The Blood Pact

POV: Isolde (Izzy) Thorne

Alaric dragged me through a massive hallway. The walls were made of black glass, and I could see my stolen face reflected in them. I looked like a queen, but I felt like a lamb in a trap. His grip on my wrist was like an iron shackle.

"Stop! You’re hurting me!" I cried out.

He didn't stop. He didn't even turn his head. We reached a heavy stone door. He pushed it open and tossed me inside. I stumbled, my silk dress tangling around my legs. The room was huge, but it felt like a cage. There was a large desk covered in old papers and a fireplace that had no fire.

Alaric turned around. He looked at me with those cold, obsidian eyes. The voice returned to my head, louder than before. It felt like a needle scratching against my brain.

“Strip,” he commanded.

I froze. My face went red, then pale. "What? No! I am a noble lady of House Thorne. You cannot treat me like this!"

His stone face didn't move, but I felt his anger. It was like a wave of heat.

“You are a liar,” the voice growled. “You are a weaver from the slums. I can feel the fake magic on your skin. It tastes like cheap perfume. If you do not show me your true mark, I will call the guards. They will hang your brother before the sun goes down.”

My heart thrashed in my chest. He knew everything. My brother, Leo. The war. The lie. I reached for the collar of my dress with shaking fingers. I pulled the fabric down just enough to show my collarbone.

There, etched into my skin, was a glowing silver thread. It was the Weaver’s Mark. It was the proof that I was a criminal.

Alaric walked toward me. Each step was a heavy thud. He stopped inches away. He reached out a stony finger and touched the mark. A shock of electricity ran through my body. I gasped, my knees going weak.

The black stone on his finger began to crack. A piece fell off, hitting the floor with a "clink." Underneath, his skin was pink and warm.

"You're using me," I whispered. My voice trembled with hate. "You chose me because my magic can heal you. You don't want a wife. You want a doctor."

“I want a cure,” he corrected. “My kingdom is dying because I am turning into a statue. The Umbra-Knights are at the gates. If I become stone, everyone dies. Including your brother.”

He walked to the desk and picked up a sharp silver dagger. He held it out to me, handle first.

“Cut your hand,” he said.

"Why?"

“We need a blood pact. It is the only way to hide your magic from the High Seer. If he finds out you are a weaver, he will kill you instantly. But if our blood is mixed, your magic will look like mine. It will look like royal power.”

I looked at the dagger. I thought about Leo in that cage. I thought about the guards who kicked our door down. This King was the reason my life was a mess. He was the one who sent the soldiers. He was the one who took our food and our hope.

I took the dagger. The metal was cold.

"If I do this," I said, looking him in the eye, "you send Leo home. Not in a week. Not in a month. Today."

“Deal,” the voice said.

I sliced a thin line across my palm. It stung, and red blood began to pool in my hand. Alaric did the same to his human hand. He reached out and pressed his palm against mine.

The world exploded in light.

It wasn't just magic. I felt his emotions. I felt a mountain of pain. I felt the weight of a thousand years of silence. I felt his fear of being trapped in a body that wouldn't move. But deeper than that, I felt something dark.

He was hiding something. The curse wasn't an accident.

“It is done,” he said, pulling his hand away.

I looked at my palm. The cut was gone. In its place was a black crown tattooed on my skin. It pulsed with a dark light. I felt sick. I was tied to him now. Every time he used my magic, I would feel it. Every time he hurt, I would hurt.

"Now send my brother home," I demanded.

Alaric walked to a bell pull and yanked it. A servant appeared at the door, bowing low. Alaric wrote a quick note on a piece of parchment and handed it over.

"Is he safe?" I asked.

Alaric looked at me. For the first time, his expression changed. A small, cruel smirk touched his lips.

“He is safe from the war. But he is not home.”

"What? You promised!"

“I promised to discharge him from the army. I did. But a boy with your blood is too valuable to leave in the slums. He is in the palace dungeons, Isolde. He will stay there to make sure you keep your end of the bargain.”

I screamed in rage and lunged at him. I wanted to scratch his eyes out. I wanted to tear the stone from his face. But as I got close, the door burst open.

Lady Morgana stood there. She was beautiful, but her eyes were full of venom. She held a small, glowing stone in her hand, a Truth-Seeker.

"Your Majesty!" she cried, pointing the stone at me. The stone turned a bright, angry red. "I knew it! This girl is not Isadora. The stone never lies. She is a spy!"

Alaric didn't move. He looked at me, then at Morgana.

"She is my queen." Alaric’s real voice cracked through the room. It was the first time he had spoken out loud. It sounded like grinding rocks. "And anyone who calls her a spy will lose their tongue."

Morgana gasped, but she didn't back down. She looked at me with a smile that made my skin crawl.

"A queen?" she laughed. "Then she won't mind the Trial of the Glass Floor tomorrow. If she is royal, she will walk. If she is a fake... she will fall into the pit of obsidian shards."

She turned and left. I looked at Alaric. My heart was pounding.

"What is the glass floor?" I asked.

Alaric looked away. “It is a test of blood. And tomorrow, Isolde, you are going to die.”