# Chapter 05: The Diluted Tithe

The solar's heavy velvet drapes swayed in the draft from the arrow-slit windows, carrying the faint metallic tang of incense from Malakor's recent departure, as Isabella traced a finger over her bandaged wrists, the blood-ink pact pulsing in sympathy with Damien's restless pacing. Each of his footfalls against the cold stone floor echoed like a drumbeat in the marrow of her bones. The phantom connection was no longer a mere prickle; it was a rhythmic thrum, a second heartbeat that refused to stay silent. It was a touch inconvenient, the way her body hummed whenever he turned his back, as if the space between them were filled with invisible, vibrating wires.

"He was looking for a crack," she said, her voice like silk drawn over a blade. She did not look at him, keeping her eyes on the way the dying sunlight caught the dust motes. "The High Priest does not care for political unions, Damien. He wanted to see if I had been broken, or if I had simply been... redecorated."

Damien stopped his pacing. He stood in the shadow of a gargoyle-carved pillar, his silhouette sharp and imposing. "He saw what I allowed him to see. A woman pushed to the brink by her own husband’s 'appetites.' You played the part of the ruined bride with unsettling ease, Isabella. It was a touch inconvenient for my conscience, but it served its purpose."

Isabella allowed a ghost of a smile to haunt her lips, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "Pray, do not pretend you have a conscience when it comes to Malakor. I weaponized my exhaustion because it was the only currency he would accept. Had I stood tall, he would have reached into my mind and plucked out the truth of our arrangement like a grape from a vine." 

She felt the sympathetic pulse from the blood-link tighten, a warm pressure against her chest. It was an intimate tether, one that whispered of his protectiveness even as his words remained cynical. He had shielded her during the interrogation, his presence a dark shroud that Malakor’s spiritual probes could not pierce. 

"The ruse of the consummation must scale," Damien muttered, moving closer until the heat of his body competed with the chill of the solar. "My father is already asking after the Voss blood-keys. He expects the union to have bore fruit—if not an heir yet, then at least a total surrender of your house’s secrets."

"Reginald is a fool if he thinks a week in Blackthorn Keep is enough to undo centuries of Nightbloom isolation," Isabella replied, finally meeting his gaze. Her eyes were hard, calculating. "But Malakor is the true threat. He doesn't want secrets. He wants essence."

The heavy oak door groaned as it swung open, cutting their privacy short. A young acolyte stood there, his face pale and eyes averted, holding a silver tray. Upon it sat a ceremonial chalice and a jagged, obsidian-glass lancet.

"High Priest Malakor requests the first consecrated offering," the boy stammered, his voice cracking. "For the Blood Tithe. To... to bless the union before the Coven."

Isabella’s breath hitched. She reached for the antique vow-sealed locket at her throat, her fingers trembling as they brushed the cold metal. This was the moment she had feared. If Malakor took her blood and placed it upon the altar, he would realize it wasn't the stagnant, defeated blood of a conquered bride. He would feel the hemomantic fire within it—the way she had been fueling her magic through intentional bloodletting, an 'Unmarked Vessel' violation that would see them both executed.

"Leave it," Damien commanded, his voice a low growl that sent the boy scurrying away before the tray had even settled on the table.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Isabella stared at the lancet. "He is seeking a physical pretext. He knows he can’t break your authority, so he will find it in my veins. My blood is a map of my magic, Damien. It is... this is intolerable."

"Then we change the map," Damien said. He stepped to the table, his hand hovering over the obsidian blade. "He expects the 'consecration' of a Voss witch. He expects to taste the essence of the Nightbloom."

Isabella stood, the silk of her gown rustling. She moved to him, her fingers tracing the faint crimson scars on her own wrists. "We cannot give him mine. Not pure. If I dilute it... or if we use the pact." She looked up at him, her intuition screaming. "The blood-ink. It binds us. If we mix our blood in that chalice, the frequencies will clash. It will mask the hemomancy. It will look like a chaotic merger of two houses rather than the focused power of a vessel."

Damien’s eyes darkened. "You want to bind us further. As if the ink weren't enough."

"I want to survive," she corrected him sharply. "And I suspect you do, too. Pray tell, how does one bind a heart with vows of crimson, only to watch it bleed defiance? We give him a cocktail of lies."

She took the lancet. With a practiced, steady hand, she peeled back the bandage on her left wrist. The scars were a map of every oath she had ever taken, every burden she had ever carried for a mother whose ghost still whispered of loyalty. She pressed the blade to a fresh patch of skin. A single, rich bead of crimson bloomed.

As the blood dripped into the silver chalice, Isabella felt a wave of dizziness—not from the loss, but from the magic stirring. *Blood blood everywhere*, her mind whispered in a sudden, panicked loop, the memory of her mother’s execution flickering behind her eyes like a guttering candle. She forced it down, her royal composure returning like a mask of ice.

"Your turn, Lord Blackthorn," she whispered. "Give the priest something to choke on."

