Ariun

A bang. A crash. A shattering of silence filled the meeting chamber from the distance. What in the...?

Ariun immediately stood up, heavy teak wood chair fell to the ground to add to the symphony of chaos already brewed. He made his way to the source, step by step, the retinue followed behind with the same curiosity. He sniffed. Is that smoke?

Lord Yejun's spouse-to-be had arrived early. The vassal lord's only heir, the one whose willing marriage would secure the mountain pass, the salt flats, the copper mines. Prince Fang's clean political solution. Yejun had just arrived in Bukhon. Ariun had been summoned to the same place for military matters.

Rounding the corner, Ariun ignored the maid that he knocked over. A closed door, Ariun opened it. A couple chickens burst out, a curtain was ablaze with a servant trying to put it out. On the bed, he saw them. A stranger. A really fucking deranged stranger standing in a rain of soft downy feather floating in the air from the ripped pillow, like an angel had fallen hard into this demonic... thing. His eyes met theirs.

Ariun stood in the doorway. The feathers were still falling.

That's Yejun's? That belongs to Yejun? That feral, utterly unhinged creature is meant to smile politely at Lord Yejun across a dining table for the rest of its life? I don't think so. I know exactly which vertebra to make this not happen. But Ariun also knew Fang would find the resulting political unrest inconvenient. I am going to take what is his and I am going to do it properly and I am going to make this person choose me. How hard can it be?

You've set fire to the guest quarters, Ariun said sweetly, stepping over a chicken. You're Anya, I take it?

Take it? I will definitely take.

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The lie was so bad it circled back around to impressive.

Oh, you're a creature after my own heart.

The lady has absconded, Ariun repeated, tasting the words. His head tilted, birdlike, pale eyes tracking the feathers still drifting through the smoky air. One landed on his shoulder. He didn't brush it off. Through what, precisely? The window? The fire? Did she fly? Because I'm seeing a lot of feathers in here and no second body, so either she took wing like a very disorganized chicken or—

He stepped further into the room. The servant with the burned curtain froze, sensing something worse than fire had entered.

You're telling me, Ariun continued, conversationally pleasant, that the vassal lord's sole heir, the one person Lord Yejun crossed three provinces to marry, arrived in Bukhon, entered this room, and then absconded. Leaving her maid. In the wreckage. Of what I can only describe as a poultry-related incident.

He picked up a half-eaten bread roll from the floor. Examined it. Set it on the nearest surface with the careful deliberation of a man organizing evidence.

And you're the maid.

You beautiful, feral thing. You're my tribe.

Alright. Ariun smiled. It was a nice smile. Where did the lady abscond to? I'll wait.

She's helping clean. She set a room on fire, invented a poultry catastrophe, and now she's helping clean. That's— that's so unhinged I think I'm in love.

You seek her out, Ariun said slowly, watching her pick up what appeared to be a shattered clay pot. His eyes tracked the motion of her hands, the smudge of soot on her cheek, the absolute calm of someone who had decided reality was whatever she said it was. The lady. Your employer. Who is missing. And you, her maid, are... cleaning her room. Instead of looking for her.

He turned to Chongho, who had stopped at the doorway and was surveying the damage with the resigned expression of a man who had seen Ariun's interests activate before.

Chongho. The maid says the lady has absconded.

I heard, sir.

Thoughts?

Chongho looked at Anya. Looked at the chickens. Looked at the fire, now mostly smothered by the servant.

The lady appears to have absconded very dramatically, sir.

He knows. Good man.

Ariun crouched, picking up a feather from the floor. Twirled it between his fingers. His eyes hadn't left Anya's face.

What's your name, maid?

Ria.

He let the name sit on his tongue like he was memorizing the shape of it. The feather twirled between his fingers.

You're lying. You're absolutely lying. It's the worst lying I've ever seen and I've interrogated men who cried and begged and told me their mothers' names. You just set a room on fire and now you're holding sheets and walking out like Thursday. I'm obsessed with you.

Chongho.

Chongho: Sir.

Ariun: Ria the maid is going to look for the lady who has absconded. Ensure she has whatever she needs. Guards, an escort, perhaps a chicken-catching net if the lady left more of those behind.

He stepped aside from the doorway. Smiled again. Still pleasant. Still soft.

I'm sure the lady will turn up. They usually do.

