The arrow had shattered whatever uneasy calm lingered in the stone halls. By the time the shafts had stopped flying, the courtyard looked like the beginning of a siege. Broken wood splinters littered the flagstones, the scent of iron and ash hanging in the air, the men taut with restrained violence. I’d stayed pressed against the hearth, Bagel a bristling coil of fury in my lap, while the world seemed to tilt and rearrange itself around me.

  Now, hours later, the four of us sat in the map room. Candles burned low, dripping wax onto their holders, their glow chasing shadows across parchment and steel. A map was spread across the table, old and creased, its edges weighted down with daggers. Lines carved into it marked territories, rivers, trade routes, things I didn’t yet understand but was apparently tangled in.

  Riven paced along the far wall, boots echoing with each turn. His agitation carried like static in the air. Grabber leaned forward over the map, his hands braced on either side, head bowed as if the ink itself might whisper the answer. Thorne lounged in his chair, but the flick of his dagger between his fingers betrayed nerves his grin refused to admit.

  The silence pressed until it broke.

  “It could have been amateurs. A group looking for an opportunity to gain power and resources.” Grabber muttered.

  “Unlikely. Not when you combine the letter and the attack.” Thorne growled.

  “I think they’re much stronger than that. They could be testing us,” Riven said sharply, halting mid-stride. “Testing how close they can get. If they wanted her dead, they could have aimed higher.” His gaze flicked to me. Not accusing, calculating. “This could be leverage. They’ll keep pressing until they break through.”

  Grabber didn’t look up, but his jaw flexed. “Then we don’t let them.”

  “Easier said than done,” Thorne drawled, spinning the dagger so its hilt thudded softly against the map. “They’ve already gotten closer than they should have. Which means someone’s feeding them information. Or someone in this house has a big mouth.”

  My stomach tightened. A spy. That word hadn’t been said, but it sat heavy in the space. I curled my fingers into Bagel’s fur. She purred faintly, as if trying to ground me, but even she seemed uneasy, her ears twitching at every sound.

  Grabber finally straightened, eyes like ice catching the candlelight. “Enough.” The word carried command, quiet but immovable. “Speculation won’t keep her alive. Strategy will.” He turned, this time meeting my gaze directly. “They’re after you. Which means every move we make starts with how to keep you hidden, and how to draw them out.”

  “I’m sitting right here, you know,” I muttered, defensive without meaning to. My heart pounded harder for having all their focus on me.

  Thorne’s grin curved sharp. “Oh, we know. Hard to miss you when you’re the prize everyone wants to steal.”

  Heat crawled up my neck. “That’s not funny.”

  “Wasn’t a joke.”

  “Thorne,” Riven snapped, but Thorne just leaned back further, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.

  Grabber ignored the exchange, his attention back on the map. “We need to assume their reach extends beyond the walls. Every path in and out is a liability. Which means until we find out who they are and how they’re moving, you don’t leave this fortress.”

  The certainty in his tone sent a shiver through me. A cage, dressed up as protection.

  I opened my mouth to argue, but something else slipped free instead. “You don’t even know why they want me.”

  That earned silence. Thorne’s dagger stopped spinning. Riven’s pacing froze. Grabber’s eyes narrowed, just slightly, as though I’d prodded something he hadn’t expected me to notice.

  “You're unmarked. That makes you valuable,” Riven said finally, his voice clipped.

  Unmarked. The word felt like a thorn. I knew it carried weight here, knew it set me apart, but no one had explained what it truly meant.

  I leaned forward before I could stop myself. “What does that mean? Unmarked. You keep saying it like it explains everything.”

  Thorne’s grin faltered. Riven’s gaze cut toward Grabber.

  Grabber, for once, didn’t move. His stillness was its own kind of tension, sharp as a blade pressed flat against the skin. Finally, he exhaled, and the sound was heavy. “It means you don’t belong to anyone else.”

  “That’s not an answer,” I shot back, my voice rising despite myself. “Belong? What does that actually mean?”

