The bells of the capital rang at dawn.
Slow. Heavy. Merciless.
Each toll echoed through the stone square like a verdict carved into the air, sinking deep into my bones. I stood at the center of the execution platform, wrists bound in iron chains etched with glowing runes. The metal burned cold against my skin, siphoning magic straight from my veins, leaving my limbs weak and trembling.
Beneath my bare feet, the ancient stone was slick with frost.
And blood.
Not mine.
Not yet.
A vast crowd stretched below the platform—rows upon rows of faces turned upward, waiting. Nobles wrapped in silks and jewels observed with detached interest, their expressions carefully neutral. Soldiers stood rigid, armor gleaming beneath the pale morning light, eyes empty of emotion. Commoners whispered among themselves, curiosity outweighing pity.
They had all come for the same reason.
To watch Lyra Veyne die.
"Prisoner Lyra Veyne," the High Priest announced, his voice amplified by magic that rolled across the square, "you have been found guilty of heresy, corruption of bloodline, and treason against the Empire."
A murmur rippled through the crowd like a living thing.
I lifted my chin and met their gazes. Fear tightened around my heart, squeezing until it was hard to breathe—but I refused to bow my head. If this was the end, I would meet it standing.
Treason.
Such a convenient word.
The truth was far simpler—and far uglier.
I had no powerful family to shield me. No noble lineage worth protecting. I was an orphan mage whose magic refused to behave, whose power did not fit neatly into the Empire's laws and expectations.
Unpredictable magic was dangerous.
People like me were disposable.
The High Priest raised his staff. Runes carved into the platform flared to life, forming a glowing magic circle beneath my feet. The air thickened instantly as the spell activated, reaching for my soul with violent intent.
Execution by severance.
A spell designed to rip magic from flesh and soul alike—quick, absolute, irreversible.
I closed my eyes.
So this was how my story ended. Not with justice. Not with purpose. Just erased to make the Empire feel safe.
"Wait."
The single word cut through the square like steel.
The magic circle flickered.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd as the crushing pressure around my chest loosened. My eyes snapped open.
A man had stepped onto the platform.
He moved with unhurried confidence, long black coat flowing behind him like living shadow. Dark hair framed a sharp, emotionless face, and his presence pressed down on the square with suffocating weight. Even from several paces away, his power was undeniable—dense, controlled, terrifying.
I knew who he was before anyone spoke his name.
Everyone did.
Lucien Draven.
The Empire's most feared mage. The weapon that had ended wars. The man whose magic had turned battlefields into mass graves.
And he was looking directly at me.
Not with pity.
Not with cruelty.
With calculation.
"Lord Draven," the High Priest said carefully, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "This execution has already been approved by the Council."
"I know," Lucien replied calmly. His voice was low, steady, and far more frightening than shouting. "That's why I'm stopping it."
Whispers exploded across the square.
Lucien turned slightly toward the crowd. "The Empire needs her alive."
Silence fell.
My breath caught painfully in my throat.
Alive?
The High Priest stiffened. "With respect, my lord, the girl is unstable. Her magic—"
"Is precisely why she's valuable," Lucien interrupted.
He stepped closer.
The air around me tightened instantly. My magic reacted without permission, flaring beneath my skin, straining against the suppressive chains. Pain lanced through my arms.
Lucien noticed.
A faint, dangerous curve touched his lips.
"Yes," he murmured. "You feel it too."
Cold dread slid down my spine.
"And how," the High Priest asked carefully, "does Your Grace propose we… make use of her?"
Lucien's gaze never left mine.
"We bind her to me."
The words struck like thunder.
Gasps turned into shouts.
"A soul contract?"
"That's forbidden!"
"Madness!"
The High Priest's face drained of color. "Lord Draven, such a bond is irreversible."
Lucien inclined his head. "I'm aware."
"It will cost her free will—"
"It is legal," Lucien said smoothly, "under wartime emergency law. And unless the Council wishes to explain why the Empire's primary magical barrier is destabilizing, I suggest you reconsider."
A stunned silence followed.
Barrier?
Something deep inside me twisted violently, responding to his words. My magic surged, wild and painful, clawing against the chains.
Lucien turned back to the High Priest. "Her magic resonates with the ancient seals. She can stabilize the barrier."
"At what cost?" the High Priest whispered.
Lucien looked at me.
"At hers."
My stomach dropped.
"No," I said, shaking my head. "I don't consent to this."
My voice trembled, but I forced it louder. "You don't get to decide my fate again."
Lucien stepped close enough that only I could hear him.
"You're already sentenced to death," he said quietly. "I'm offering survival."
Anger flared hot and reckless. "Then kill me. I won't be your weapon."
For a brief moment, something flickered across his face—interest, perhaps. Or approval.
"I need you alive," he replied. "And you need me if you wish to keep breathing."
The High Priest lowered his staff slowly. The magic circle dimmed.
"Prepare the binding seal."
Two mages approached with a ceremonial blade carved in ancient runes.
A soul-binding ritual.
Permanent. Unbreakable.
If I accepted this, my life would no longer belong to me.
Lucien towered over me, his power coiled and restrained like a beast waiting to strike.
"Survive," he said quietly. "That's all I require."
The blade pressed into my palm.
I clenched my teeth.
"Fine," I whispered. "But don't expect my loyalty."
Lucien smiled—slow, dark, and knowing.
"Oh," he said as the blade cut our skin and magic exploded between us, "I always collect what's owed."
White light consumed everything.
And deep within my soul, something locked into place.