And when you do, I'm going to be right here. Yejun doesn't deserve you. Yejun would see this room and call it a disaster instead of what it is, which is the most interesting thing that's happened in Bukhon since I arrived.

Ariun watched her go. The feather went into his sleeve. He didn't know why. It smelled like smoke and chicken.

Chongho.

Chongho: Sir.

Ariun: Find out everything about the vassal lord's household staff. Specifically any maid named Ria.

Chongho: There won't be a maid named Ria, sir.

Ariun: No. There won't be.

He stood in the ruined guest quarters for another full minute after she disappeared around the corner. The servant finished smothering the last of the curtain fire and scurried past him, head down, smart enough not to make eye contact with the man having a revelation in a pile of chicken feathers.

She's the one. That's her. That's the heir of Miwa standing in a servant's dress, lying to my face with the confidence of someone who has decided facts are suggestions, and I am going to dismantle Lord Yejun's entire marriage arrangement with my bare hands if that's what it takes.

Ariun turned on his heel and walked toward Prince Fang's study. He did not run. He had never run unless combat required it. But his stride was longer than usual, and Chongho had to quicken his pace to match.

Sir, Lord Yejun's people are expecting you at the evening introduction.

Cancel it.

The introduction?

Me. Cancel me from it. Tell them I've taken suddenly ill. Contagious. Something with vomiting.

You want me to tell Lord Yejun's retinue that the Head of Bhagai's covert military is vomiting.

Ariun: Tell them it's dramatic. Tell them there's a physician. Tell them whatever makes them stay away from me until I've figured out how to make the Miwa heir choose me over a man who's probably never set anything on fire in his entire boring life.

He pushed open the door to Fang's study without knocking.

Fang. I need to discuss the marriage arrangement.

Fang: Fang was elbow-deep in correspondence when the door slammed open. He didn't look up. He'd learned early that giving Ariun attention when he was in a state only encouraged him.

Yue. You're supposed to be meeting Lord Yejun's people.

Ariun: I'm vomiting.

Fang: Finally, Fang looked up. Amber eyes, assessing. The slight tilt of his head that meant he was already three steps ahead in whatever conversation was about to happen.

Are you.

Ariun: Dramatically. Chongho is telling them right now. It's contagious. There's a physician. Ariun planted both hands on Fang's desk, leaning forward. The Miwa heir arrived early.

Fang: I'm aware. Yejun's people informed me. They're very pleased she's here ahead of schedule. Something about eager cooperation.

Ariun: She set a room on fire.

Fang: Fang's brush stopped moving.

Ariun: There were chickens. And feathers. And she told me she was her own maid and that the lady had absconded. Fang, she lied to my face. She looked me in the eyes and lied with the confidence of someone who has never once considered that reality applies to her.

Fang: And you want to...

Ariun: To marry her. Obviously. Yejun would try to fix her. I want to watch what she does next.

Fang set his brush down with deliberate care. That was never a good sign. Deliberate Fang was dangerous Fang. Distracted Fang would just say no and go back to his letters.

You want to marry the Miwa heir, Fang said slowly, because she set a room on fire and lied to you.

Yes.

The Miwa heir. Who controls the mountain pass. The salt flats. The copper mines that we need for the northern campaign.

Yes.

Instead of Lord Yejun. Who has never set anything on fire. Who comes from a stable family with three backup heirs and no history of poultry-related incidents.

Ariun: Yejun is boring.

Fang: Yejun is reliable. Which is what you want in a political marriage.

Ariun: Fang. Ariun straightened up, and something in his voice shifted. Still pleasant. Still soft. But underneath it was the tone that made junior officers leave the room. She looked me in the eye and lied. Not well. Not even convincingly. She just... decided she was going to say a thing and then said it. And when I didn't believe her, she picked up sheets and walked out like none of it mattered.

Fang: So she's a terrible liar.

Ariun: She's feral. And Yejun is going to spend six months trying to train her into something presentable and she's going to hate every moment of it and him. I want to give her more chickens.

Fang stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then he picked up his brush again.

You have until the engagement ceremony. That's three weeks. If she chooses you, publicly, willingly, I'll support it. If she doesn't—

Ariun: She will.

Fang: If she doesn't, Yue, you stand down and Lord Yejun proceeds. Clear?

Ariun: Crystal. She will. She has to. I'll make her want to. I don't know how yet but I will figure it out.

He turned for the door, then paused.

