Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Well, Your Majesty," Emily said, her voice steeped in dry condescension. Her knees ached on the cold stone floor, but her pride was sharper than the pain. "Are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on and why you cut my arm, or are you just going to keep me kneeling here like a sacrificial goat?"

The man stood still, a tall silhouette framed by the flickering white lights. Dark robes, silver eyes, and an expression carved from stillness. Regal, sure. But more than that—dangerous. Like a storm hadn’t passed, only paused.

He looked at her for a long, weighted moment.

"First—my name is Caelan. And second—be silent," the last words threaded with power.

It hit her like cold water over skin—a pressure, invasive and heavy, threading into her chest, coiling around her thoughts like a leash being fastened.

And then… it broke.

Whatever that was—magic, compulsion, some freaky medieval Jedi mind trick—it didn’t stick.

Emily blinked. "Yeah, that’s not going to work."

His gaze narrowed. Just slightly. No outburst, no step forward, but something in the room tightened, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

"I said," she continued, louder now, "Tell me what's going on. I wake up in some horror movie basement. My arm's sliced open, a glowing tattoo on my hand, the word Servant tattooed into the other—someone needs to start explaining."

The silence that followed was taut and coiled. Then finally, he spoke again—lower this time, and with a dangerous stillness.

"You speak too freely for someone who belongs to me."

Her heart stuttered. "What?"

"You wear the mark. That class will teach you obedience, in time."

“Yeah, no. That’s not happening.”

To her surprise, he didn’t lash out. Didn’t move at all.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” she said, lifting her chin. “So how about you start with why you cut my arm? Did it hurt you too or was that just for fun?” she asked, not quite believing the words even as she said them.

He studied her like one might a strange creature—something wild that shouldn’t speak, yet somehow did.

Caelan’s eyes flicked briefly to her arm. “I was testing a theory. After I grazed you with the knife the first time.”

Emily stared at him, her heart ticking faster. “And?”

His voice was matter-of-fact, but taut. “And unfortunately, I was right.”

He let that hang for a second before continuing. “I was trying to summon a soul-weapon. A construct—bound to obey, shaped by the summoner’s need. But instead, I got you. Whole. Alive. Sentient.”

Her brows drew together, but she said nothing.

Caelan’s tone cooled further. “The bond still formed. But it’s… wrong. Too deep. When I cut you, I felt it. As if my own skin split. So I did it again. Slower. To be sure.”

His expression didn’t waver. “Same pain. Same place. The bond is reflecting damage.”

She didn’t like the way he said “reflecting.” Like she was a mirror. Or a mistake.

His hand hovered for a second—then moved. One fluid motion, and the knife was in his grip again.

Emily went very still.

Caelan looked at her with unsettling calm. “Let me test another theory.”

Emily’s breath caught as the knife gleamed in his hand.

She raised her hand fast, fingers spread. “Okay—wait. Are you about to kill me? Because if this soul-bond thing is real, what if it kills you too?”

Caelan didn’t reply.

He just rolled back his sleeve.

His forearm was bare save for the black glyph that marked his classification—Soul-Arcanist—etched sharp into the skin like a brand.

Then, without a word, he drew the knife across his own arm.

Deliberate. Clean. Controlled.

He didn’t even blink.

Emily froze, breath lodged somewhere between her ribs.

“What the hell are you—”

Pain ripped through her forearm.

She gasped, clutching it as blood bloomed across her skin—same spot, same angle. The cut was identical. Deep, burning, alive.

“Oh my god. What the fuck?”

The pain was real. Too real. It didn’t just echo—it matched. Like her body had been wired to his, nerve for nerve.

She looked at him, eyes wide.

He was watching her. Calm. Detached. Like he hadn’t just sliced himself open to prove something.

Like this was the answer he needed.

She clutched her arm, blood warm against her fingers. The pain hadn’t faded. It throbbed—deep, sharp, real.

Emily looked up at him, breath ragged. “What the hell is this?”

Caelan didn’t move. The blade hung still in his hand.

“I don’t know,” he said at last.

She blinked. “Seriously?”

“There are soulbonds between people,” he admitted. “But they’re... emotional. Shallow. You feel what your partner feels—grief, joy, unrest. Some married couples forge them during the joining rites. But they don’t share injuries. They don’t draw blood.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Emily’s stomach turned. “So this isn’t one of those.”

“No.” His voice was quiet, but cold. “This is something else.”

She swayed slightly on her feet. “And what were you trying to do again? Summon a weapon or whatever?”

“I was summoning a soul-weapon.” His gaze flicked over her, analyzing her.

She swallowed hard. “So, what am I then? The sword you didn’t ask for?”

“No.” He paused. “You’re the summoner’s failure.”

That hit harder than she expected.

Her jaw clenched. “Can it be undone?”

Caelan’s expression didn’t shift. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either.”

“Then you’d better start figuring it out. Because I’m not going to stay here and play servant to some moody, knife-happy warlock who thinks I’m a miscast spell.”

Caelan didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. But something shifted in his eyes.

A slow, knowing smirk curved his mouth.

“Oh,” he said, voice low and laced with something dark. “You won’t have to play. Stand.”

She happily rose off her knees.

He tipped his head toward her arm.

“You already are.”

Emily glanced down.

Servant still glowed faintly, burned into her skin like a brand. The sight made her stomach twist—but before she could speak, his voice dropped further.

“Mine.”

The word hit her like a spark to dry kindling.

Heat rushed low in her belly—liquid, electric, unwanted but undeniable. It pulsed down between her legs, sharp and sudden, and so completely out of place she nearly staggered.

She sucked in a breath, silent but sharp.

Oh my god. What the fuck is wrong with me?

