Page 63 of Bonded To The Arena Master

"The Council called it a bond," I say.

"The Council chose ceremonial language for the court. The law calls it an assignment."

"There was a breeder's gift."

"A symbol created for your proceeding. Demons possess no marriage tradition and no established rite for joining one partner to another. The Matrons wanted obedience made visible."

I remember the lolean blossom breaking in my fist, silver dust falling across Draxon's boots.

"They received visibility," I say.

Vulmar's mouth shows the edge of a tooth. "You have always understood spectacle."

"You knew me then?"

"I knew of the human who caused Draxon to vanish from council suppers and return smelling of lower-market medicine."

Heat rises beneath my skin. "He was not careful."

"He believed himself careful. A more dangerous condition."

Vulmar takes back the slate and replaces it with a bound stack of parchment. The top sheet bears the black seal of Asmodeus pressed over an older mark that has been scraped away.

"These revisions followed the first breeding assignments," he says. "Most regulate property transfers between houses. Several concern offspring. One was written for a problem the king claimed would corrupt the program."

"What problem?"

"Attachment."

The answer chills the warmth left by memory.

"Humans becoming attached to their assigned demons?"

"That was expected and considered useful. An attached breeder is less likely to escape."

"Then demons becoming attached to humans."

Vulmar studies me across the table. His patience contains no comfort.

"Affection threatens caste," he says. "A demon may protect valuable property, indulge a favored breeder, or prefer one partner for a season. None alters the order of Galmoleth. A true mate-bond does."

"There is no demon word for mating for life."

"There was not until the law required one."

He rises and walks toward the rear wall. Age slows him, but nothing in his movement suggests frailty. He pulls a chain beside the highest shelf. A section of records descends on hidden iron tracks, releasing enough dust to dull the lightning channels.

Vulmar removes a metal cylinder capped in tarnished silver.

Seven narrow seals circle its center. Six have been broken. The seventh remains intact beneath the impression of a crowned horn.

"This copy has not been opened since House Obsidius received it forty-eight years ago," he says.

"Why keep it sealed?"

"Because no lord of this house required its warning."

Until Draxon.