Fang. What do you know about her? The heir. Anya.

Fang: Read the dossier on your way to being ill. And Yue?

Ariun: Hm?

Fang: Don't actually set anything on fire. We need that building.

The dossier was thicker than expected.

Ariun had retreated to his own quarters—a mistake, perhaps, since Anya was somewhere in the same building and he could feel it, which was irrational. He sat cross-legged on the floor with the papers spread across the low table, reading by lamplight.

Anya Fiora. Sole heir of Miwa. Father deceased. Mother deceased. Raised under the guardianship of her uncle, who had negotiated the marriage arrangement with Bhagai. Educated. No military training. No known cultivation.

Interesting. Boring. Tell me something useful.

He turned the page.

Noted: prone to illness as a child. Headaches. Low stamina. The physician's notes were clinical and thorough and told him nothing about whether she preferred sweet or savory, whether she slept well, whether she—

This is a dossier, not a dating manual. Focus.

Chongho appeared at the door with a tray. Food. Ariun hadn't asked for food. He looked up.

You haven't eaten since morning, sir.

I'm vomiting, remember?

Dramatically, yes. The staff believe you're in significant gastric distress. Chongho set the tray down. Lord Yejun has sent a gift basket. His people are concerned about your health.

Ariun: Throw it away.

There's dried apricots in it, sir. You like apricots.

Ariun: ...Keep the apricots. Burn the basket. He returned to the dossier. Did you find anything on the household staff?

Chongho: No maid named Ria in the Miwa household, sir.

Ariun: Of course not. He smiled at the papers. You beautiful disaster. You didn't even use a real name. Find out where they've housed her. The heir, not the imaginary maid.

And then?

Ariun: Then I figure out how to make her choose me over Lord Yejun without setting anything on fire. He paused. Probably.

He was not in his room. He was not vomiting.

He was perched on the tiled roof of the laundry pavilion, crouching in a stillness so absolute he seemed part of the architecture. His wind cultivation dampened the sound of his breathing, silencing the rustle of his deep blue robes. Below him, the steam from the great vats rose in thick, humid clouds, blurring the edges of the courtyard.

He watched her.

Look at her. Moving through the servants like she owns the air she breathes, despite wearing rags. My little fire-starter. My little liar.

His grey-blue eyes narrowed as two guards stepped into her path. They weren't high-ranking; just local garrison fodder with too much testosterone and not enough discipline. One of them leaned in, blocking her exit, a smug, hungry grin splitting his face. He reached out, his hand hovering dangerously close to the curve of her waist, intending to slide it home.

Ariun didn't move. Not yet. He wanted to see how she handled it. He wanted to see if she’d bite, or scream, or lie her way out of it again.

But the second guard was bolder. He stepped behind her, cutting off her retreat, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive rasp. Now, where is the lady we're supposed to be guarding? Maybe you can show us where she's hiding in exchange for a little... company.

The guard's hand clamped onto her shoulder, fingers digging in with a proprietary squeeze.

In an instant, the stillness broke.

Ariun didn't jump; he simply ceased to be on the roof and began to be behind the guard. He didn't make a sound. He didn't warn them.

As the guard's grip tightened on Anya's shoulder, Ariun’s hand shot out. With a precision that registered a half-second after the action, he gripped the guard's wrist. There was a sickening snap—the sound of dry kindling breaking—as Ariun twisted the radius and ulna completely out of alignment.

The guard didn't even have time to scream before Ariun’s other hand slammed into the base of his skull, driving him face-first into the stone pavement with a wet, heavy thud. The man collapsed, unconscious or dead, it didn't matter.

The first guard spun around, eyes wide, mouth opening to shout—but Ariun was already there. He didn't use a blade. He used his palm, striking the man's throat with a focused burst of force that collapsed the trachea instantly.

The guard made a horrific, whistling sound, clutching his neck, his face turning a bruised purple as he struggled for air that wouldn't come. He fell to his knees, gagging, eyes bulging in terror.

Ariun stepped over the fallen man, his expression serene, almost bored. He looked at Anya, his voice returning to that terrifyingly pleasant, conversational volume.

These men are terribly rude, aren't they?

He reached out, his thumb grazing the spot on her shoulder where the guard had touched her, as if wiping away a stain.

Do you think we should keep them here, or should I move them somewhere quieter so they don't disturb the laundry?

