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“Kyra,” I say, turning my full attention to her. “What are they asking him to do?”

She takes a deep breath. “They are demanding a claiming ceremony.”

The words mean little to me, but the gravity in her voice sends a chill down my spine. “A claiming ceremony? Like... a wedding?” I ask, the word feeling utterly alien on my tongue.

Kyra's sad smile is an answer in itself. “Not like your human customs, Kendra. It is... different. Older. It is not a celebration of partnership.” She hesitates, choosing her words with the precision of a knowledge-keeper. “It is a ritual of possession.”

Possession.The word lands like a stone in my gut. I feel the blood drain from my face.

“Explain,” I say, my voice coming out as a clipped command.

“The ceremony is a public declaration,” Kyra begins, her voice low and steady, as if reciting from one of her ancient texts. “It solidifies the male's right to his mate. It establishes his dominance and her place within his protection, and by extension, within the tribe.”

Dominance. Protection. Words that sound disconcertingly like ownership.

“In the ritual,” she continues, her gaze fixed on the woven mat between us, “the male marks the female. Not with a permanentmating bite, not yet, but with paints made from his own blood. The patterns signify his lineage, his strength, and his claim over her.”

Blood paint. A biological marker of ownership. Fascinatingly barbaric.

“Her role in this... ceremony?” I ask, keeping my voice level, analytical.This is a cultural study, Kendra. Not your life.

“Her role is... acceptance,” Kyra says, finally looking at me, her eyes filled with an apology she cannot speak. “Her acceptance is assumed. Or, if necessary, coerced by the social pressure of the tribe. There is no part of the traditional ritual that asks for the female's consent.”

My scientific detachment shatters. The room feels suddenly cold, the air thin. “No consent?”

“It is a very old tradition,” Kyra says helplessly. “From a time when our survival depended on rigid structures. The ceremony binds the female to the male. She becomes his property in the eyes of the tribe. The ritual uses cloths...” She falters. “They are used to bind her hands.”

“Bind my hands?” I echo, my voice a strangled whisper.

“It is symbolic,” she rushes to explain. “It signifies her surrender of her past, her old life, and her acceptance of her new role as his mate.”

Symbolic subjugation. A ritualized breaking of the spirit to ensure compliance.

“So, let me get this straight,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet. “The tribe wants Jaro to paint me with his blood, tie me up with special cloths, and publicly declare me his property... all so he can keep his job?”

Kyra flinches at my blunt summary. “It is more complex than that, Kendra. It is about his right to lead, about the stability of the tribe. Vex has cornered him. If Jaro refuses, he is seen as weak, his bond a liability. If he proceeds, he secures his position,and you... you are given a protected status within Vara-Ka. You would no longer be seen as a threat, but as Jaro's mate.”

“As Jaro's possession,” I correct, my voice hard as ice.

I stand up, my body trembling with a rage so cold and pure it feels like a scientific principle. I walk over to Jaro, who still stares out the window, his shoulders a rigid line of suppressed conflict.

“You knew,” I say, not a question, but a statement. “You knew this is what they would demand. This is what you agreed to.”

He turns to face me, and the anguish in his eyes is real. It is a raw, open wound. But it is not enough.

“Kendra, you must understand...” he begins, his voice a low plea. “The tribe is on a knife's edge. Vex is inciting the warriors. There could be bloodshed. This ceremony... it is a formality. A piece of political theater to appease the elders and cut the ground out from under Vex.”

“A formality?” I laugh, a harsh, ugly sound. “Being tied up and branded like livestock is aformalityto you?”

“The markings are not permanent,” he argues, his voice strained. “The bindings are symbolic. It is just... words. It does not change what is between us.”

He doesn't get it. He truly doesn't get it.The realization is a physical blow. He sees the ritual's function, its political utility. He does not see its meaning. He cannot see how it violates every principle I hold dear.

“It changes everything, Jaro,” I say, my voice shaking with the effort of keeping it steady. “What is between us... I thought it was a connection. A partnership, like Kyra said. The kind your ancestors had. I am not some... prize you win in a political game. I am not property to be claimed.”

“I do not see you as property!” he says, his voice rising in frustration. He takes a step toward me, his hands raised in a gesture of supplication. “I see you as... as my mate. My otherhalf. This is just the way it is done. The only way to make the tribe accept you. To keep you safe.”

“Safe?” I repeat, incredulous. “You think stripping me of my autonomy in front of your entire tribe will make me feel safe? You think being owned is a form of protection?”