Chapter 10: The Blood Contract

POV: Neoma

The parchment was warm.

That was the first thing that made my stomach lurch. A hard, wet flip. It didn't feel like paper. It felt like skin. Cured. Stretched. But unmistakably organic. It sat on the obsidian table, pulsing. A faint, rhythmic throb that synced with the blood rushing in my ears.

The ink used to scrawl the dense, angular script smelled of wet iron. Old copper.

"Read it," Nergal commanded. His voice was a dry rustle. Dead leaves skittering on stone.

I leaned over the document. My wrists screamed where the cuffs had been removed—phantom pressure still crushing the radius. My hand shook. I forced my eyes to focus. The text swam.

THE OBSIDIAN COVENANT: TETHER PROTOCOL

Asset ID: Neoma Solstice (Void-Born Classification)

Owner: The Lugal, transferred to Unit Vanguard Command.

Clause 1: The Asset agrees to unconditional obedience.

Clause 2: The Asset consents to energy extraction.

Clause 3: The Bind. Sympathetic magical link. Desertion triggers neural collapse.

Clause 4: Term of Service. One solar cycle.

One year.

I stared at the words until they blurred into grey static. One year of being a battery. One year of being a slave to the men who had hunted me down. My chest compressed. Air trapped in my lungs, refusing to circulate.

But at the bottom, in small, precise letters, was the only line that mattered: Kaine Solstice: Amnesty Granted.

"Well?" Nergal asked.

He slid a small, ceremonial dagger across the table. The blade was obsidian. The handle wrapped in silver wire.

"It's a death sentence," I whispered. My throat felt like it was filled with ground glass.

"Only if you run," Nergal smiled. His lips pulled back over teeth that were too white. Too sharp. "Sign."

I picked up the dagger. It was heavier than it looked. The weight dragged my hand down.

I didn't look at Nergal. I thought of Kaine in that cage. Laughing at a guard. Unaware that a laser was pointed at his heart. I thought of the Dregs. The toxic rain. The hunger that ate you from the inside out. This was the only way out for him.

I took a breath. It tasted of ozone and rot.

I pressed the blade to my left palm.

Skin parted. Wet. Hot.

The pain was sharp. Bright. Immediate. Blood welled up—dark and rich. I didn't hesitate. I slammed my open hand down onto the bottom of the parchment.

Hiss.

The sound was wet. Like meat hitting a hot skillet.

The reaction was instantaneous. The parchment drank my blood. Thirsty. Violent. The red stain didn't spread; it turned black. Pitch black.

And then it moved.

I screamed.

The sound tore from my throat—raw, animalistic. The black ink lifted off the page. Swirling through the air like liquid smoke. It latched onto my wrist.

It burned hotter than fire. It felt like a ring of white-hot wire was being tightened around the bone. Crushing the marrow.

"Agh!"

I fell to my knees. Clutched my arm. My body convulsed.

The smoke solidified. It sank into my skin. Etching a deep, intricate band of black runes around my left wrist, right over the Void birthmark I had hidden my entire life.

Then—the barrier broke.

It wasn't just ink. It was them.

Three distinct, violent energies slammed into my nervous system. They didn't ask for permission. They kicked down the door of my mind and flooded the hallway.

The First was Gravity.

Heavy. Crushing. A tectonic plate shifting inside my chest. It felt like a mountain had been dropped on my sternum. Authority. It forced my head down. It made my knees hit the stone floor with a bone-jarring crack. It tasted like iron and command.

Obey, it whispered in my marrow. You are mine.

Barzil.

The Second was Ice.

Sharp. Clinical. A thousand needles piercing my frontal lobe. It wasn't heavy; it was invasive. It felt like a scalpel dissecting my thoughts, peeling back the layers of my mind to check the wiring. Cold water flooding my veins, numbing the panic, analyzing the fear.

Function, it echoed in the synapses. Do not break.

Vance.

The Third was Wildfire.

Hot. Hungry. Chaotic. It roared through my blood, burning away the ice. But it wasn't the pain of the tattoo—it was the heat of a furnace door opening. It felt... familiar. It felt like the rough skin I had touched in the subway tunnel. It didn't want to crush me. It wanted to consume me.

Found you, the fire growled. Mine.

Viggo.

I gasped. Air rushed back into my lungs, but it wasn't my air anymore. It was theirs. I was crowded in my own body.

The Bind was set.

"Beautiful," Nergal murmured. He admired the shackle. "A perfect seal."

He waved a hand at the heavy iron door behind me.

"You belong to them now."

The door groaned open. Vibration rattled the floorboards.

The air in the room changed instantly. The rotting smell of the Lugal was overpowered by a wall of intense, aggressive scents—forge smoke, winter pine, ozone, and wet earth.

The Triad walked in.

Commander Barzil Ashfang led the formation. His massive frame filled the doorway. He wasn't wearing his helmet now. His face was hard. Granite. His jaw set in a line of grim determination. He looked at me not as a person. But as a piece of equipment he had just purchased.

Behind him came the others.

Viggo. The berserker. He looked healthier now. The grey pallor gone. But his eyes... they were fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin crawl. He wasn't looking at the floor or the King. He was looking at me. The heat in my chest flared in response.

And finally, Wolfy Vance.

The Tactician stepped around Barzil. His pristine suit was a jarring contrast to the torture chamber. He held a datapad in one hand. His glacial blue eyes scanned the fresh tattoo on my wrist. Clinical. Cold. I felt the ghost of his needles in my brain.

He nodded once. Checked a box on his screen.

"Asset secured," Barzil announced to the King. His voice rumbled in my chest—the same frequency as the gravity in my soul. "We will transport her to the Barracks immediately. The Rot waits for no one."

"She is all yours, Commander," Nergal waved a dismissive hand. Already bored. Turning back to his shadows. "Do try not to break her too quickly. She is the only one of her kind."

Barzil grabbed my upper arm.

His grip was iron. Unyielding. Bruising. He hauled me to my feet. I stumbled. My legs were water—weak from the soul-invasion and the shock of the branding. He didn't slow down. He marched me toward the door.

I swayed. The edges of my vision blackened. Tunnel vision. I wasn't going to make it.

Suddenly, a hand—rough and warm—pressed a metal canteen into my free hand.

I looked up. Startled.

Viggo was walking beside me. Matching Barzil’s stride. He didn't speak. He just looked at me. His eyes were no longer the chaotic red of the tunnel; they were a clear, burning gold. I saw a thin white scar running through his eyebrow that I hadn't noticed in the dark.

He held my gaze for two seconds.

I saw it. Not hunger. A strange, fierce curiosity. The fire inside me purred.

He nodded once at the water. Then fell back into formation.

I clutched the cool metal against my chest. A tiny anchor in the storm.

Vance fell into step beside me on the other side. He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes on his datapad. Scrolling through streams of data that I assumed were my vital signs.

"Your heart rate is elevated," he noted calmly. His voice cool and smooth like polished glass. "Inefficient."

He finally looked up. Meeting my glare with a terrifying lack of emotion.

"Welcome to Unit Vanguard, Neoma," he said. "Try not to die."