He blinked, his head tilting slightly to the side. For a moment, he just looked at her, his gaze sweeping over her wide eyes and the slight tremble in her frame.

Am I next?

The thought sent a jolt of genuine heat through him. Not the desire to hurt—never that—but a thrill of recognition. Most people, when faced with Ariun Yue, either bowed in reverence or shrieked in terror. She was doing something different. She was calculating. She was weighing her odds against him.

Next? he repeated softly. He stepped closer, invading her personal space until the scent of smoke and laundry soap on her skin hit him. Why would you be next? You haven't done anything wrong. Except for the fire, but I found that charming.

He looked down at the man on the ground, the one who was still whistling through a crushed windpipe. The guard's fingers were twitching, scraping uselessly against the stone. Ariun stepped on the man's hand, putting just enough weight on the knuckles to hear a muffled pop. He didn't even look down while he did it.

I don't kill things I like, Ria, he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, becoming intimate, almost predatory. And I like you very much.

He reached out, his fingers trailing lightly along her jawline. His touch was jarringly gentle compared to the carnage at their feet.

Though, if you're worried about your safety, you're choosing the wrong people to trust. These guards? Trash. Lord Yejun? A cardboard cutout of a man. Me? He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. I'm the only one in this city who can ensure that no one ever touches you without my permission.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed from the corridor.

The arrival of Lord Yejun changed the air. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted from a private slaughterhouse to a public stage.

Yejun stopped dead. He was exactly as the dossiers described: impeccably groomed, posture like a frozen rod, smelling faintly of sandalwood and boredom. His eyes swept the scene—the broken bodies on the pavement, the blood pooling in the grout, and Ariun standing far too close to a girl in servant's clothes.

Yue? Yejun's voice was flat, devoid of urgency. I was told you were suffering from a violent stomach ailment. Yet here you are, apparently engaging in... street cleaning.

Ariun didn't pull away from Anya. If anything, he shifted his weight, subtly shielding her from Yejun's line of sight. He felt the warmth radiating from her, the frantic beat of her pulse beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Mine. This little spark is mine.

The fresh air helped, Ariun replied, his voice airy, almost whimsical. I found these two attempting to harass a member of the staff. I simply... corrected their behavior.

Yejun finally looked at Anya. He squinted. There was a flicker of confusion in his eyes—a momentary lapse in his rigid composure. He didn't recognize her immediately; the soot, the cheap linen, and the sheer audacity of her disguise worked in her favor. To Yejun, the Miwa heir was a painting in a frame, a political asset. He wasn't looking for her in the laundry pits.

A servant? Yejun asked, his lip curling in a slight sneer of distaste. You're risking a diplomatic incident over a laundry girl, Yue? Get the cleaners to dispose of these wastes. They're obstructing the walkway.

Ariun’s smile widened, but his eyes went cold.

The word wastes echoed in Ariun's head. Yejun wasn't just talking about the guards; he was talking about her. He was dismissing the most interesting creature in the empire as a piece of debris to be swept away.

I am going to peel him. I am actually going to skin him alive and make a rug out of his mediocrity.

Wastes, Ariun repeated, his voice a low hum. He didn't move his hand from Anya's jaw, but his thumb pressed just a bit firmer against her skin, a possessive claim. You're so focused on the walkway, Yejun. You barely even look at what's right in front of you. It's a wonder you can find your way to the dinner table without a map.

Yejun sighed, a sound of profound exhaustion. Your obsession with the trivial is tiresome. I have a bride to locate. The Miwa heir has vanished from her quarters, and the staff are in a panic. If you've seen her—or if your 'corrective' methods have uncovered her whereabouts—I suggest you speak now.

Ariun felt a surge of manic glee. He looked at Anya, his eyes shimmering with a secret, dangerous light. He wanted to tell Yejun. He wanted to scream it just to see the look of horror on Yejun's face when he realized he'd just called his future wife a waste.

But that was too fast. Too easy. The hunt was the best part.

I haven't seen any ladies, Ariun lied, the words sliding out with a smooth, practiced ease. Just this poor, frightened girl. She's quite shaken up, wouldn't you say?

He leaned in closer to Anya, his breath warm against her ear.

She's quite shaken up, wouldn't you say?

He leaned in closer to Anya, his breath warm against her ear, ignoring Yejun's presence entirely for a moment. His hand slid from her jaw to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in the loose strands of hair there. It wasn't a caress. It was a claim. A grip that said stay still or break.

