# Chapter 5: The Glass Threshold

Isabella traced the faint glow of the blood-ink beneath her bandage, her gaze lifting to Damien's shadowed form across the solar's hearth, the weight of their unspoken pact hanging heavier than the Peace Vow itself. The room smelled of dying embers and the metallic tang of drying hemomancy, a scent that had become more intimate to her than the perfumes of the Voss court. Her wrists ached—a dull, rhythmic throb that synchronized perfectly with the pulse at the base of Damien’s throat.

"You’re staring, Voss," Damien said, his voice a low rasp that cut through the silence. He didn’t look away from the fire, but the way his shoulders tensed betrayed the connection. "It’s a touch uncharitable, considering I just lied to a High Priest for you."

"Pray, do not flatter yourself by calling it a lie," Isabella replied, her voice regaining its melodic, sharp edge despite her exhaustion. She adjusted the high silk collar of her robe, ensuring the deeper lattice of scars on her neck remained hidden. "It was a strategic omission. A necessity of our arrangement. Is it not?"

As she spoke, a sudden, sharp spike of heat flared in her bandaged wrist. The blood-ink pact, fueled by their shared defiance of Malakor, surged. The solar seemed to blur, the stone walls bleeding into a haze of gold and crimson. For a heartbeat, Isabella wasn't sitting in her chair; she was seeing through Damien’s eyes. She felt the heavy, suffocating pressure of his father’s expectations, a blackened weight in his chest that felt like swallowing lead. Through the link, she saw herself—not as the composed noblewoman she projected, but as a creature of jagged glass and hidden wounds. She saw the flash of the silver-white scars he had glimpsed earlier, the raw map of her history that she guarded more fiercely than her life.

Damien let out a choked sound, his hand flying to his own wrist. The vision snapped.

"Stay out of my head," he growled, though there was no heat in it, only a jagged sort of vulnerability. 

"I did not invite the intrusion, Damien. The pact feeds on the truth we hide." Isabella stood, her legs slightly unsteady. She crossed the rug and came to a stop just inches from him. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the frantic gallop of his heart. "But perhaps we should give them more truth to witness. Malakor's suspicions are a touch inconvenient. He expects a consummation. He expects the Voss bloodline to be harvested."

She leaned in, her breath ghosting against his ear. "If we do not scale the ruse, he will move from observation to extraction. We need to make him believe the heir is a certainty, even if the womb remains empty."

Damien finally looked at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "And how do you propose we fake that, Isabella? My father wants the blood-keys. Malakor wants your essence. They won’t be satisfied with whispers."

"Then we provide them with a spectacle of devotion," she whispered. Her mind was already spinning, calculating the cost. "We need to manage the Blood Tithe. If Malakor thinks you are claiming my power through traditional means, he will be less likely to notice the essence he is so fond of skimming."

Before he could respond, a heavy thud echoed against the solar’s oak doors. The temperature dropped, the hearth fire turning a sickly, jaundiced green.

"The High Priest," Damien muttered, his hand dropping to his blade—a useless gesture under the Peace Vow.

The doors groaned open. High Priest Malakor stood framed in the archway, his white robes shimmering with oily luminescence. "Lord Blackthorn," Malakor purred, his eyes sliding to Isabella’s hand on Damien’s chest. "Lady Isabella. I trust the evening has been restorative? The Coven was concerned when you retreated so abruptly."

"Concerned, or disappointed that you had no more blood to taste tonight?" Isabella said, offering a look of bored disdain. "Pray, Malakor, do come in. Or better yet, stand there and tell us why you’ve broken the sanctity of the High Tower."

Malakor’s smile didn't reach his eyes. "There are whispers, child. Rumors that the Nightbloom stock is more deceptive than we anticipated. As the Tithe nears, the Coven requires a medical assessment of the vessel."

Damien stepped forward, shielding her. "She is recovering from the union, Priest. Your assessment can wait until morning."

"I question only the silence of the spirits," Malakor replied, his voice dropping to a low hum. "The Tithe demands essence. Pure Voss magic. And yet, the scales remain unbalanced. Move aside, My Lord."

Isabella felt a flicker of genuine panic. If Malakor touched her now, he would feel the false resonance of the pact. *Blood, blood, the tithe demands the blood,* her mind whispered. *Blood blood everywhere if he sees.*

She stepped out from behind Damien, her expression icy. "You want a promise of my cooperation, Malakor? You want to know if the psyche is broken?" She raised her hand, feeling the agonizing pull of the Crimson Oath Lash. She flicked her fingers, and a thin, ethereal chain of violet blood manifesting in the air, coiling around Malakor’s wrist.

