Tibault said.

Ravik counted the slavers twice before he moved. Four on the east ridge, six behind the wagons, and the woman the ledger had given him hanging in enchanted chains between them, barely breathing. The bond pulled at his ribs like a hook. He had learned what that pull meant: not love — arithmetic. Her heart stopped, his heart stopped, and no amount of hating her changed the sum.

The fight was short and ugly. He took a blade across the ribs, put his shoulder through a wagon wheel, and did not stop until the last man on the ridge had stopped moving. When it was over he stood in the ruin of the Thornwilde with his own blood running into his boot and looked at her on the ground, alive, breathing, and the hook in his ribs eased.

Tibault spoke behind him. Isen said nothing at all, which was worse.

Ravik looked at her for a long moment. Heirlooms going out the door. Gifts sold. Punishments taken without a sound, because the bond said cherish and nobody had ever given him a reason to. He was done.

he said.

Then he turned his back and walked into the trees, and he did not look at what her face did with it.