The kneeling doesn't stop.
We're walking through the underground city—Silas half a step ahead, me trying not to trip over cobblestones that look older than the subway system—and every single person we pass drops to one knee. Some of them bow their heads. Some of them stare at me like I'm about to explode.
I want to tell them to get up. I want to scream that they've got the wrong person.
But Silas's hand is locked around my wrist, and he's not slowing down.
"Silas."
"Not here."
"They're all—"
"I know." His voice is tight. "Just keep walking."
The city sprawls out in front of us, all stone arches and iron lanterns that burn without flame. The ceiling is so high I can't see it—just darkness that swallows the tops of the buildings. The air smells like rain and something metallic I can't name. There are markets, narrow alleys, people in clothes that look like they walked out of a historical drama except the fabric moves wrong, catches light wrong.
And every single one of them is watching me.
Kael is behind us, boots loud on the stone. He hasn't said a word since we got off the train, but I can feel him back there. Calculating. Waiting.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
Silas doesn't answer. He just pulls me around a corner, through an archway, and suddenly we're in a courtyard. Three stories of balconies circle above us, all carved stone and iron railings. At the center is a fountain—water falling upward, against gravity, pooling in midair before it spills back down.
There are people waiting.
A lot of people.
They're arranged in a loose semicircle, all of them dressed like they're attending a funeral. Black coats, high collars, faces that give nothing away. At the center of the group is a woman who looks about sixty, silver hair pulled back so tight it must hurt. Her eyes are the same pale gray as Silas's.
"Lady Casta," Silas says. His voice is steady, but his hand tightens on my wrist.
The woman steps forward. She doesn't kneel. She looks at me the way you'd look at a stain on expensive upholstery.
"So," she says. "This is the vessel."
I yank my wrist out of Silas's grip. "I'm not a vessel. I'm a doctor."
"You were a doctor." Lady Casta's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Now you're a contract-bound carrier of royal blood. Do you even know what that means?"
"No," I say. "And nobody's explaining it."
"It means," she says, stepping closer, "that every Court in this city wants to cut you open and find out how much power is sleeping in your veins. It means you're a weapon that doesn't know how to fire. And it means—" She looks at Silas. "—that the Night Court just became very, very interesting."
Silas moves between us. Not fast. Just a shift of weight that puts him in her line of sight instead of me. "She's under my protection."
"Protection." Lady Casta laughs. It's not a nice sound. "You can barely stand, Silas. Your wound reopened twice on the way here. The only reason you're still breathing is because she kissed you."
My face goes hot. Of course they all saw that. Of course.
"The bond is stable," Silas says.
"The bond," Lady Casta says, "is a liability. You bound yourself to a bloodline carrier without consulting the Court. You brought her here without a plan. And now the other Courts are circling."
She gestures, and two of the people behind her step forward. One of them is holding a wooden box. The other is holding what looks like a very old book.
"There is a solution," Lady Casta says. "Make her your consort. Officially. Bind her to the Night Court before the Dawn or Twilight Courts can make a claim."
I feel like I've been punched. "Excuse me?"
"A consort bond is stronger than a moon contract," she continues, ignoring me entirely. "It would place her under the Court's protection. Under your protection. And it would give us legal grounds to refuse any outside claims on her blood."
"No," I say. "Absolutely not."
Lady Casta finally looks at me. "You don't have a choice, dear. You walked into this city with royal blood in your veins. Every Court in the underground is going to want a piece of you. The only question is whether you'd rather be a consort or a lab rat."
"I'd rather go home."
"There is no home." Her voice goes cold. "Not anymore. The moment you activated that blood, you stopped being human. You're ours now."
Something in my chest goes tight. I look at Silas. "Tell her she's wrong."
He doesn't say anything.
"Silas."
"She's not wrong," he says quietly. "About the danger. If you leave this city, the other Courts will hunt you. They'll tear you apart to find out what's inside you."
"And if I stay?"
"If you stay," Lady Casta says, "you kneel. You accept the consort bond. And you let the Night Court keep you alive."
The courtyard is so quiet I can hear the water falling upward in the fountain.
I look at the faces around me. They're all waiting. Some of them look hungry. Some of them look scared. None of them look like they're going to help me.
I look at Silas. His jaw is tight, and there's something in his eyes I can't read. Guilt, maybe. Or fear.
"What happens if I say no?" I ask.
Lady Casta smiles. "Then we throw you to the other Courts and see who gets to you first."
I take a breath. My hands are shaking. "You're all insane."
"We're survivors," Lady Casta says. "And so are you. So stop wasting time and kneel."
She gestures to the ground in front of Silas.
I don't move.
The silence stretches. Someone in the crowd shifts. Kael is still behind me, and I can feel him watching.
Lady Casta's smile disappears. "Kneel."
"No."
Her hand moves, and suddenly there's a blade in it—thin, silver, cold. She doesn't point it at me. She points it at Silas.
"If you won't bind yourself to him willingly," she says, "we'll do it the old way. Blood and bone. You'll kneel, or he'll bleed."
Silas's hand catches her wrist before the blade can move. His grip is hard enough that I see her fingers go white.
"No," he says. His voice is low. Dangerous. "You don't touch her. You don't threaten her. And you don't make her kneel."
Lady Casta stares at him. "You're choosing her over the Court?"
"I'm choosing not to be a monster."
He lets go of her wrist and turns to me. For a second, he just looks at me. Then he holds out his hand.
"I'm not asking you to kneel," he says. "But if you take my hand, the Court will recognize the bond. They'll have to. It's not a consort bond—not yet—but it'll buy us time."
"Time for what?"
"To find another way."
I look at his hand. I look at Lady Casta's blade. I look at the faces circling us, all of them waiting to see what I'll do.
I'm so tired.
I take his hand.
His fingers close around mine, and I feel it—the contract, the bond, the thing that tied us together in the ER. It flares hot under my skin, bright enough that I see light bleeding through the spaces between our hands.
The courtyard erupts.
Some people are clapping. Some are shouting. Lady Casta looks like she just swallowed glass, but she steps back and sheathes the blade.
"The Night Court recognizes the bond," she says, voice clipped. "For now."
Silas doesn't let go of my hand. He's still looking at me, and there's something raw in his face.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. So quiet I almost don't hear it.
Before I can answer, the doors at the far end of the courtyard explode inward.
Not explode. Shatter. Wood and iron tearing apart in a spray of splinters and smoke.
Heavy rounds punch through the archway, tearing chunks out of the stone walls. People scatter, shouting, pulling weapons I didn't know they had.
And through the smoke, I hear a voice I know.
"Give her back."
Grayson steps through the ruined doorway, and he's not alone. There are at least a dozen men behind him, all of them armed, all of them in tactical gear that looks way too modern for this underground city.
His eyes find mine across the courtyard.
He smiles.
"Hey, Ivy," he says. "Miss me?"