The golden-armored figures moved with a chilling efficiency, their ceremonial staffs tapping against the polished marble floor of the Prism Conservatory. They didn’t bother with pleasantries, merely seized Roshanak by the arm, the scarlet cord binding her to Iskandar stretching taut, glowing like an exposed artery. When they tried to separate them by more than a dozen paces, the bind retaliated instantly. A searing jolt punched through Roshanak’s ribs, forcing a raw wheeze from her lungs. Iskandar, held by two hulking guards, stiffened as well, his teeth grinding audibly together.
[PROXIMITY VIOLATION. SEPARATION SHOCK INITIATED.]
“The Loom’s decree,” one of the Weaver’s Court guards grunted, eyeing the pulsing cord with open distaste. “It binds them both. We cannot pull them apart without risking… escalation.”
“Then they are taken together,” a stern voice declared, belonging to a woman whose helmet bore a triple-spun silver bobbin. “To the Solarium Holding Cells. Let the Court decide their fate.”
Roshanak, still gasping from the shock, stumbled along, the guards effectively forming a human cordon around the luminous tether. Iskandar walked beside her, his gaze unsettlingly steady. The slimy, rotting kelp she wore scraped against her collarbones, sour and rank. She fixed her stare on the pale quartz walls of the Solarium Holding Cells as they were ushered inside.
The cell was a hexagon of seamless quartz, cut to contain errant auras and rogue yarn-spinners. There were no bars, only six pale, reflective facets. A low bench carved from the same mineral offered the only seating. The air within was cool, sterile, and utterly devoid of the rich, earthy smells Roshanak had cultivated so meticulously.
She immediately began rummaging through the folds of her kelp-dress, her fingers snagging on a particularly thick, fibrous knot. Her triumphant grunt was followed by the extraction of a truly magnificent, fist-sized raw onion. It was a pale, papery orb, its layers promising a pungent, eye-watering assault. She had purloined it from the Conservatory kitchens hours before the gala, a contingency for just such an eventuality.
Without a word, she raised the onion to her mouth and took a ferocious, audible bite. The crisp *crack* echoed in the silent cell. The sharp, acrid juice burst onto her tongue, and she chewed with exaggerated gusto, her jaws working like a wood-grinder. Sulfuric vapor stung her tear ducts, but she stared past it, glaring at the quartz slabs opposite Iskandar. She wanted to be disgusting. She needed to be repulsive.
Iskandar remained standing, observing her with an unnerving calm. He didn’t flinch from the onion's potent fumes, didn’t turn away from the sight of her jaw working vigorously. He simply watched, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt to his head.
She took another monstrous bite, the smell of fresh onion filling the small space. “What are you staring at, Butcher?” she growled, her voice thick with onion juice and feigned aggression. “Never seen a lady enjoy a healthy snack?”
He slowly lifted a hand. Roshanak braced herself, expecting a blow, or perhaps a lecture on decorum. Instead, his long fingers, surprisingly gentle, brushed against her cheek. She stiffened against the wall. His calloused thumb moved with infuriating gentleness.
“There’s soot,” he murmured, his thumb wiping at a dark smudge near her ear, a remnant of the Loom’s furious discharge. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of judgment. “From the Loom. And…” he paused, his gaze dropping to the crimson thread that now pulsed softly between their chests, “the strand carries more than pain, little hyena. It sings with a frantic vibration. The taste of your terror is… surprisingly sharp.”
Roshanak’s jaw snapped shut, the half-eaten onion forgotten. He could *taste* her fear? Acid rose in her throat. Her elaborate, disgusting facade was useless. He saw through it. Or, rather, he tasted through it.
A faint, rhythmic rasping vibrated beneath the mineral flagstones. Years of listening for fine shear-friction told her the rasp came from an illegal diamond shear. Parisa.
The abrasive screech mounted. Iskandar turned toward the stones just as a circular plug, three feet wide, popped upward with a dry puff of subterranean dust.
Through the breach, a familiar face peered up from the earthen crawlway below. Parisa, her usually impeccable braids disheveled, a smudge of dirt across her nose, grinned. “About time you two got into some real trouble,” she whispered, her voice a rough-silk rasp. “Move. Now.”
Roshanak scrambled off the bench, letting the onion roll into the corner. “Took you long enough, you slow-witted textile-thief!” she hissed back, already clambering towards the opening.
She squeezed through the gap, dropping into the damp dirt beneath the masonry. Parisa caught her, pulling her upright. “Faster, Roshanak!” Parisa urged, already turning to run. “They’ll realize you’re gone within minutes.”
Roshanak didn’t need to be told twice. She bolted, putting every ounce of her panicked strength into her legs. The shaft was narrow, roughly dug, and thick with root-mold. Twelve paces from the shaft's mouth, she reached for a supporting timber.
Then, the agony struck. This was no gentle hum, no mild prickle. This was a lightning strike, a thousand white-hot needles driven simultaneously into her chest, her back, her very bones. The ruby line snapped taut behind her, burning white at the core and yanking hard against her sternum. She screamed, a raw, involuntary sound, and crumpled to her knees. The pain was so immediate, so absolute, that she couldn’t even think of movement.
[PROXIMITY VIOLATION. LETHAL SEPARATION SHOCK INITIATED.]
“Roshanak!” Parisa cried, skidding to a halt, her face etched with alarm. “What in the name of the Weavers is that?!”
Roshanak could only writhe, her vision blurring. She could feel the thread physically constricting, tightening its grip, demanding her return to her tormentor. Roshanak squinted backward through the gloom. Iskandar was being hauled bodily into the gap, drawn forward by the rigid crimson line anchored to his breastplate. His boots caught on the rim of the quartz hole before his bulk dropped into the dirt, wool sleeves tearing on jagged rock.
The instant he hit the subfloor, the constriction vanished. The line slackened, settling into a dull simmer against her ribs. She coughed, gasping for air, her muscles still spasming uncontrollably.
Iskandar landed with a soft thud, right behind her. He stood, brushing dust from his shoulders with an almost casual air. He looked down at Roshanak, still panting on all fours, then down at the scarlet tether connecting them. A slow, infuriating smirk spread across his face, a predatory gleam entering his eyes.
“Lead the way, little hyena. I am entirely yours.”