# 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, her movements performatively fluid, and came to a stop just inches from him. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the frantic gallop of his heart beneath the heavy doublet. "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 f-fake that, Isabella? My father wants the blood-keys. Malakor wants your essence. They won't be satisfied with whispers behind closed doors."

"Then we provide them with a spectacle of devotion," she whispered, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Her mind was already spinning, calculating the cost of the next move. "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, rhythmic thud echoed against the solar's oak doors. The temperature in the room dropped instantly, the hearth fire turning a sickly, jaundiced green.

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

The doors groaned open without a latch being turned. High Priest Malakor stood framed in the archway, his white robes shimmering with a faint, oily luminescence. Behind him, two hooded acolytes hovered like carrion birds.

"Lord Blackthorn," Malakor purred, his eyes sliding immediately 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 after the ritual."

"Concerned, or disappointed that you had no more blood to taste tonight?" Isabella said, not moving her hand. She turned her head slightly, offering the priest 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, which were fixed on Isabella's bandaged wrists. "There are whispers, child. Rumors that the Nightbloom stock is more resilient—or perhaps more deceptive—than we anticipated. As the Tithe nears, the Coven requires a medical assessment of the vessel. We cannot have the Voss legacy curdling before it is poured."

Damien stepped forward, physically placing himself between Isabella and the priest. The sympathetic pulse in Isabella's arm hammered. "She is recovering from the union, Priest. Your 'assessment' can wait until the morning. Or are you questioning my ability to oversee my own wife's well-being?"

"I question only the silence of the spirits," Malakor replied, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating hum that made the floorboards tremble. "The Tithe demands essence. Pure, unadulterated 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. He would see that she was using Damien as an anchor to bypass the very laws he enforced.

*Blood, blood, the tithe demands the blood,* her mind whispered, a frantic repetition that threatened to break her composure. *Blood blood everywhere if he sees.*

She stepped out from behind Damien, her expression shifting into one of regal, icy calm. "You want a promise of my cooperation, Malakor? You want to know if the Nightbloom psyche is broken?"

She raised her hand, and for a fleeting second, she felt the familiar, agonizing pull of the Crimson Oath Lash. It was a forbidden move in this state, a risk that would etch another permanent mark upon her, but she had no choice. She flicked her fingers, and a thin, ethereal chain of deep violet blood manifested in the air, coiling around Malakor's wrist before he could recoil.

The priest gasped, his eyes widening. 

"I vow to you," Isabella said, her voice dropping into the poetic, rhythmic cadence of a formal oath, "that the Blackthorn line will receive exactly what it is owed. My blood will flow where it is destined, and not a drop of the Voss essence will be lost to the void. Do you accept this security, or must I bind you further?"

The lash burned. Isabella felt the skin of her upper arm tear beneath her sleeve, a new scar forming in real-time. She didn't flinch. 

Malakor stared at the shimmering chain, his greed warring with his suspicion. He could feel the raw power of a Nightbloom vow—it was a binding even a High Priest feared to break. "A bold gesture," he managed, his voice strained. "Very well. But the Coven will not be kept at the door for long. See to it that the 'consummation' yields fruit, Lord Damien. My patience is not as eternal as my office."

He turned with a sweep of silk, his acolytes trailing behind him like shadows. The door slammed shut, the green tint in the air dissipating.

Isabella collapsed back against the table, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She immediately clutched her arm, the heat of the new scar searing through her robe. 

"You're a fool," Damien said, though he was at her side in an instant, his hands steadying her. "You shouldn't have used magic. Not after tonight."

"It was necessary," she hissed, her fingers digging into his leather-clad forearms. "He was going to find out, Damien. He was going to see that I'm not—"

"I know what you are," he interrupted, his voice surprisingly soft. He reached up, his thumb brushing a stray hair from her forehead. The cynicism was gone, replaced by a grim, focused intensity. "And I know what they'll do if they catch us. If we're going to play this game, Voss, we have to stop playing at it."

He looked at the bed, then back to her. The air between them changed, the tension shifting from political to something far more visceral. The blood-link hummed, a low, thrumming vibration that demanded proximity.

"The false consummation," he said. "It needs to be more than just whispers. Malakor is skimming the rituals—he's looking for the spiritual resonance of a bond. If we don't give him a real signature to track, he'll keep digging until he finds the anchor."

Isabella looked at him, her heart thumping against her ribs. "And how do we create a signature without... the act?"

"Blood-sharing," Damien said. "A deep link. Not just the ink on the skin, but a secondary bypass. It will make the Coven think our essences have merged. It will satisfy the Peace Vow's requirements for 'union' while keeping the Voss blood-keys locked."

He drew a small, obsidian dagger from his belt. 

Isabella hesitated, her habit of tracing her scars returning. "It will bind us further. If I do this, Damien, you will see more than just flashes. You will see everything."

"I've already seen the scars, Isabella," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm not afraid of the fire."

She moved toward him, her movements slow and deliberate. She reached for the antique vow-sealed locket at her throat, fiddling with the cold metal as she sought affirmation from the ghosts of her house. Her mother had died for a broken vow. Isabella would live by making new ones.

"Very well," she said, her voice regaining its regal clip. "But pray, try to keep your thoughts to yourself. I have enough ghosts in my head without adding yours."

He stepped into her space, the heat radiating from him like a furnace. He didn't use the dagger on her. Instead, he pressed his thumb to his own lip, biting down until a bead of dark, rich blood welled up. 

Isabella watched, mesmerized, as he tilted her chin up. This was the escalation. This was the moment the ruse became a reality of its own making.

When his mouth met hers, it wasn't the soft kiss of a lover, but the sharp, metallic seal of a contract. The taste of his blood was smoke and iron, and as it crossed the threshold of her lips, the solar exploded in a riot of sensory overload. 

She saw his childhood—the cold stone of the training pits, the crushing loneliness of being the 'perfect' heir to a monster. She felt his alienation from the Coven, his secret desire to see the High Tower crumble. And in return, he felt the icy silence of her mother's execution, the terror of the first scar, and the fierce, burning triumph of every secret she had ever kept.

The Peace Vow didn't trigger. There was no pain, only a localized, intense heat where their bodies touched. The blood-sharing was a loophole, a sacred union that the Treaty of Thorns recognized as ultimate.

Damien pulled back, his eyes dark and blown out. His hand lingered on the back of her neck, his fingers brushing the collar that hid her shame. "You're not just a vessel," he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, raw realization. 

"I am a Voss," she corrected, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She felt exposed, her secrets laid bare in the crimson current between them. "And you are a Blackthorn. Do not forget which side of the glass you stand on, Damien."

"The glass is breaking, Isabella."

She turned away from him, her heart racing. She could still taste him—an addictive, terrifying flavor. She walked to the window, tracing the faint glow of the pact on her wrist. The panic was still there, a low-level thrum in the back of her mind. *Blood blood tithe.*

The Coven was suspicious. Her own house was fractured. And now, she was bound to the enemy in a way that defied every oath she had ever sworn. 

She felt empowered, yes. The link with Damien gave her a shield she'd never had. But the shield was made of the very thing that could destroy her.

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