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The talon tapping at the far end stops.

Zira’s expression remains composed. “Your records indicate no living parents, siblings, or registered children.”

“My father is dead. My mother died when I was young. I have no siblings or children.”

“You are 29 years old.”

“You appear to have my records.”

The Matron to Zira’s right shifts in her throne. Her carapace is nearly ebony, and one horn bears a gold cap over an old break.

“Mind your tone, human.”

I turn my attention to her. “Which answer was inaccurate?”

Her fingers close around the arm of her throne.

Zira lifts one hand. The other Matron settles back, though the movement carries no surrender.

“Accuracy is one reason you were selected,” Zira says. “Your health is another. Your trade demonstrates discipline, intelligence, and the ability to maintain useful relationships beyond your assigned class.”

Selected.

The word explains more than the rest of her speech.

My summons concerns lineage. Jory was right.

I place my hands behind my back so the Council cannot watch them curl. “Selected for what?”

Zira rises.

She is not as tall as a Volvath male, but the platform grants her another several feet. The carved horns make her appear taller still. She descends one step and plants the end of her staff against the stone.

“House Obsidius possesses an unbroken line of service reaching back to Ikoth. Its current lord holds an essential office and commands unusual loyalty among the storm-court. That line has produced no heir on Galmoleth.”

The name has not yet been spoken, but I hear it beneath every word.

My pulse beats hard at the base of my throat.

“The Council has considered several means of securing the house’s continuance,” Zira says. “Previous recommendations were rejected. Continued delay is no longer acceptable.”

I force air into my lungs slowly. “What does House Obsidius have to do with me?”

Zira’s staff strikes the floor once.

“By decree of the Council of Seven, Beatrix Ferryman will bond with Lord Draxon Obsidius, Arena-Master of Storm-Crest. The union will secure a viable breeding line and affirm House Obsidius’s loyalty to the throne.”

The chamber remains exactly as it was.

Seven Matrons watch from their thrones. Crimson sigils burn along the pillars. The storm circles the spire. My boots remain planted inside the mark cut for petitioners, prisoners, and human property.

Only the shape of my life has changed.

Draxon.

Ten years of absence collapse into a single name.

I see him beneath a lightning-torn sky, silver eyes lowered to mine as he makes a promise powerful demons are supposed to understand better than humans. I see the empty place where he should have stood the following morning. I remember waiting until hope became humiliation.