They called it a compromise.
Veyla learned that word had sharp edges.
The council chamber was colder than the ritual hall, its stone seats arranged in a half-circle meant to imply unity. In practice, it made every speaker feel exposed. Banners of three realms hung side by side—Aurelion white and gold, the Northern Clans' iron sigil, the Crimson Court's dark velvet crest—stitched together by necessity, not trust.
Veyla stood where she had been instructed to stand.
Not at the center.
Offset. Measured. Safe.
A chalk line had been drawn across the floor earlier that morning, faint but deliberate. A boundary no one spoke of aloud.
She did not cross it.
Khorg Ironmaw occupied the far end of the chamber, arms folded across his chest, posture rigid. He had positioned himself precisely seven paces from the line. Not closer. Not farther.
Seven paces hurt less.
His wolf paced inside him, restless and furious.
*Closer,* it demanded.
Khorg ignored it, jaw clenched. The scent still reached him even at this distance—dulled, tolerable, like a blade wrapped in cloth. His stomach stayed mostly calm. Mostly.
The price came later.
Across the chamber, Vinculus Noctaryn stood with aristocratic ease, leaning lightly against a carved pillar as if this were a private salon rather than a battlefield of nerves. He, too, had chosen his distance carefully.
Nine paces.
For him, less was unbearable.
More was… dangerous.
The ache had begun again during the walk here, a low hum in his veins that made his blood feel fractionally too warm. He masked it with practiced indifference.
*I will not be managed by a girl and a chalk line,* he told himself coolly.
The council began without ceremony.
"This arrangement cannot continue," Lord Hadrien said, wasting no time. "The offering destabilized the ritual. Proximity causes physical harm. Distance causes—"
"—psychological deterioration," interrupted a scholar from the Southern Coalition, eyes flicking nervously between Khorg and Vinculus. "We've observed… symptoms."
Veyla's fingers curled.
Symptoms.
As if they were discussing a disease.
Khorg's lip curled in a silent snarl.
Vinculus smiled thinly.
"And yet," Vinculus said smoothly, "the bond persists. Which means termination remains… inadvisable."
"Say it plainly," Khorg snapped. "Kill her and risk something worse."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
Veyla lifted her chin.
"If I may speak," she said.
The council stilled.
She stepped forward one measured pace—stopping well before the chalk line. The ache flared immediately in her chest, sharp enough to steal her breath for half a second.
She hid it.
"I was offered as peace," she continued evenly. "If my presence threatens that peace, then I am prepared to be confined, regulated, or restricted."
Khorg's head snapped up.
"No," he said flatly.
Vinculus's gaze sharpened.
Veyla met neither of their eyes.
"But," she added quietly, "I will not be treated as an object of speculation. If decisions are to be made about my body, I will be present for them."
Silence followed.
Then Madame Zora laughed.
It cut through the tension like a blade through silk.
"Oh, I like her," Zora said cheerfully from her seat on the back bench, boots propped up with scandalous disregard for decorum. "Most sacrifices just bleed quietly."
Lord Hadrien glared. "This is not a joke."
Zora waved a hand. "Everything's a joke if it survives long enough."
She leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Here's the reality, gentlemen. The bond formed. It didn't *work*, but it didn't *fail* either. So now you're all stuck managing consequences instead of pretending there's a clean solution."
She tapped the chalk line with her boot.
"Distance helps the body," she said. "Hurts the mind. Proximity helps the bond. Hurts the flesh."
Veyla swallowed.
"So what do we do?" the scholar asked.
Zora grinned. "We set rules."
The room shifted.
Khorg straightened, instincts bristling.
Vinculus folded his arms, expression unreadable.
"Rule one," Zora continued lightly, "no unsupervised proximity under five paces."
Khorg growled low in his throat.
"Rule two," she added, unfazed, "no extended separation beyond twelve hours."
Vinculus's eyes flickered.
"That is impractical," he said.
Zora shrugged. "So is extinction. Pick one."
A chill swept the chamber.
"Rule three," Zora finished, voice sharpening. "Any attempt to 'fix' the princess without my involvement will be treated as an act of war."
She smiled sweetly.
"That includes alchemists, priests, and overly enthusiastic kings."
Vinculus inclined his head slightly. "Noted."
Khorg's claws flexed.
"And rule four," Zora said, softer now. "The princess chooses when she moves. Not you."
All eyes turned to Veyla.
For a heartbeat, she forgot to breathe.
Khorg felt the bond tug painfully at that moment—approval, relief, something dangerously close to pride.
Vinculus felt it too, a subtle realignment that made his chest ache sharply.
Veyla nodded once.
"Then I will comply," she said.
The council adjourned soon after, agreement reached not through consensus but exhaustion.
As the chamber emptied, Khorg remained where he was, fists clenched at his sides.
"This won't work," he muttered.
Veyla looked at him at last.
"I know," she said softly.
Across the room, Vinculus watched them with narrowed eyes.
"This is temporary," he said. "No system built on suffering holds forever."
Zora paused beside Veyla on her way out.
"Everything holds," she murmured. "Until it doesn't."
When they were alone again, the distance between them pressed heavy and alive.
Seven paces.
Nine paces.
One chalk line.
And three hearts learning that space, too, could be a weapon.