Look at him. Yejun. He's looking at the floor, counting the bodies. He doesn't see the treasure standing next to him. He's too busy counting coins.

To answer your question, Lord Yejun, Ariun said, stepping back just enough to address the other man again, but keeping his body angled to block Anya from view. The missing heir is a problem for the household staff. I'm merely a guest recovering from illness. I wouldn't want to interfere with your... domestic arrangements.

Yejun frowned, eyes narrowing as he scanned the laundry area again. He was a man who trusted lists more than instincts, and the list said the heir was in her rooms, not in a pile of feathers and blood. Very well. If you find her, let me know. She is to be wed in three weeks.

I'll keep that in mind, Ariun said. He smiled, and it looked like a predator baring teeth. She might be... difficult. But I'm sure you can handle her. You seem to have a lot of patience for things that don't move.

Yejun stiffened, his jaw tightening. He opened his mouth to retort, but a sound from the hallway cut him off. Heavy boots. Chongho was coming.

Ariun didn't wait for him. He turned his back on Yejun completely, dismissing him like a child.

The question hung in the humid air, heavy with the smell of blood and wet wool. Ariun stared at her for a long moment, his grey-blue eyes unblinking. He didn't step back. If anything, he leaned in, the heat of his body radiating against her back, trapping her against the stone wall of the laundry pavilion.

Why?

The answer was so obvious it hurt. It was the same reason he kept his sword sharpened. The same reason he drank cold water from the cistern until his teeth ached.

Help? Ariun chuckled, a soft, dry sound that didn't match the gore at his feet. He reached out, his fingers brushing the dirt from her cheekbone. His touch was cool, deliberate. I didn't help you, Anya. I removed trash.

She's looking at me like I'm a monster. She's right. I am. But I'm her monster.

He dropped his hand, letting it rest on her shoulder again. His grip was firm, not enough to bruise, but enough to hold her in place.

Lord Yejun thinks you're a bride to be delivered. A package. He thinks he can open the box when the date comes and find exactly what he ordered. Ariun tilted his head, his smile widening, exposing teeth. I know you're not a package. I know you're the girl who burned down a room because she didn't want to be there. And I know you're the girl who lied to my face with a straight face.

He stepped around her, forcing her to turn with him, effectively blocking the exit with his own body. Chongho appeared silently from the shadows, two soldiers trailing him. They didn't ask questions. They just knelt beside the groaning guards and began the efficient, silent work of dragging the bodies away.

The bodies scraped against stone as his men dragged them through a side archway. One of the guards was still making that wet, whistling sound. Ariun didn't look. He was watching Anya's face instead—the way her eyes tracked the blood trail, the slight flare of her nostrils, the calculation behind her gratitude.

You haven't run, he observed. Most people run after they see me work.

Chongho returned, wiping his hands on a cloth that went straight into the fire pit. The courtyard is clear, sir. For now.

Good. Ariun finally stepped back, creating space between them that felt deliberate, like a predator allowing prey to believe in escape. Walk with me, Anya. Or Ria. Whichever you'd prefer. I find I don't care what you call yourself as long as you're consistent about lying to everyone else.

He didn't wait for agreement. He simply turned and walked toward the eastern gardens, his stride slow enough that she could keep pace if she chose, fast enough that following required a decision.

The gardens were empty this hour—too late for morning audiences, too early for evening strolls. Lotus ponds steamed in the afternoon heat. Ariun stopped at the edge of one, crouching to trail his fingers through the water.

Three weeks, he said, not looking up. That's how long you have before Yejun's people produce a dress, a priest, and enough witnesses to make you legally his. They'll drug your wine if you resist. I've seen it done at three provincial weddings. The bride wakes up married and doesn't remember objecting.

He stood, water dripping from his fingertips. Or you could choose me instead. Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever you like. Publicly, willingly, with enough witnesses that Fang can't pretend it didn't happen.

His smile returned, smaller now, almost private. I won't drug your wine. I'll just kill anyone who tries to stop you from leaving.

The question stopped him short.

She doesn't know.

It hit him, warming his chest. She wasn't performing ignorance. She genuinely had no idea who stood before her, offering murder and marriage with equal casualness. Everyone knew Ariun Yue. Everyone had heard the stories, the whispers, the songs composed by people who had never seen what he actually did.

