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I turn from Beatrix to the Council. “You summoned me.”

“We did. Take your place before us.”

The second circular mark lies to Beatrix’s right. I cross the chamber toward it, each step carrying me nearer to a past I spent a decade placing beyond reach.

Beatrix watches my approach.

I stop inside the mark with six feet between us. To a human, the distance is substantial. To me, it is close enough to detect the medicinal bitterness clinging to her clothing beneath the storm ozone. The scent belongs to dried herbs, oils, and the work of her hands.

Memory supplies a different storm and a younger version of the same woman standing close enough to touch.

Her palm rests against the carapace over my heart. Lightning illuminates her face while she demands a promise no demon custom exists to contain. I give it anyway. I believe strength can force the world to honor my choice.

The memory ends where consequences begin.

My fingers grip the edge of the message slate hidden in my palm. Cold obsidian presses against my skin.

“The matter of House Obsidius’s continuance has been considered by the full Council,” Zira says.

“Your message contained that threat.”

The Matron seated to her right bares one pointed tooth. A gold cap covers the end of her broken horn. “You stand before the Council, Arena-Master.”

“I am aware of where I stand.”

Zira raises one hand, silencing the interruption. “For months, we permitted you to address the deficiency within your house. You rejected every recommendation.”

“A recommendation may be rejected.”

“Which is why the Council has issued a decree.”

Beatrix’s attention moves from Zira to me. The anger in her eyes sharpens, as if she waits to see whether I will pretend surprise.

Until this moment, I know only that the Council intends to settle my bloodline. Her presence reveals the method.

The trap closes with perfect clarity.

Zira did not select an unknown human whose obedience could be purchased. She chose the only woman whose presence threatens the control required by my office. Whether she knows our entire history matters less than the fact that she knows enough.

House Obsidius will produce an heir, or its lord will expose a weakness before the storm-court. Either result serves the Council.

I examine the other Matrons. The one with charcoal carapace sits forward with both hands resting on her knees. Another studies Beatrix’s body with the detached attention of a breeder assessing stock. Only the eldest, whose horns curve down beside her cheeks, watches me rather than the human selected for me. None appears surprised. Whatever debate preceded this decree ended before either Beatrix or I entered the chamber.

Zira has arranged the stage carefully. The court will see obedience, defiance, or division. It will not see uncertainty from the Council.

“State the decree,” I say.

Zira’s red gaze rests on me. “Beatrix Ferryman has been selected as the human most suitable to secure your lineage. By authority of the Council of Seven, she will be bonded to Lord Draxon Obsidius, Arena-Master of Storm-Crest. The union will affirm the loyalty of your house and produce a viable line of succession.”

The wording is formal, bloodless, and absolute.

Beatrix becomes a selected human. I become an office and a bloodline. What passed between us 10 years ago has no place in the decree, yet it stands between every word Zira speaks.

“Was her agreement requested?” I ask.

Beatrix’s gaze snaps fully to me.

Zira answers without hesitation. “Human agreement is not required for a lawful breeding bond.”