  “It’s a bond,” Riven interrupted, his tone low. “Permanent. A mark is… a claim.” His eyes slid to me, then away, as though the truth was harder to speak while looking me in the face. “It happens during sex. A claiming. Once it’s made, it binds you with them. For life.”

  The words sank in slow and heavy, like stones dropped into water, each ripple harder to ignore than the last. I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “So that’s why you brought me here.” My voice cracked. “That’s what this is about. You’re going to force me.”

  “No.” Grabber’s voice cut like a knife, fast and absolute. “If that were the goal, it would already be done.”

  “But you’re thinking about it. You’re all -”

  Thorne laughed suddenly, sharp and startling. He clapped a hand against the table, eyes bright with amusement. “Gods, listen to you. We’re neck-deep in threats and arrows and murder notes, and you’re worrying about who might fuck you first.”

  Heat scorched my face. “That’s not what I -”

  “Pervert,” he teased, grinning wickedly now, as if he’d found a toy to play with.

  “Thorne,” Riven warned, but even his lips twitched, like he was fighting a smirk.

  I stared at them, my chest heaving. My panic felt too big for my body, pressing against my ribs, but their laughter, light and rough and unkindly kind, cut through it. Not dismissive exactly, but… redirecting.

  Grabber’s voice steadied the room again. “We’re not discussing that now. What matters is keeping her alive.” He tapped the map, his finger landing on a village marked with a faded sigil. “There’s a few options. First, we all go into hiding. We lock ourselves into a safehouse, and hope that no one finds us there without the protection we have here. Two, we go on the offensive and start hunting them. Or three, a warlock. He can brew a potion that cloaks her, for a time.”

  I blinked. “Cloaks me?”

  “Not true invisibility,” Riven said. “But enough to hide you from their eyes. To dull the thread they’re pulling on.”

  “Let’s do it. It is our best bet for now, as long as we are prepared to pay him heavily for his silence.” Thorne said.

  “The potion has to be brewed in your presence,” Grabber added. “And it only lasts a short amount of time. Which means you’ll come with us.”

  A spark of bitter humor slipped through my panic. “Great. So I’ll be getting an invisibility cloak. Like Harry Potter.”

  Thorne arched one of his brows. “Who the hell is Harry?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I replied, rolling my eyes at his jealousy of a fictional character.

  For the first time that night, the tension broke, not gone, but bent, the smallest crack in the wall we’d built around ourselves.

  · ─ ·?· ─ · ·

  Dawn came gray and sluggish, clouds stretched thin across the horizon. The air held that bite of early autumn, sharp enough to wake me before Bagel’s paws kneaded insistently against my side. I lay still for a moment, listening. The castle usually creaked and murmured with life, boots on stone, doors opening, the occasional bark of orders. This morning, it was hushed, subdued, as if the very walls knew we were about to walk out of them.

  As I lay in bed and dreaded the day, a knock interrupted my daydreaming.

  “It’s time to go. You slept in.” Riven said through the door.

  “Go away, idiot. It’s too early.” I couldn’t help myself from grumbling.

  “Get dressed. Feel free to put on one of your costumes.” Riven snorted before I could hear his footsteps walking away from my door.

  By the time I dressed and followed the sound of voices, the men were already gathered in the courtyard. Horses stamped at the gravel, their breath clouding pale in the chill. Riven checked tack with practiced precision, his jaw set, while Thorne flipped a coin lazily between his fingers. Grabber was speaking to two servants, handing over a sealed letter with that crisp finality he carried in everything. His eyes flicked toward me as I approached.

  “You’re late.”

  I bristled. “It’s barely light out.”

  “An attack doesn’t wait for you to finish yawning.”

  Riven snorted, though it wasn’t amusement, more like agreement. I pressed my lips tight, choosing not to snap back. My stomach still twisted with unease from the night before. Marked. Bound. A claim in the dark that tied you forever. No matter how they laughed it off, the idea clawed at the edges of my thoughts.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Thorne caught my expression and grinned. “Don’t pout, kitten. You’ll ruin your pretty face before the warlock even gets a look at you.”

