Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~9 min read
Day twenty-five. Five days left on the countdown.
Draven had been in his study for forty-eight hours straight, working on breaking the binding magic. Raven brought him food he didn’t eat, wine he barely touched, and watched him grow more exhausted as he unraveled magic that had been woven into her bones for twenty-one years.
“I’m close,” he kept saying. “So close. Just need to find the right thread to pull without triggering the kill switch.”
Raven sat in the corner, reading but not really seeing the words, counting down hours like they were lifetimes.
Five days. One hundred twenty hours. Until the binding magic killed her or she killed Draven.
She’d stopped counting assassination attempts. They didn’t matter anymore. She’d made her choice, claimed him back, decided to stay.
But the Guild’s magic didn’t care about choices.
Complete the contract or die. Those were still the only options the binding recognized.
“Raven.” Draven’s voice pulled her from spiraling thoughts. “Come here.”
She set aside the book and moved to his desk. It was covered in notes, magical diagrams, reference books in languages she didn’t recognize. He looked exhausted—eyes dimmed, shadows less vibrant, the first time she’d seen him look anything less than perfectly composed.
“I found the solution,” he said quietly. “But you’re not going to like it.”
“Tell me.”
“The binding magic is anchored to your life force. Breaking it requires either completing the contract, killing the caster, or…” He paused. “Or transferring it to someone else.”
“Transferring it?”
“To me.” He met her eyes. “I absorb the binding, take it into myself. You’d be free, and I’d bear the weight of the contract magic until I can dissolve it safely.”
“How long would that take?”
“Three days. Maybe four. During which I’d be significantly weakened. Vulnerable. And the binding would be trying to kill me for not fulfilling its terms.”
Raven processed that. “So you take magical poison into yourself for three days, weaken yourself, and hope it doesn’t kill you before you can dissolve it?”
“That’s the plan, yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Raven—”
“No.” She moved away from the desk, agitation making her pace. “You’re not sacrificing yourself for me. That defeats the entire purpose of us being partners.”
“It’s not sacrifice. It’s strategy.” He stood too, moving to intercept her pacing. “I’m fae. I have centuries of experience with hostile magic. I can survive this. You can’t. The binding will kill you in five days. Let me buy us time to find a better solution.”
“And if there is no better solution? If you absorb it and then die from magical backlash?” She stopped, met his eyes. “Then I’ve lost you anyway, and gained nothing but guilt.”
“Better than watching you die because I wasn’t strong enough to save you.”
They stared at each other, both stubborn, both terrified.
“There has to be another way,” Raven said finally.
“There is.” His voice went flat. “Complete the contract. Kill me. Take my throne. Use Shadow Court power to shield yourself from the Guild.”
“That’s not an option.”
“It’s always been an option. You’ve just been avoiding it.” He moved closer, and his expression was painfully open. “I’ve been preparing you for this possibility since day one. Teaching you court politics, combat strategy, how to rule. If it comes down to your life or mine, choose yours.”
“I don’t want your throne.”
“You want to live. That’s more important than what I want.” He reached out, touched her face gently. “I’ve had five hundred years. Good ones, bad ones, boring ones. You’ve had twenty-six years of servitude. If one of us deserves to continue existing, it’s you.”
“Stop.” Raven pulled away from his touch. “Stop talking like you’re already dead. We have five days. You can absorb the binding, dissolve it in three days, and we’ll both survive.”
“Or I absorb it and die, and you’re still bound to a dead contract that kills you anyway because binding magic doesn’t end with transfer, it just relocates.” His smile was sad. “I’ve been researching this for weeks, Raven. Every solution has deadly risks.”
“Then we take the risks together.”
“We can’t. The binding only affects you. I can help, but ultimately, you have to make the choice.” He moved back to his desk, pulled out a blade. Iron, perfectly balanced, the kind she favored. “So choose. Let me absorb the binding and hope I survive long enough to dissolve it. Or use this blade, complete the contract, take my throne and my power, and live as the Shadow Princess who earned her crown through combat.”
Raven stared at the blade. She’d held similar weapons a thousand times. Training, contracts, the everyday tools of assassination.
But this one was meant for Draven’s heart. And he was offering it freely.
