll make sure he chokes on the pieces."
Kade's lips almost twitched. Then he was gone, sliding back into shadow.
Later, in her chamber, Elma pulled the shard free. Frostlit sigils crawled across its surface, whispering secrets too old for demons, too sharp for humans.
[Quest Update: Archivist of Frostspawn]
Objective: Seek schema integration.
Note: Current shard is unstable. Risk of overload if used again.
She pressed it to her palm anyway. Cold spread, numbing her burns, dulling the ache. For one moment, she imagined freedom.
A knock at her door broke it. Soft, sharp, familiar.
She tucked the shard beneath the sheets and opened it.
Calista slipped inside, eyes burning too bright for masks. She didn't speak. She just caught Elma's face in trembling hands and kissed her hard enough to taste the blood.
The leash punished them instantly. Pain flared. They both gasped, both shuddered. And didn't stop.
The system hissed.
[Penalty Pending: Escalation]
Elma broke the kiss only long enough to whisper against Calista's lips. "One week, remember?"
Calista's eyes burned like storms. "Then let's make it count."