The priest gasped. 

"I vow to you," Isabella said, her voice rhythmic and formal, "that the Blackthorn line will receive exactly what it is owed. My blood will flow where it is destined. Do you accept this security, or must I bind you further?"

The lash burned. Isabella felt the skin of her upper arm tear—a new scar. She didn't flinch. Malakor stared at the chain, greed warring with suspicion. "A bold gesture," he managed. "Very well. But see to it that the consummation yields fruit, Lord Damien." He turned and left, the green tint dissipating.

Isabella collapsed against the table. "You're a fool," Damien said, steadying her. "You shouldn't have used magic."

"It was necessary," she hissed. "He was going to find out."

"I know what you are," he interrupted, his voice soft. He looked at the bed. "The false consummation. It needs to be more than just whispers. Blood-sharing. A deep link. A secondary bypass. It will make the Coven think our essences have merged."

He drew an obsidian dagger. Isabella hesitated, tracing her scars. "It will bind us further. If I do this, you will see everything."

"I’ve already seen the scars, Isabella. I'm not afraid."

He pressed his thumb to his own lip, biting down until blood welled. Isabella watched, mesmerized. When his mouth met hers, it was the sharp, metallic seal of a contract. The taste was smoke and iron. She saw his childhood—the cold stone of the training pits, the crushing loneliness. He felt the icy silence of her mother’s execution, the terror of the first scar, and her fierce triumphs.

Damien pulled back, his eyes dark. "You're not just a vessel," he whispered. 

"I am a Voss," she corrected, her voice lacking its usual bite. She felt exposed. "And you are a Blackthorn. Do not forget which side of the glass you stand on, Damien."

"The glass is breaking, Isabella."

***

**SCENE A**

Isabella retreated from his touch, the phantom sensation of his iron-and-smoke blood still coating her tongue. She walked toward the narrow window that overlooked the jagged peaks surrounding Blackthorn Keep. The moonlight was a cold, indifferent silver, catching on the glass and reflecting her own ghost-pale face back at her. She felt stretched thin, as if her soul were a piece of parchment being pulled from four corners by rival houses and ancient debts. 

The heat of the new scar on her bicep was a screaming reminder of the price she had just paid to keep Malakor at bay. She reached up, fingers brushing the fabric of her sleeve, tracing the jagged line through the silk. Every vow she had ever taken was etched into her skin—white lines for the ones she kept for duty, and angry, raised crimson for the ones she forged in desperation. Her mother, Elara, had always told her that a Voss without a vow was like a bird without a sky—aimless and doomed to fall. But Elara hadn't mentioned that the sky could become a cage of one's own making.

Behind her, she could hear Damien’s rhythmic breathing. The blood-link was no longer a dull hum; it was a roaring presence, a tether that made her aware of every shift in his posture. She could feel his confusion, a swirling storm of protective instinct and the cold, ingrained cynicism of a Blackthorn heir. It was intolerable, this lack of privacy within her own ribcage. 

"You should sleep," he said, his voice closer now. He hadn't followed her to the window, but the link acted like a compass, pointing she felt as he moved toward the heavy oak bedposts. "The lash drains the spirit as much as the vein. If you collapse tomorrow when the Tithe collectors arrive, all of this—the ruse, the kiss—will have been for nothing."

Isabella didn’t turn. "Pray, do not pretend this was a sacrifice for my health alone, Damien. You need this alliance as much as I do. If Malakor finds the breach in my psyche, he finds your complicity as well." She watched a single bead of moisture trail down the glass. "One does not simply hide an Unmarked Vessel from the High Coven without losing one's head if the secret spills."

"I am aware of the stakes," he replied, and she felt a surge of his irritation, sharp as a needle. "But you are shaking, Isabella. Even your shadows are trembling."

She looked down at her hands. He was right. The exhaustion was setting in, a leaden weight that threatened to buckle her knees. She had used too much. The false consummation, the blood-sharing, the Oath Lash—it was a trifecta of hemomantic strain that would have killed a lesser witch. 

"I am fine," she whispered, though the words felt like fragments of dry bone in her throat. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, the image of her mother’s execution flashed—not the fire, but the silence. The terrifying, absolute silence of a coven that had collectively turned its back. That was the reality of failure. That was the "void" she had promised Malakor she would avoid. *Blood blood everywhere if I falter.* She took a shuddering breath, forcing the panic back into the small, locked box in her heart.

**SCENE B**

"Step out onto the balcony," Isabella commanded, her voice regaining a fraction of its regal composure. She turned to face him, her silhouette framed by the moon. "The air is stagnant in here. It smells of... us."