“I don’t fail contracts,” she whispered. It was the mantra the Guild had beaten into her. The identity she’d built her entire existence around. “That’s what I told you on day one. I’ve never failed.”
“Then don’t start now.” He set the blade on the desk between them. “Complete it. Kill me. Take my throne. It’s what you were sent to do.”
“It’s not what I want to do.”
“Wants aren’t always compatible with survival.” His expression was gentle, understanding. “You wanted freedom. This gives it to you. My death ends the contract, you inherit immense power, and the Guild can’t touch you. Everyone wins except me, and I’ve been ready to die for a while now.”
“Stop trying to make me kill you!”
“I’m trying to make sure you live!” His composure finally cracked. “The binding is going to kill you in five days. I can maybe extend that to eight by absorbing it. But ultimately, someone dies here. I’d rather it be me—the five-hundred-year-old who’s seen everything—than you with your whole life ahead of you.”
Tears burned in Raven’s eyes. She didn’t cry. The Guild had trained tears out of her like they’d trained out everything human.
But standing in Draven’s study with a countdown carved into her ribs and a blade on the desk, she cried.
“I don’t want you to die,” she managed through tears. “I just found you. Found what it means to be more than a weapon. I don’t want to lose that.”
“Then let me save you.” He moved around the desk, pulled her into his arms. “Let me absorb the binding, fight the magic, give you a chance. If I die doing it, at least I die knowing I protected something that mattered.”
“You matter.” She pressed her face into his shoulder, feeling his cool fae magic, his solid presence. “You matter to me. More than the contract. More than the Guild. More than my own life.”
“Then we have a problem,” he said softly. “Because you matter more to me than my own existence. And I’m not watching you die to save myself.”
They stood there, holding each other, both terrified, both stubborn, both absolutely refusing to let the other be the sacrifice.
“Five days,” Raven said finally. “We have five days. Let’s spend them finding a solution where we both live. No sacrifices. No martyrdom. Just two people fighting for their future together.”
“And if we don’t find one?”
“Then I kill you on day thirty and take your throne like you’ve been preparing me to.” She pulled back, met his eyes. “Not because I want to. But because if one of us has to die, I’d rather carry the guilt and the crown than let you die trying to save me.”
His smile was small but genuine. “That’s very fae of you. I’ve taught you well.”
“You’ve taught me to be ruthless when necessary.” She touched his face, memorizing the details. “Five days. We find another way.”
“Five days.” He kissed her palm. “And if we don’t, you promise me you’ll do it? Actually kill me? Take the throne?”
“I promise.” The words tasted like ash. “If it comes to that choice—your life or mine—I’ll choose mine. Like you taught me.”
“Good.” He pulled her close again. “Now let’s spend the next five days fighting like hell to make sure it doesn’t come to that choice.”
They spent the rest of day twenty-five researching together. Magical texts, historical precedents, cases where binding magic had been broken without killing caster or victim. They found seven examples. Five had succeeded through incredible luck. Two had failed spectacularly.
Not great odds.
But better than none.
As midnight approached, Draven finally insisted she sleep. “You’re no good to anyone exhausted. Rest. I’ll keep researching.”
“You need sleep too.”
“I’m fae. I can go weeks without sleep if necessary.” He guided her toward the door. “Please, Raven. Let me work without worrying about you collapsing from exhaustion.”
She left reluctantly, but her body was demanding rest. Twenty-five days of constant stress, assassination attempts, emotional upheaval.
In her chambers, she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, mind racing.
Five days. One hundred twenty hours. Until she either found a solution or became a murderer.
The blade was still in Draven’s study. Iron. Perfectly balanced. Waiting.
If it came to it, could she do it? Could she drive a blade through his heart to save her own life?
The Guild had trained her for twenty-one years. Kill without hesitation. Complete the contract. Survive above all.
But twenty-five days with Draven had taught her something else. That some things were worth dying for. Some people mattered more than survival.
Raven touched her ribs where the countdown had been carved. Five days.
She’d spent twenty-five days trying to kill Draven and failing.
Now she had five days to find a way for both of them to live.
And if she couldn’t?
Then she’d do what assassins did best.
She’d complete the contract.
Even if it destroyed her in the process.
Five days.
She’d make them count.
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