Damien took the blade from her, his fingers brushing hers. The spark of the contact sent a jolt through the blood-link. He didn't flinch as he cut his own palm, letting his darker, thicker blood swirl with hers in the vessel. He took a vial of clear, pungent fluid from his belt—the ink-solvent they had been using to manage the pact—and added a drop. The mixture hissed, turning a deep, bruised purple.

"It’s a foul brew," Damien remarked, his face twisting in a cynical smirk. "Fitting for a marriage such as ours, is it not?"

"It is a masterpiece of deception," Isabella countered. She felt a sudden, raw vulnerability as she watched their lives mingle in the silver bowl. For a moment, the protective wall she had built around her heart felt thin, almost translucent. She looked at Damien—really looked at him—and saw the weight he carried, the cynicism that was as much a shield as her own submissiveness.

Before they could speak further, a heavy knocking thudded against the door. It wasn't the acolyte.

"My Lord Damien," a gruff voice called—one of Malphas’s personal guards. "Your father summons you and the Lady Isabella to the Great Hall. Lord Reginald Thorne has arrived, and he is... impatient to discuss the annexation of the Nightbloom territories. He demands proof of the union’s 'finalization.'"

Damien’s jaw tightened. "My father doesn't wait for the ink to dry, let alone the blood to cool." He turned to Isabella, his gaze intense. "Button your collar. Hide the marks. If Reginald sees you're still bleeding for yourself and not for him, he'll have your head."

"Reginald Thorne will see exactly what I wish him to see," Isabella said, her voice regaining its regal edge. She Adjusted the high lace collar of her gown, concealing the fresh wound and the old scars alike.

As they emerged from the solar into the drafty corridor of the High Tower, Isabella caught sight of a servant—a girl she recognized as a secret sympathizer to the Nightbloom, someone Malakor had been using to spy on the domestic staff. The girl was holding a bundle of linens, her eyes darting toward the chalice they had left behind.

Isabella moved with predatory grace. As they passed the girl in the shadows of a stone archway, Isabella’s hand flicked out. A thread of ethereal red light, invisible to any who did not possess the sight, lashed out from her fingertips. 

The *Crimson Oath Lash*.

It didn't strike; it coiled. It wrapped around the girl’s spirit, a tether born of Isabella’s own essence. The girl gasped, her eyes glazing over for a heartbeat. 

*You will find the High Priest's private ledger,* Isabella’s mind projected into the girl’s consciousness, fueled by the hemomantic surge of her recent bloodletting. *You will find where he hides the essence he skims from the rituals. And you will tell no one.*

The girl blinked, stumbling slightly as the lash dissolved. She hurried away without a word, bound by a vow she didn't even realize she had taken. Isabella felt the familiar sting of a new scar forming on her shoulder, a small price for such leverage.

Damien glanced at her, his eyes narrowing. He had felt the spike in her magic through the link. "Using the Lash in the heart of the Keep? You’re getting bold, witch."

"Boldness is all I have left, Lord Blackthorn. The Peace Vow keeps our swords in their sheaths, but it says nothing of the strings we pull behind the scenes."

They reached the grand staircase, the descent into the Great Hall feeling like an entry into a lion’s den. Below, she could see the flickering torches and the silhouettes of Malphas and Reginald—two vultures waiting to pick over the bones of her heritage.

As they stepped onto the gallery, the heavy doors at the far end of the hall burst open. It wasn't the lords who entered, but Malakor, flanked by four armored enforcers of the Coven. His face was a mask of holy indignation, his eyes fixed on Isabella with a terrifying clarity.

"The Tithe!" Malakor bellowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "The offering in the solar is a mockery! It is tainted with base alchemy and diluted spirit!"

He marched toward the center of the hall, pointing a gnarled finger at Isabella. "I demanded the pure essence of the Voss line to seal this Treaty. What you have provided is a lie, a violation of the sacred vows!"

Isabella felt Damien step in front of her, his hand moving to the hilt of his blade, his pulse racing in sync with hers. The tension in the room snapped like a dry branch. Behind her, the blood-ink under her skin began to flare a brilliant, violent crimson, heat radiating through her bandages. It wasn't just a response to the threat; it was a hungry, living thing, whispering a new vow in her mind—one that didn't belong to her mother or her house.

As the enforcers drew their ceremonial pikes, the ink burned so hot Isabella nearly cried out. It was a vow of protection, a vow of defiance, binding her fate irrevocably to the man standing before her, even as the world prepared to tear them both apart.

**SCENE A**

Isabella felt the heat of the blood-ink spreading like wildfire across her sternum and down the inside of her arms. It was a searing, physical sensation, far more intense than the dull throb she had grown accustomed to since the ritual. In the center of the Great Hall, under the watchful, judgmental eyes of the Blackthorn Coven, her internal world began to fracture. The masks she wore—the victim, the bride, the conquered princess—were melting under the sheer intensity of the bond.