It was desire. Real. Raw. Primal in a way she didn’t recognize—like her body had tuned itself to his voice, his presence, his claim. Like something ancient inside her had turned toward him without permission.

No. She shoved the thought down, hard.

Her fists clenched at her sides. Her face burned with anger—and something else.

She forced herself to look up.

He was watching her.

Not with the cold detachment from before. Not entirely. His gaze was sharp—unflinching—and this time, it was focused. Like he’d caught the flicker of something he wasn’t supposed to see and was now dissecting it, piece by piece.

He saw her reaction. She was sure of it.

And though his expression barely changed, there was the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth—like the ghost of a smirk trying not to be born.

Amused. Not openly. Not enough to mock her.

But enough to register.

As if her desire didn’t surprise him.

As if he’d expected it.

That tiny flicker of satisfaction in his eyes made her want to slap it right off his face—and made her pulse jump in a way she absolutely didn’t give permission for.

Emily straightened, rage coiling inside her like barbed wire.

“You think this is funny?” she snapped. “That you can just say something like that and—what? I melt? Roll over?”

The heat between her legs was still there, stubborn and maddening. It made her feel hijacked, like her own body was conspiring against her.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

That look—that infuriating, unreadable stillness—said everything.

And nothing.

She exhaled sharply, trying to burn the tension out of her lungs.

He’d called her his. Like it was already true. Like it didn’t matter what she thought.

And worse—some small, treacherous part of her body had agreed.

Emily dragged in a breath and shook her head, hard, as if she could shake the heat clawing through her system right out of her skull. Focus, she snapped at herself. Pull it together.

She forced her gaze down—and instantly wished she hadn’t.

Three long, bleeding cuts stretched across her forearms, crimson and raw. They mirrored his exactly. The pain had dulled into a steady throb, but the sight of it—her skin opened by someone else’s blade—sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through her.

Then she saw her hand again.

There, glowing just beneath the skin on the back of her right hand, was a tattoo.

Not ink. Not paint. A mark of pure magic, alive with ember-orange light like coal. It swirled in delicate, fluid lines—no hard angles, no simple rune. The shape shifted faintly when she moved, as if the magic inside it breathed. As if it knew she was looking.

A sigil. Branded deep.

Not part of the "Servant" designation. Something different.

And completely fused to her.

She flexed her fingers, but the tattoo didn’t waver. It pulsed with her heartbeat, warm and constant—like a second soul stitched into her skin.

“What the hell is this?” she whispered.

The anger came next—sharp and steady—anchoring her as she looked up again. Her voice came out tight.

“What did you do to me?”

Caelan’s brows drew together, just slightly. A flicker of confusion crossed his otherwise unreadable face.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “That’s your second life.”

Emily blinked. “My what?”

He lifted his right hand.

A glowing mark shimmered to life across the back of it—similar to hers, but different in shape. His burned brighter, the lines sharper, deeper. It looked alive. Embedded into him like it had always been there.

“Everyone’s born with one,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Your ember sigil. The mark of a second life.”

She looked down at her own hand. The mark still pulsed softly. Warm. Alive.

“Why is it glowing?” she asked, unsettled.

“It’s always like that,” Caelan said. “Faint heat. Like it remembers the fire. That’s normal.”

“Take it off.”

Caelan tilted his head. “What?”

“These marks. This place. Whatever the hell this is.” Her voice sharpened. “Send me back. Send me back now.”

The silence stretched.

He didn’t look smug. Didn’t look angry. Just...still.

“I can’t,” he said finally.

Her stomach dropped. “Can’t—or won’t?”

“I summoned a weapon. Not you and this-bond. I need to sever it first”

“And you don’t know how to send me back, do you?”

“No.”

The word hit harder than it should have. It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t yell. But the truth in it landed like a weight in her chest.

She took a step forward, fists clenched. “I have a life. I’m not some spirit or sword you can just—just chain and discard. I need to go home. I need to—” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “There are people who need me.”

Caelan didn’t respond right away. His expression was unreadable again.

Finally, he said, “This shouldn’t have been possible.”

“Oh, well that makes me feel better.” She exhaled sharply, her anger folding in on itself, twisting into something colder. “So what now? You just keep me here?”

“No.”

“Then what?” she snapped. “You’re the magician. Fix this.”

“If I could undo it,” he said, voice low, “I would have by now.”

That stopped her.

Because it didn’t sound like a lie.

Emily stared at him, pulse loud in her ears. She hated that part of her believed him. That part of her still thought like a doctor—always evaluating symptoms, always reading beneath the surface.

She crossed her arms. “There must be someone who knows. A way to undo it.”

Caelan’s eyes flicked to hers. “Possibly. I intend to find out.”

“You expect me to just—what—wait around while you chase answers? For a bond you don’t even understand?”

His voice cooled. “Yes.”

Emily let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, no. That’s not going to happen. I didn’t ask for this. I’m coming with you.”

“You're not capable,” he said flatly. “You’re safer here.”

She stepped forward, jaw tight. “Safe? You think this is safe? My soul is bound to yours, Caelan. My hand lit up like a goddamn flare and I woke up in your creepy-ass ritual chamber. You don’t get to sideline me.”

“You’re alive, aren't you,” he said flatly. “That’s more than I can say for most who cross into Viremoor.”

That shut her up. For a moment.

She looked back down at her glowing ember sigil, the light catching in the valleys of her palm like a brand that didn’t burn.

“I want to go home,” she said quietly.

Caelan didn’t answer.

Not because he didn’t hear her.

But because he didn’t know how.

“Wait did you say... Viremoor?” Her voice was thin, disbelieving. “What is that? A place?”

The word felt wrong in her mouth. Sharp-edged. Heavy. Like it came with baggage she hadn’t packed.

He didn’t answer—just turned and walked away, dark robes trailing like smoke behind him.