The invisible grip around Xadira’s waist tightened, yanking her with brutal force. Her feet scraped the polished brass floor, sending a shriek of protest through the quiet Vanguard suite. The concubine brand on her collarbone flared like white-hot iron, an infernal beacon hauling her through the open doorway, past the stunned Miloq, and out into the hallway. “No! Get off me!” Xadira snarled, clawing at the unseen bonds. Her Ember-Arts surged, a futile surge of heat against a magic far older and darker than her own. Her eyes, still stinging from Tavros’s kiss, snapped to him. He was already moving, lunging for her, his face a mask of primal fury. “Xadir! Miloq, seal the entrance!” Tavros roared, wrestling against the invisible tether. He wrapped an arm around her waist, anchoring himself to the doorframe, trying to halt her relentless slide. The hall stretched before them, a gauntlet of polished brass plates leading toward the open training grounds. The pull was relentless, a rip tide dragging her toward a slaughterhouse. Miloq, recovering from his shock, slammed the door shut with a clang that rattled the walls. He fumbled with the complex brass latches, his face pale with exertion. “It’s no good! This magic… it’s a direct conduit! We have to destroy the anchor-stone!” “I gathered that!” Xadira bit back, gritting her teeth as the force tried to rip her from Tavros’s grasp. Every muscle in her body strained. Her head whipped from side to side, searching for an escape. This was it. This was the end. After all her fighting, all her pretending, she was going to be dragged back to that vile tent, to that beast. “Hold on!” Tavros grunted, his feet skidding on the polished floor. He dug his heels in, his muscles coiling under his tunic. He was strong, stronger than anyone she’d ever met, but even he was struggling against the arcane force. The rhythmic crunch of heavy iron boots rattled down the passage, rapidly closing the gap. A bark broke over the metallic rumble: “Halt! Imperial arrest! Miloq Qaldar, by order of Inspector Kaizir!” “Damn it!” Miloq hissed, abandoning the latches. He drew a short, curved knife, his knuckles white. “They know I’m here. They probably tracked the Ember-signature from my little… diversion. We’re trapped.” Xadira tasted bile, wedged between the contract's invisible winch and incoming steel. Her ribs shuddered as air fled her lungs in ragged gasps. She couldn’t fight both fronts, and she had zero room to flee. “There!” Tavros jutted his chin. At the end of the stone stretch, a wall of heavily armored sentries stood shoulder to shoulder behind tower shields. Sparks leaped from their gauntlets. Past their bronze ridge, the faint, blood-red pulse of the lodestone pulsed in the open yard, feeding a spiraling rift of shadow and crimson fire. “No way through,” Xadira gasped, the magical pull intensifying, threatening to dislocate her shoulder. “They’ll just cut us down.” Miloq’s eyes narrowed, a cold, regal glint entering them. He looked at the guards, then at Xadira, a silent decision hardening his features. “Perhaps not,” he muttered, dropping his knife. His hands rose, not in surrender, but in a precise, almost ritualistic gesture. An ancient, golden Ember-light, far brighter and more intricate than any Xadira had ever seen, began to weave between his palms. It wasn't the crude, raw power of a common cadet. This was something else, something forbidden. The line faltered, shields dropping an inch. Mutters ran down the ranks: “Royal Arts… the exiled prince?” “Miloq, no!” Xadira cried, realizing what he was about to do. This would expose him completely, confirm every treason charge. It would seal his fate. “Some secrets are worth sacrificing, Xadir,” Miloq said, his voice ringing with an authority she’d never heard from him. His golden Ember-Arts pulsed, coalescing into a shimmering, ornate sphere. “Especially for family.” With a low roar, Miloq thrust his hands out. The golden sphere blazed down the center line like a siege engine bolt, detonating with a concussive crack that crumpled plate armor and flung spearmen against the walls. Grit choked the passage alongside scorched hair and ozone, leaving a smoking breach wide open to the flagstones beyond. “Go! I’ll hold them!” Miloq shouted, spinning a second arc of flame as the surviving troops scrambled to form ranks. “Miloq!” Xadira choked out, but Tavros was already hauling her through the gap. “Move! He gave us the lane!” They burst past the shattered shields into the wide yard. Junior cadets scrambled for the perimeter walls away from the towering tear in the air, which spun with deepening scarlet fury. The paving stones trembled underfoot. Right beneath the tear sat an engraved granite plinth—the lodestone humming with greasy red sparks. The brand at Xadira’s collarbone burned to the marrow. The invisible winch yanked her so violently that her boots skidded across the grit, dragging Tavros off balance. Through the red haze of the breach, the Warlord’s quarters sharpened into focus: heavy silk hangings, an ivory bedframe, and a broad silhouette waiting beside it. “Almost there!” Tavros shouted, his fingers biting into her arm like iron tongs. He lined up on the plinth twenty paces out and charged, hauling her step for step toward the granite base. Just as their boots hit the inner circle, the breach lashed out. Thick, oily coils erupted from the spinning rift, hardening midair into pale links of spirit-iron. Before she could bring her blade up, the links snapped around her ribs, forearms, and thighs, pinning her limbs tight. The links contracted, biting through cloth to skin. The backward jerk tore her clean out of Tavros’s grip. She slid hard across gravel, shouting as the silk hangings expanded to fill her view. Her unbending spine, the stubborn pride she had hoarded like coin, snapped clean in two. Through the red wash, Tavros dove flat across the stones toward her. For the first time in her life, she shoved an arm outward. “Tavros! Help me!” He didn't hesitate. Tavros Helicon dove headlong across the threshold, locking his fingers through hers an instant before an errant blast from the doorway smashed the plinth to gravel, collapsing the tear and sucking them both into the black.

Swallowing Pride