She focused on the back of Damien’s neck, on the way his pulse hammered against the collar of his tunic. Through the sympathetic link, she didn't just feel his heartbeat; she felt his fury. It was a cold, jagged thing, like a glacier carving through stone. He wasn't just protecting her out of obligation; there was a possessiveness in his stance that made her stomach flip with an emotion she didn't dare name.

Malakor’s voice continued to boom, a liturgical condemnation that should have terrified her, but the magic in her veins was drowning him out. *Is it not strange?* she thought, the ghost of her mother’s voice mingling with the rhythmic pulsing of the ink. *To find sanctuary in the shadow of an enemy?* Her mother had died behind these very walls, or walls very much like them, yet here was Isabella, drawing strength from a Blackthorn’s defiance.

The shadows in the Great Hall seemed to lengthen, drawn toward the silver-and-crimson conflict at its center. Isabella’s hemomantic intuition flared, sensing the flow of blood in the room—the stagnant, thick blood of the elders, the nervous, thin blood of the guards, and the thrumming, electric current between herself and Damien. Malakor was right; the offering in the solar was a lie. But he had no idea that the true offering was happening right now, in the spiritual architecture of their shared pact.

**SCENE B**

"Stand down, Malakor," Damien said, his voice dropping to a register that was more growl than speech. He didn't draw his sword—the Peace Vow wouldn't allow it without a direct kinetic strike—but the air around him began to warp with the sheer pressure of his aura. "The Tithe was delivered. If the quality of the Nightbloom essence is not to your liking, perhaps you should reflect on how much of it was bled dry before she ever arrived at my gates."

Malakor took another step forward, his ceremonial robes rustling like dry leaves. "You dare lecture me on the sacred rites, boy? Your father demands the annexation. The Coven demands the blood-keys. This... this sludge you left on the tray is an insult to the altar."

Isabella stepped out from behind Damien’s shadow. She was still pale, her wrists still bandaged, but her eyes held a crystalline sharpness. "Pray tell, High Priest," she began, her tone dripping with a mock-deference that made Malakor’s eyes twitch. "What color did you expect my soul to be once your church spent two days trying to hollow it out? If the blood is diluted, it is because you have left me with very little else to give."

"It is heretical," Malakor hissed, turning his gaze to Lord Malphas, who sat on the high dais with a look of growing boredom and irritation. "My Lord, they are mocking the Treaty."

Reginald Thorne, standing near the shadows of the dais, cleared his throat. "Daughter, do not be difficult. Give the man what he requires so we may move on to the business of the lands. Your mother’s legacy depends on your cooperation."

Isabella felt a shiver of pure, icy rage at the mention of her mother. She turned her head slightly toward Reginald. "My mother’s legacy, Lord Thorne, is currently being bartered for a few acres of shadow-bloom fields. If the High Priest wishes for my essence, he will have to take it from the source. But I warn you—my husband’s hand is on the hilt of his blade, and the blood-ink does not distinguish between a ritualist and an assassin."

Damien glanced back at her, a sharp, cynical glint in his eye. "Careful, witch—your blood sings too loudly for my father's liking. But she speaks the truth, Priest. The union is sealed. The blood is shared. If you want more, you’ll have to go through me."

**SCENE C**

The standoff lasted for what felt like hours, though Isabella knew it was only heartbeats as the Great Hall held its collective breath. Finally, Malphas stood, his heavy rings clattering against the stone armrests of his chair.

"Back to the solar," Malphas commanded, his voice echoing with the finality of a gavel. "Malakor, if the Tithe is insufficient, find a way to make it sufficient without turning my Great Hall into a slaughterhouse. Damien, Isabella... you have until the next moonrise to provide a 'pure' sample, or I shall allow the High Priest to perform the extraction in the dungeons."

As they were escorted back up the winding stairs of the High Tower, the silence between Isabella and Damien was no longer heavy; it was charged. The next twenty-four hours would be a desperate race to refine their deception. Every servant they passed, every shadow in the corridor, felt like a potential spy for Malakor.

When they reached the privacy of the solar once more, Isabella leaned against the heavy oak door, her strength finally wavering. She looked at her bandaged wrists, then at Damien. The sunset had faded into a bruised purple twilight.

"They will come for us at moonrise," she whispered, her fingers tracing the locket at her throat.

Damien didn't answer immediately. He went to the window, looking out over the sprawling, jagged peaks of the Blackthorn lands. "Then we make sure the next cocktail we brew is one they can't survive tasting."

Isabella nodded, a newfound resolve settling in her chest. She would spend the night delving into the hemomantic texts she had hidden in the lining of her trunks, searching for a way to use the skimming secret she had wrenched from the serving girl. If Malakor wanted essence, she would give him exactly what he deserved: a vow that would consume him from the inside out.

As the solar door bursts open with Malakor's enforcers, Isabella's blood-ink flares crimson under her skin, whispering a vow that could shatter the Peace—or bind her fate irrevocably to Damien's.