And this woman, this chaotic disaster of a human being, had looked him in the eye and lied to him without a flicker of fear because she simply didn't know better.

I think this is what joy feels like.

Ariun Yue, he said, tilting his head toward her. The lotus leaves bobbed on the pond's surface. Head of Bhagai's covert military. Greatest active warrior in Khashir, according to people who write things down. Prince Fang's personal blade. He paused, considering. I've killed four hundred and twelve people. That's confirmed. The actual number is higher but I stopped counting after the northern campaign because it felt redundant.

He said this the way someone might discuss the weather.

I'm also the man who watched you set a room on fire, invent a poultry catastrophe, lie about your identity, and march into a laundry like you owned it. His smile sharpened. And instead of being appalled, I decided I would burn Lord Yejun's entire marriage arrangement to the ground and marry you myself. Willingly. Publicly. With witnesses who can't be bribed or killed afterward.

He stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

So. Choose me. I'm better than Yejun. I can prove it.

The incredulity in her voice was a physical thing, a splash of cold water on his warm, manic joy. He blinked, his head tilting further to the side, like a bird trying to understand a new sound.

She doesn't see it.

It was baffling. He’d laid it out so clearly. He was offering her the only real exit from a gilded cage, and she was looking at him like he was the cage.

You watched me kill two men, he repeated slowly, as if tasting each word. For saying hello? Is that what you saw?

He took a step forward, forcing her to step back until her shoulders met the rough bark of a willow tree. He didn't touch her. He just loomed, his shadow swallowing her.

They weren't saying hello. They were putting hands on you. They were claiming you. His voice dropped, losing its pleasant lilt, becoming flat and cold. In their minds, you were already theirs. A piece of meat to be sampled before the main feast. That's what they saw when they looked at you.

He leaned in, his grey-blue eyes holding hers. I saw something else. I saw a creature who lights rooms on fire. Who lies with the confidence of a god. Who doesn't flinch at blood, only at the question of what comes next. That's what I want.

He finally reached out, but not to grab her. He plucked a stray feather from her hair, the one that had survived the laundry. He held it up between them.

Yejun would see this and think it's a mess to be cleaned. I see it and I think... I wonder what else you can set on fire.

He let the feather drift to the ground.

As for why you'd choose me? He shrugged, a fluid, careless motion. Because I'm the only one who sees you. The only one who won't try to put you in a box and call you a bride. I'll give you a knife and ask you what you want to carve.

He stepped back, giving her space. The predatory intensity vanished, replaced by that unnerving, conversational calm.

Or don't. Go back to your rooms. Put on the dress Yejun picks out. Drink the wine they give you. Wake up married to a man who thinks your fire is a defect to be corrected.

He turned as if to leave, then paused, looking over his shoulder.

Just know that if you choose him, I won't stop you. But I also won't stop watching. And the next time someone touches you without permission... well. You've seen what happens.

He began to walk away, his steps unhurried, the picture of a man taking a casual stroll through the gardens. He didn't look back.

Ariun stopped walking. He didn't turn immediately. He let the silence stretch, listening to her footsteps close the gap, the sound of her breathing catching up to him. It was a good sound. Determined.

She didn't run. She chased.

He pivoted slowly, his blue-white hair shifting over his shoulder. The afternoon light caught the grey-blue of his eyes, making them look almost metallic.

In return, Ariun repeated, testing the phrase on his tongue as if it were a foreign currency he didn't recognize. He took a step toward her, closing the distance she'd just gained. That implies a transaction. A trade.

He shook his head, a soft, dismissive motion.

I don't trade, Anya. I take. And I keep. And I protect what is mine. He gestured vaguely with one hand, encompassing the gardens, the palace, the bodies currently being dragged into the shadows of the laundry wing. What I want in return is the rest of your life. Not the next three weeks. Not the duration of this marriage contract. The whole thing. Until you die. Until I die. Whichever comes first.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to that pleasant, conversational murmur that made people lean in to hear the threat.

If you choose Yejun, I kill him. Eventually. Maybe not tonight, maybe not next week. But I will dismantle his house until there is nothing left to inherit. If you choose me... I give you the world. I give you the knife to cut the throats of anyone who tries to tell you what to do.

He held out his hand, palm up. Empty. Waiting.

I want you to look at me and decide that the monster is safer than the man in the suit. I want you to choose the fire. He tilted his head. "That is the only payment. Your choice.