A primal scream tore from Isolde’s throat, ripped raw by the sheer terror that seized her. It wasn’t a sound she recognized. Her own voice, a stranger’s shriek in the quiet, decaying chamber. Her heart hammered, a frantic drum against her ribs, threatening to fracture bone. Blood pounded in her ears, a deafening roar. All she wanted was for the ancient stone floor to cleave open, swallow her whole into the cold embrace of the earth. Yet, a flicker of that grim determination, the cold spark of survival, ignited deep within her. “Cassian,” she choked, the name a fragile whisper against the heavy air. “Lord Cassian.” No response. Only the ragged, rasping breath of the man pinning her down. His weight was crushing, an unyielding mass. Her trembling fingers scrabbled for the small leather pouch at her waist, a reflex, a desperate reach for the potent sedatives, the powdered herbs, the vials of calming tinctures she always carried. Futile. They were no good like this. Her mind raced, a frantic search for leverage, for an opening, for a way to re-establish the delicate containment that had shattered around them. When Isolde and Lord Valerius’s trusted retainers were occupied elsewhere, the chamber was meant to be secure, locked from the outside. The subterranean vault beneath the manor, where she usually tended her concoctions, was her sanctuary, her workshop, her only true domain. The ancient seals she constantly renewed were meant to keep such horrors *out*, or *in*, never *loose*. Her responsibility was clear, etched into her very bones by Valerius’s icy decree: care for Cassian until the true culprit was found. And, above all, do not let him leave the ancestral manor. She froze, remembering the searing pain of the binding pact, the invisible chains that now held her captive. Valerius had given her so little. His brother’s name, the accusation, the threat. That was all. Yet, she knew the Valerius name carried weight, power that stretched beyond the Whispering Moors, power that could crush her, silence her, make her disappear like the mist in a stiff wind. The ease with which he’d woven the binding pact spoke of ancient magic, dark knowledge. *“It will not be difficult for me to make you a murderer, Isolde Thorne.”* His words, cold and sharp as winter ice, echoed in her skull. She shivered, not from the chill of the unheated chamber, but from the memory of his veiled malice. Never before had she felt such utter helplessness. Not even when the blight took her family, not even when she stood alone in the ruins of her childhood home, clinging to her few remaining remedies. Then, she had fought. Now, she was already found guilty, branded a criminal by a powerful lord, accused of a transgression she hadn't committed. The local authorities, superstitious and easily swayed, would be no help. They’d already dismissed her frantic claims of a predatory entity as the ramblings of a traumatized woman. She remembered the vacant stares of the few guards Valerius had stationed at the manor gates, their faces grim, their belief in her story nonexistent. They saw only her, the strange woman with dirt under her nails and knowledge of arcane herbs, the one accused of harming the noble lord. It was either she had gone mad, they implied, or the world surrounding the Valerius family was a far more terrifying place than their simple minds could comprehend. Once, she had considered fleeing, seeking solace in the remote hamlets beyond the Moors, but the binding pact was a tangible leash around her soul. The phantom grip of Valerius’s power was a constant, chilling reminder. A message had arrived then, not words, but a silent image: Valerius standing beside the Chief Warden of the farthest settlement, their smiles cold, complicit. A simple, undeniable threat. She regretted the day her destiny had collided with theirs, the day she had sought ancient herbs near the Valerius lands, unwittingly stumbling into their dark legacy. There wasn’t anything she could do now. Her mind, usually a sharp blade, felt dull, broken, unable to carve a path to escape. Worse, a part of her had given up long ago, even before she truly began to fight. All she had hoped was that Cassian, the vessel for the unspeakable entity, would remain lost to the world, comatose, contained. Alas. He was here. Above her. His eyes, though unfocused and wild, burned with an unsettling intensity. They were not the eyes of a man who had just woken from a long sleep. There was a predatory glint, a raw hunger. Right then, her desperate mind reminded her of the one ironclad rule for