  Bagel, perched on my shoulder, hissed softly.

  “Good girl,” I muttered.

  We mounted quickly. I wasn’t used to riding, but Riven swung me up before I could protest, settling me in front of him on his horse. My indignation flared, but his arms caged me in tight enough that I swallowed the words. The leather of his bracers brushed my sleeves, the steady rise and fall of his breath warm against the back of my neck.

  “Don’t wriggle,” he muttered.

  “I wasn’t -”

  “You were.”

  Thorne laughed from ahead. “Careful, Liora. He’ll think you’re getting ideas.”

  “Shut up, Thorne.”

  The road unspooled beneath us, rutted earth bordered by skeletal trees. The world smelled of damp leaves and distant woodsmoke. Every few miles, Riven slowed, scanning the horizon, while Grabber rode silent and sharp-eyed, his gaze sweeping the fields as if expecting the next arrow.

  I wanted to ask them what they planned to do once we reached the village, but the tension in the air pressed me quiet. Instead, I watched the play of light on the horizon, Bagel’s fur tickling against my jaw, and tried to forget the taste of fear in my mouth.

  · ─ ·?· ─ · ·

  We stopped at midday in a small copse of trees, just off the road. Riven set me down beside the horse with a firmness that brooked no argument, then handed me a strip of dried meat from his pack.

  “Eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Eat anyway.”

  Thorne sprawled on a fallen log, twirling a twig between his fingers. “Gods, you two sound married already.”

  I flushed scarlet. “We don’t -”

  “Don’t feed into him,” Riven muttered.

  Thorne grinned, undeterred. “What, no threats this time? No fork to the throat? You’re softening.”

  Grabber’s voice cut through, low and even. “Enough. Eyes open.” He unrolled a small map, his finger pressing against a spot near the bottom edge. “Two more hours. The warlock’s hut lies at the edge of the village. We don’t want to be seen getting there.”

  My skin prickled.

  After another five minutes we started to ride again, the landscape shifting as the sun began to slide toward the horizon, fields giving way to crooked fences, then clusters of homes with smoke curling from their chimneys. The smell of bread baking drifted faint on the air, undercut by the sharper tang of livestock and damp earth.

  The closer we came, the quieter the men grew. Cloaks were pulled tighter, heads bowed as though we were just weary travelers passing through. I copied them, though my pulse skittered every time a villager’s glance flicked our way.

  We didn’t stop. Grabber kept us moving steadily down the narrow street, past the cluster of cottages and into its outer ring, where fences thinned and the shadows grew longer. At the very edge stood the hut.

  It looked almost ordinary at first glance, timber walls, a slanted roof, herbs hanging in bundles from the eaves. But the lanterns swayed with no wind, and the smoke that drifted from the crooked chimney smelled not of wood but of iron and something acrid that made my tongue curl.

  The horses grew restless, ears flicking, hooves stamping. Even Bagel bristled, her tail lashing against my neck.

  “Stay close,” Riven murmured, his hand brushing briefly against my arm as he swung down.

  Grabber led the way to the warped door, his knock sharp and controlled, though his eyes flicked back once toward the village street as if to make sure no one had followed.

  It opened before his fist fell a second time.

  The man who stood there was nothing like what I expected. Not old or skinny, his hair was long and silver, but his face was ageless, his eyes bright as polished glass. He looked over each of us in turn, and when his gaze landed on me, his smile curved slow and knowing.

  “Well,” he said, his voice smooth as poured wine. “The unmarked one.”

  My stomach dropped.

  · ─ ·?· ─ · ·

  The warlock stepped aside, and we filed into the narrow hut. It smelled like damp earth and bitter herbs, the air thick enough to taste. Bundles of dried plants dangled from the beams, their shadows swaying across walls carved with runes I didn’t recognize. A single table occupied the center, its surface littered with bowls, knives, jars of powders, and a mortar that still smoked faintly.

