Soul consumption. If one of us fell in love and the other didn't, the one who fell would literally have their soul eaten by the binding.
"That's..." I couldn't even find words. "That's horrific."
"That's infernal contract law," he repeated. "Bindings of this nature are meant to be mutual, equal, when the balance tips too far in one direction, the magic corrects itself."
"By eating someone's soul."
"Yes."
I sat down heavily in the nearest chair, my mind was racing, trying to process this.
"So our options are: die if we separate, die if we resist too hard, or potentially have our soul consumed if we catch feelings that aren't returned." I looked up at him. "Did I get that right?"
"Essentially."
"This contract is a death sentence dressed up as a marriage license."
"It's a survival mechanism that assumes reciprocal intent." He moved around the desk, leaning against it. "In normal circumstances, with willing participants who already have an established relationship, these clauses are safeguards. Not threats."
"But we're not in normal circumstances."
"No. We're not."
I thought about yesterday, the energy transfer, the way I'd felt his loneliness, his fear, his desperate need for connection he'd never admit out loud.
I thought about my own reluctant understanding, the way being connected to him didn't feel entirely terrible, the tiny, traitorous warmth that sparked sometimes when he showed concern or said something that was almost kind.
"This is fucked up," I said finally. "This whole thing is completely fucked up."
"Yes."
"You knew about this clause, this whole soul-consumption risk, and you didn't tell me."
"Would it have changed anything?" he asked. "If I'd explained it during the initial binding, when you were panicking and I was destabilizing, would you have made a different choice?"
I wanted to say yes, that I would've refused, would've found another way, would've done anything except agree to this nightmare.
But he was right. In that moment, with the building shaking and infernal energy tearing reality apart, I'd had no choice.
"You still should've told me," I said. "Before now, before I started... feeling things during that transfer."
His expression sharpened. "What things?"
"Don't." I stood up. "You felt it too, everything I felt, you know exactly what I'm talking about."
"The transfer creates artificial intimacy, heightened emotions, it doesn't mean.."
"It means the binding is working exactly as designed." I gestured at the book. "Removing barriers, making attachment easier, pushing us together whether we want it or not."
"It can't create feelings from nothing," he repeated.
"But it can amplify them, you said so yourself." I moved toward the door. "So tell me, Azryth. Honestly, are you feeling it? The push? The pull toward... whatever this is supposed to become?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Yes," he finally admitted. "I feel it."
The confirmation shouldn't have hit as hard as it did.
"Nice," I said hollowly. "So we're both being manipulated by infernal magic into developing feelings for each other, and if those feelings don't develop equally, one of us gets our soul eaten. Fantastic. Really fantastic situation we've got here."
"I didn't design the contract."
"But you invoked it. You bound us together knowing all of this." I turned to face him. "Knowing that I might end up caring about you and you might not care back, or vice versa, knowing that this whole thing could end with one of us becoming a soulless shell."
"I knew the risks," he said. "I weighed them against the alternative. The city burning, thousands dead, both of us dead." His eyes flashed. "I made the choice that gave us both the highest probability of survival."
"Even if that survival comes with a built-in emotional death sentence."
"Yes."
At least he was honest, I had to give him that.
I looked at the book on his desk, at the symbols that promised connection or consumption, love or destruction.
"I need time," I said. "To process this, all of this."
"Take what time you need." He moved back to his chair. "But Riven, you know, the binding doesn't stop progressing just because we're uncomfortable with its implications."
"I know."
"And fighting it too hard could trigger the destabilization clause."
"I know that too." I paused in the doorway. "Did you ever wonder if maybe this was intentional? The way we were bound? You, with centuries of isolation making you desperate for connection. Me, with years of deliberate loneliness making me vulnerable to attachment." I looked back at him. "Maybe the binding didn't just happen, maybe it knew exactly what it was doing."
His expression was unreadable. "That would require the binding to have intent, to be sentient."
"Would it? Or would it just require infernal magic to be smarter than we give it credit for?"
I left him with that thought, retreating to my room and closing the door.
The sigil on my wrist pulsed steadily. Strong, stable.
Fed by the energy transfer yesterday. Fed by our proximity. Fed by every conversation, every moment, every reluctant spark of understanding between us.
The binding was growing stronger.
And so, apparently, were the feelings it was designed to cultivate.
I sat on the edge of my bed, head in my hands.
"I really, really didn't sign up for this," I whispered.
But the binding didn't care what I'd signed up for.
It only cared about what came next.
And what came next, according to that ancient book, was either mutual love or soul consumption.
Great options. Just fantastic.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about how Azryth's heartbeat had felt synchronized with mine during that transfer.
Trying not to think about how part of me had wanted it to stay that way.
Trying not to think about what that meant for my soul's long-term survival prospects.
The binding hummed contentedly in my chest.
I was so screwed.