survival: never bark at the wolf who can devour you whole. So, to avoid a fate far worse than any prison—to avoid being left for the entity, or broken by Valerius—she had to regain control. She had to contain him. Wish, her hands weren’t the only ones meant to do the containing. “Cassian,” she forced out, her voice steadier now, an almost clinical calm masking the inferno within. Her gaze locked onto his. “I know you’re confused. You’ve been… away for a long time. I’ll explain everything. Slowly.” A deep breath, fighting the urge to flinch from his feral stare. “Please, let me go. Stand up.” The man above her reacted in the opposite way. Predictable, like her cursed fate. His body shifted, pressing harder. A heavy, unfamiliar warmth radiated from his skin, searing through the thin fabric of her tunic. It wasn’t a human warmth. It was too intense, too close, too invasive. The tip of his nose brushed against her nape, sending a jolt of pure revulsion through her. He wasn’t just invading her space; he was claiming it. “What… what in the…” The rest of her protest died in her throat, strangled by the sheer disbelief. He didn’t budge. Instead, he buried his face deeper, inhaling. A ragged, guttural sound rumbled in his chest. His hot breath ghosted over her skin, prickling her with a horrific awareness. Like a wild creature, he was scenting her, memorizing her. “Stop making noise.” His voice was rough, a rasping growl. “Answer my questions.” A lump formed in Isolde’s throat. She swallowed hard, a dry, painful effort. Her head gave a quick, jerky nod. “Did you lock me up?” “What?” Her eyes widened, bewilderment momentarily eclipsing the terror. His tone, the sheer absurdity of the question, threw her completely off balance. Cassian, what kind of life had you lived to ask such a thing? And why the odd, stilted politeness, like a child reciting a forgotten lesson? “Or,” he continued, his voice softer now, a chilling lilt, “did *I* lock *you* up?” Her fear, for a fleeting moment, vanished, replaced by a surge of frustrated disbelief. She shook her head, unable to hide the irritation. “Absolutely not! What kind of monster do you think I am?” “I am asking the questions here,” he snarled, the politeness dissolving into raw menace. His eyes narrowed, burning into hers. “Why am I here?” This time, his voice was strangely sweet, almost innocent. It was a terrifying contrast to the raw power of his grip. She was unfamiliar with this new tone, this feigned simplicity. His polite question was no less a threat. It was a predator playing with its prey. Was it because she knew his true nature, or rather, the true nature of what festered within him? When his tone pressed, an unspoken command for an answer, she spoke, her voice calm, measured. “You are a patient, Lord Cassian. You’ve woken after a long, difficult sleep.” The silence stretched, thick and heavy. His heavy breathing was the only sound. She felt the weight of the moment on her shoulders. Convincing him, calming him, was the least she could do to save her life. “It’s not a dangerous situation,” she said, her voice softer now, almost soothing. “Please, try to calm down.” The man above her, who had been breathing in ragged, panting gasps, slowly regained a more normal, if still labored, pace. Perhaps her words, despite the absurdity, had reached some part of him. Or perhaps the entity within was merely biding its time. Since the day she arrived at the manor, she had constantly prayed for him to remain in his vegetative state. He shouldn’t have woken up. Things would become impossibly complicated, irrevocably dangerous, the moment this killer began to move at his own will. How would Isolde deal with his cruel and selfish nature? How would she contain *this*? She wasn’t ready. She could never be ready. “But why are you trembling?” His hoarse voice, a rasp that scraped against her ears, pulled her sharply from her thoughts. Did she see a flicker of a smirk on his lips? A knowing gleam in his wild eyes? He added, his voice dangerously soft, “Did you do something wrong to me?” “N… no?” Her eyes grew wide, caught off guard by his audacity, the sheer nerve of the accusation. The crushing weight pressing her body down vanished in an instant. Her body flipped over like a fried egg, spun by the sudden, rough grip he took on her arm. Her heart slowly began to pound anew, a heavy thud against her chest, and her ears could catch the low thrum of vibrating energy that seemed to emanate from him. He brought his face dangerously closer to hers, his eyes blazing. ---

Chapter 7: The Unbound