  Bagel hissed low in her throat, but she didn’t leap down. Her little body stayed pressed close, and I clutched her tighter than I meant to.

  “Sit,” the warlock said, not unkindly, but in a tone that assumed obedience. He gestured to the long bench near the table.

  No one moved at first. Riven’s jaw worked, Thorne’s dagger was already half-out of its sheath, and even Grabber looked as though he were calculating the cost of resistance.

  Then his eyes flicked to him. “You brought her here. Don’t waste my time pretending you trust no one.”

  Grabber’s lips thinned, but he sat, and the others followed. I found myself wedged between them, the warmth of their bodies on either side both protective and suffocating.

  The warlock turned to me. “You are the reason they seek you. Unmarked. Rare. Dangerous.” He plucked a sprig of something brittle and crushed it between his fingers, letting the powder fall into a simmering bowl. It hissed. “You need a mask.”

  My throat tightened. “What kind of mask?”

  “The kind that hides your scent. Your thread. Your place in the weave.” His gaze flicked toward the men. “But there is a cost.”

  Of course there was. There was always a cost.

  Grabber’s voice was low, measured. “What do you require?”

  The warlock’s smile was slow, foxlike. “Not what you fear. No blood, no flesh. Only presence. Each of you must be here when the potion is brewed. It must know who holds her. Otherwise it will vanish her from you as well.”

  Thorne leaned forward, grinning. “So if we don’t sit in on the show, we lose her? How tragic.”

  “Tragic for you,” the warlock corrected.

  I swallowed hard, watching him pour liquid from one vial into another, the surface flashing green then violet. The room smelled suddenly of ozone, sharp and electric.

  “How long does it last?” Riven asked.

  “It is hard to know. Maybe a week, maybe a day. It depends on the person. Need it again, you buy another. Fail to, and she’s seen once more.”

  I glanced at the men, all three sets of eyes locked on me. “So… a magical invisibility cloak. Basically.”

  Thorne snorted. “You read too many stories, little one.”

  “At least I read,” I muttered. “And don’t tell me this doesn’t feel like Harry Potter.”

  Grabber frowned. “Seriously, who is this Harry dude?”

  “Never mind,” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Cultural reference from before my time. Ignore me.”

  The warlock ignored us all, his focus on the bowl where liquid now boiled without flame. “It is ready.” He lifted it, the surface swirling dark and luminous all at once, and set it before me. “Drink. At once.”

  I stared at the vessel, the scent clawing at the back of my throat. My instincts screamed not to, but the men’s gazes burned against my skin. This was for survival.

  Bagel shifted in my arms, mewing softly, and I felt her small heartbeat steady against mine. I lifted the bowl.

  The liquid slid over my tongue like smoke and fire together. For a heartbeat I thought I’d choke, but then the burn softened, sinking deep, curling through my chest, my veins, my bones.

  The warlock’s voice came faint and distant. “There. Now you belong to no eye but theirs.”

  The world tilted. Darkness edged my vision, and the last thing I saw was the men leaning toward me, each with a different look, concern, calculation, something almost softer, before everything went black.

  · ─ ·?· ─ · ·

  The world returned in fragments.

  Warmth first, low and steady against my chest. A purr that vibrated through my ribs. Bagel. Then the smell of herbs and smoke, sharp enough to sting my nose. A damp coolness in the air that clung to my skin. Finally, voices, low, edged, as though muffled behind a curtain.

  I opened my eyes. The ceiling above me was crooked timber, beams running at strange angles like the bones of something long-dead. I was on a cot, my cloak pulled over me. Bagel blinked up at me from where she was curled on my chest, and I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Alive. I was alive.

  “You’re awake.”

  Riven’s voice. He was leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed, but his eyes were fixed squarely on me. He looked like he hadn’t moved since I collapsed.

