Page 83 of Breaking Ophelia

“Tradition is never a gentle mother,” he says, voice softer now, almost fatherly. “She demands much. And she never asks twice.”

Caius doesn’t respond. He’s gone absolutely still. A predator waiting out a threat.

Abelard nods, as if he expected that. He pivots, looks straight at me.

“There is a ritual to completion. The rules are—how shall I say it—non-negotiable. The Hunt is merely the preamble. The real test is what comes after.”

I want to ask “What comes after?” but I know better. The Board hates questions. They only like answers.

Abelard glances back at his bench, where Valence sits with a silver case on her lap. The kind of box you use for heirlooms. Valence unlatches it, his long fingers flickering over the clasp. He draws out a long object, wrapped in black velvet.

He walks it to the edge of the dais and sets it down beside the furnace.

Abelard continues, voice rising as if giving a eulogy. “It is the will of the Board that, within three lunar cycles, a union of flesh and blood be made official.” He turns the words over in his mouth, letting each syllable land. “Mr. Montgomery is to prove his worth by inseminating you, Miss Morrow, within that time frame. Upon successful confirmation, your union will be recognized, and the Board will take custody of the result at birth.”

He waits, lets that horror breathe.

At first I think I misheard. Then my brain reruns the sentence: “the Board will take custody of the result at birth.”

Of the result.

Not a child. Not a person. A result. A fucking heir to hell.

My throat is raw. I try to swallow, but there’s nothing left. Beside me, Caius’s hand crushes the bones in my hand, his shoulders tense.

Guess he won’t be abiding by their rules, after all.

“You will be allowed,” Abelard says, with a gesture as if granting a gift, “to maintain your relationship. But the offspring—your firstborn—will be raised by the handlers, as is custom. Groomed for leadership. Or, in the case of exceptional genetics, for the next cycle of selection.”

He looks at Caius. “You understand the responsibility, Mr. Montgomery?”

Caius’s jaw jumps once, twice, like he’s chewing glass. “I understand.”

“And do you accept it?”

Silence.

Then: “No.”

The woman with white hair lets out a sound that might be a sigh, or just the expulsion of hope she didn’t know she was holding.

Abelard squints. “There is no defiance to be had here, Caius. You will obey because the alternate choice is death.” Then he carries on talking as if he hadn’t even heard Caius say no. “Now, for The Mark.”

He picks up the velvet-wrapped object inside the box and peels back the cloth. Inside is a branding iron. Not a Western cattle rancher’s tool. This is smaller, more delicate, the end shaped into a perfect seal: a stylized “M,” surrounded by a spiked halo. The Montgomery crest.

Abelard holds it up so the room can see. “To secure the inheritance, the Son must brand his chosen. The mark is both a proof and a promise.”

He looks to Caius. “You know the words?”

Caius nods, but he’s staring at the iron, at the way the steel catches the sick yellow of the fire.

Abelard sets the iron into the coals. It hisses, a snake’s warning. Smoke curls up, smelling instantly of rust and old meat.

“The ceremony is short,” Abelard intones, as if that matters. “When the mark is ready, you will kneel, swear fealty, and make the pledge. Your father did the same. As did his. As will your son, if he survives.”

The smoke is thicker now. The iron glows at the edges.

Valence joins Abelard at the furnace, eyes never leaving Caius. “You may kneel, Mr. Montgomery.”