The moment her skin touched his, the universe fractured.
His hand was not cold, as she had expected. It was searingly hot, a jolt of raw power that shot up her arm and exploded in her chest like a supernova. A scream tore from her throat, raw and real this time, as a pain unlike anything she had ever known erupted from the point of contact. It was not a physical burning, but a spiritual one, as if his very essence were branding her soul.
Zephar's fingers closed around hers, his grip like iron, holding her fast as her body convulsed. His other hand shot out, grabbing her by the nape of her neck, his thumb pressing firmly against the delicate skin just below her hairline. His touch was possessive, absolute, anchoring her in the storm of agony he had unleashed.
"A contract is not sealed with a handshake, Saintess," he hissed in her mind, his voice no longer smooth but laced with a triumphant, cruel power. "It is sealed in pain. In submission. It must be etched where it can never be removed."
Through a haze of tears, she saw a dark energy, like black lightning, crawl from his hand up her arm. It wasn't on her skin, but under it, a network of writhing shadows visible through her translucent flesh. The energy converged on her chest, directly over her heart.
The pain intensified a hundredfold. It felt as if a blacksmith's forge had been ignited within her, as if her very soul were being melted down and reforged into something new, something his. She writhed in his grip, a pathetic, silent scream trapped in her throat, her back arching as the unholy energy coiled and twisted inside her.
"Look at it," he commanded, his voice merciless. "Witness your vow."
Forced by the unyielding pressure of his hand on her neck, her gaze was drawn downward. On the pristine white silk of her gown, directly over her heart, a mark was blooming into existence. It started as a faint, dark smudge, then rapidly grew, darkening and solidifying. It was not a stain on the fabric; it was a shadow being cast from within her.
Black thorns, sharp and cruel, spiraled outwards, forming a complex sigil. They twisted and wove together, creating the shape of a rose in full, defiant bloom. It was a thing of terrible, dark beauty—a symbol of life and love, rendered in the ink of the Abyss. As the final thorn locked into place, the sigil pulsed with a faint, violet light, the same color as the galaxies in his eyes.
The pain receded as quickly as it had come, leaving her gasping, trembling, and utterly spent. Her legs gave way, but his grip on her hand and neck held her upright. She was panting, her body slick with a cold sweat, her vision swimming. She felt… violated. Emptied. And yet, terrifyingly, she also felt a new connection, a humming, resonant cord that now stretched from the core of her being directly to him. It was a chain, and she could feel its weight around her soul.
He finally released her. She staggered back, collapsing onto the cold glass floor, clutching her chest where the spectral rose now lay. She could feel it, a cold weight inside her, a permanent piece of him embedded in her spirit.
Zephar stood over her, his expression one of grim satisfaction. He looked like a master artist who had just placed the final, brutal brushstroke on his masterpiece.
"It is done," he said, his voice once again a low, controlled murmur. "The Abyssal Vow is made. You are mine, Ilia."
Hearing him speak her name, her true name, in this place of desolation, was a shock that cut through her exhaustion. It was a claim, an assertion of an intimacy she had not granted.
She pushed herself up, her arms shaking with the effort. "You… you promised," she rasped, her throat raw. "You promised to save them."
He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "A king honors his agreements." As he spoke, Ilia felt a tremor, not in the ground, but in the very fabric of the Abyss. The humming cord inside her vibrated, and through it, she felt a colossal exertion of will. It felt like a great tide being turned, a vast, hungry entity being commanded to retreat. It was his power, and now, she was connected to it. She could feel him pulling the Abyss back.
"The Creep will recede," he stated. "Your world is safe, for now. But do not mistake this for an act of kindness. It is merely the first payment for a very long lease."
He knelt before her, bringing his face level with hers. His star-filled eyes searched her face, and for the first time, she saw not just rage or amusement, but a flicker of something else. A deep, possessive hunger.
"Every prayer you utter will now feed me," he whispered, his voice a caress that made her skin crawl. "Every ounce of your faith, every plea for salvation—it will not go to your silent, gilded gods. It will come to me. You will sustain me, little dove. You will be my personal saint, my private well of light in this endless darkness."
He reached out, and this time, she didn't flinch. She was too exhausted, too broken. His thumb gently, almost tenderly, brushed across her lower lip. The gesture was so at odds with the brutal violation he had just inflicted upon her that it left her utterly bewildered.
"And I," he continued, his gaze intense, "will be in you. A constant presence. A whisper in the quiet moments. A shadow behind your eyes. You will never be alone again."
The promise, which should have been a comfort, was the most terrifying threat of all.
Before she could respond, the world began to dissolve again. The black glass floor grew transparent, the nebulae above faded, and the cold, analytical blue light of the Ritual Chamber began to bleed back into her vision. The humming cord in her chest pulsed, a final, possessive thrum from him to her.
His form wavered, his last words echoing in the core of her being as she was pulled back across the veil.
"Go now, my Saintess. Go and sing for me."