  The others came into focus in pieces. Thorne, crouched by the fire, turning a small iron poker in the flames like he wanted to stab the coals into submission. Grabber stood closest to the warlock, who was quietly scraping powder from a mortar into a glass vial, his movements precise, deliberate.

  “How long?” My voice cracked.

  “A few hours,” Grabber said, turning toward me. His eyes swept over me like he was cataloguing the fact that I was still breathing. “You went under hard.”

  The warlock looked up then, his silver hair catching the lantern light. “That was expected.” He wiped the mortar clean, setting it aside. “The brew strips away threads. Mortal bodies don’t like being untethered.”

  I sat up slowly, my head swimming. “What… what did you do to me?”

  His smile curved, not unkind but not reassuring either. “Made you forgettable.”

  The words hit harder than I expected. Forgettable. I pressed a hand to my chest as if I might feel some part of myself missing. “I don’t, I don’t feel right. Like something’s… hollow.”

  “That hollowness is the veil.” He stepped closer, his gaze steady, sharp as glass. “When strangers look at you now, their eyes will slide off. You won’t draw attention. You won’t hold in their memory. You are a shadow at the edge of their vision.”

  Thorne gave a low whistle, leaning back on his heels. “So she’s finally tolerable company.”

  Riven’s glare cut to him, sharp enough to wound, but Thorne only smirked, unrepentant.

  I ignored them both, my pulse climbing. “So no one can see me?”

  “Not exactly.” The warlock’s tone cooled, the way a knife might cool against skin before it cut. “Those tied to you, by blood, by bond, by spell, will still see you. Those with power may sense the disturbance if they look too closely. And touch breaks the veil. Anyone who touches you will know you’re there.”

  Grabber’s jaw tightened. “How long?”

  “Seven days.” He spread his hands, pale in the lanternlight. “When the moon is full again, the threads will begin to knit. She’ll be seen once more. Unless you return here and I weave it anew.”

  The room went very still.

  “And each time you ask for it,” the warlock went on, her eyes flicking to me, “the threads grow thinner. Fragile. Easy to tear. Easy to bind.”

  The words lodged cold in my throat. Easy to bind. My hands curled in the blanket without meaning to. “What does that mean?”

  His smile was slow, deliberate. “It means magic leaves stains. The more times this veil is cast, the more the stain will seep into the fabric of you. And the more those who stood here while it was woven will be tied to you.”

  I glanced at the men before I could stop myself. Thorne still smirked, but his gaze lingered in a way that made my skin flush hot. Riven’s face was unreadable, but his hand twitched against the hilt of his blade. Grabber didn’t look away at all.

  My chest tightened. “So this, this wasn’t just protection. It was binding.”

  “Don’t be dramatic,” Grabber said, though his voice was clipped. “What matters is that it works.”

  I stared at him, frustration and fear tangling in my chest. “It’s my life. My body. If this… stains my soul, shouldn’t I -”

  Thorne’s laugh cut me off, low and wicked. “Saints, listen to her. Already worrying about being bound.” His grin sharpened. “You sound like a pervert.”

  Heat shot to my face. “I do not!”

  Riven’s voice came in then, sharp as steel. “Enough.” His gaze landed on me, steadier, quieter. “We’ll worry about marks and bonds later. For now, you’re safe. That’s what matters.”

  Safe. The word didn’t feel safe at all. But Bagel nudged her head against my chin, purring louder, and I clung to that small, steady sound instead of the storm swirling in my chest.

  The warlock poured a dark liquid into a clay bowl, the scent acrid and metallic. He set it on the table between us. “Eat before you go. The veil will hold, but you’ll feel thin, brittle. Food will anchor you.”

  I nodded numbly, though the thought of swallowing anything made my stomach twist.

  Seven days. That was all I had. Seven days before the veil unraveled, and with it, maybe, more of myself.

  And seven days, with them, knowing every step tied me tighter to their world.

  I couldn’t resist the line about shafts flying haha

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