Damien arched a dark brow, but he complied, pushing open the glass doors. The mountain air rushed in, bitingly cold and smelling of pine and ancient stone. They stood side by side, looking out over the sprawling, dark silhouette of the Keep.

"Malakor isn't the only one we have to worry about," Damien said, leaning his forearms against the stone balustrade. "My father, Malphas, is losing patience. He doesn't care about the 'spiritual resonance' of our bond. He wants the Voss blood-keys. He wants the ancestral vaults opened before the winter solstice."

Isabella leaned back against the cold stone, her high collar grazing her jaw. "The keys are bound to the Voss heartbeat, Damien. Even if I wanted to give them to him, I couldn't. Not until the heir is recognized by the Treaty."

"He knows that. Which is why his 'impatience' is moving toward more... invasive methods of extraction. He’s been meeting with the Coven's torturers under the guise of 'security consultations'." Damien turned to look at her, his eyes hard. "We are running out of time to play the long game. This ruse with the blood-sharing... it will buy us a week, maybe two. But the Tithe is a hungry beast."

"It is a touch inconvenient of him to be so literal-minded," Isabella said, her sarcasm a thin shield. "Pray tell, what would he do if he realized his son was essentially acting as a magical lightning rod for the woman meant to be his prize?"

Damien's jaw tightened. "He would consider it a tactical error and 'correct' it. He sees people as assets or liabilities, Isabella. Right now, you are an asset. I am his legacy. But if the legacy protects the asset at the cost of the Coven’s power, he will burn us both."

Isabella reached out, her fingers hesitating before they brushed the sleeve of his doublet. The link sparked—a flash of his genuine fear for her, hidden beneath layers of Blackthorn iron. It was the first time she had felt his fear so clearly, and it wasn't for himself. 

"Then we make the asset indispensable," she whispered. "The Blood Tithe demands essence. If we can't stop Malakor from skimming, we make sure what he skims is... tainted. Or perhaps, redirected."

"Redirecting a Tithe is heresy," Damien said, but there was a flicker of interest in his eyes. A cynical, dangerous interest. "It’s a death sentence."

"Everything we have done tonight is a death sentence, is it not?" She offered him a faint, jagged smile. "We might as well make the executioner work for it."

**SCENE C**

The remaining hours of the night were a blur of cold sheets and the terrifyingly close presence of Damien on the other side of the massive bed. They didn't touch—the Peace Vow and their own exhaustion kept a respectful, tense distance between them—but the blood-ink pulse remained a rhythmic tether.

When the first grey light of dawn filtered through the solar windows, Isabella woke to the sound of whispering voices outside the chamber. She sat up instantly, her hand flying to her throat to check the locket, then to her wrists to ensure the bandages were secure. Her body felt bruised, her magic simmering at a low, guttering flame.

Damien was already awake, standing by the washbasin. He looked as if he hadn't slept at all, his eyes hooded and dark. "They're here," he said shortly.

"The medical assessment?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly.

"No. Something else."

A sharp rap on the door preceded a servant entering with a silver tray. On it sat a single piece of black parchment, sealed with the heavy, dripping wax of the High Priest’s signet. Damien took it, snapping the seal with a brutal efficiency.

As he read, his face didn't change, but Isabella felt the cold spike of his shock through the link. It felt like a dousing of ice water.

"What is it?" she demanded, standing and cinching her robe tight. "Pray, do not make me wait for the translation."

Damien handed her the parchment. The ink was a dark, shimmering red—sacramental ink, used only for the most dire of proclamations. 

*By order of the High Coven and the Lord of Blackthorn Keep,* the letter began. *The vessel Isabella Voss is hereby declared under 'Sacred Sequestration' until the Blood Tithe is fulfilled. No external communications, no Nightbloom attendants. Lord Damien is to remain as her sole guardian, under penalty of the Silence.*

Isabella’s breath hitched. Sequestration. It was a fancy word for a cage. Malakor was cutting her off from the Nightbloom remnants. He was isolating her to break her, or to wait for the moment her pretenses crumbled.

"He's closing the circle," she whispered, her fingers trembling as she traced the edge of the parchment. *Blood blood everywhere.* The isolation meant no signals to her coven, no way to manage the fractured elements of her house. 

She looked at Damien. He was staring at the door, his expression one of grim, protective fury. They were trapped together in the High Tower, bound by blood, lies, and a ruse that was fast becoming their only reality.

As the solar's shadows lengthened, a raven's cry pierced the night—Malakor's summons, bearing the seal of isolation.