The warded chambers smell of runes and living shadow, and my wrists keep flexing despite the focus I try to hold. I came here to save the domain from rivals, but the ritual requires more than compatibility. It requires me to surrender to Owen's command in ways that could expose every weakness I have hidden since the sigils first marked me.

Owen moves with that slow certainty, and every session ends with my wrists bound at his word. When the sigils ignite under the tether, the pull settles deep and steadies the isolation I have always dreaded. His silence demands I wait for the next order, and I do not know if I can obey without losing myself to the bond.