Scene 1 – The Golden Collapse

The void was drowned in light. Golden fire licked across the battlefield, every chain glowing with unbearable brilliance.

At the center of it all lay Jemil.

His body convulsed against the ground, every muscle straining as if torn in two. The curse mark burned so brightly on his chest that his skin looked seared, the glow pulsating like a second heartbeat. His golden bindings writhed and whipped around him, not protecting him, not obeying him—simply thrashing, alive with their own hunger.

"Jemil!" Lyra screamed, rushing forward, her flames exploding around her in a desperate shield. She dropped to her knees, trying to reach him, but one of his chains lashed out like a wild beast, forcing her back with a spray of sparks. Her hand hung in the air, inches from his, trembling.

Kaelina stepped in front of them both, her sword raised high. Sweat streaked down her face, her voice low but trembling with fury. "Whatever this is—it won't take him from us. Not while I still breathe."

Elira clutched her staff, lips moving in frantic prayer, light spilling uselessly from her palms. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks. "Please… please hold on, Jemil. Don't leave us. Don't let it take you!"

Nyssa stood apart, her shadows curling tight, her eyes narrowed in sharp, unreadable focus. Her smile was gone now—replaced with something colder, sharper. She muttered, almost to herself, "The Mistress doesn't just mark… she claims. And claims don't let go."

The predator stood motionless in the distance, its golden fire dimming as though in reverence. It lowered its weapon, bowing its monstrous head. "The master arrives."

And then—

The air shifted.

The chains around Jemil stopped thrashing, freezing mid-motion. The mark on his chest flared once more, and through the light… a voice slid into the battlefield.

"My precious summoner."

It wasn't shouted. It wasn't thunder. It was a whisper, soft and silken, but it cut through the battlefield more sharply than any blade.

Jemil's eyes snapped open, glowing gold. His breath hitched, torn between a gasp and a groan, as the Mistress's presence wrapped around him like velvet chains.

Scene 2 – The Mistress Speaks Through Him

Jemil's lips parted, but the voice that slipped out was not his.

"Why do you fight me, my summoner?"

The tone was silk wrapped around steel, both gentle and commanding, carrying the undeniable cadence of the Mistress herself. Every word rippled through the void, and the golden chains around Jemil stirred like leaves in the wind, resonating with her presence.

His wives froze.

Lyra's fire wavered. Her hands trembled as she shook her head violently, refusing to accept what she was hearing. "No… no, that's not you, Jemil! Say something—anything that's yours!"

But when Jemil tried to answer, the glow in his eyes flared brighter. The Mistress's voice threaded through his throat again.

"You cry for him as though he is apart from me. But Jemil's strength, Jemil's power, Jemil's very breath flows because I willed it so. Did you never wonder why the chains answered so eagerly? Why they grew so quickly? It was not him. It was me."

Elira's staff clattered to the ground, her light fading from her hands. She staggered a step back, whispering through her tears, "No… no, he's more than that. He's more than you."

Kaelina clenched her sword so hard her knuckles turned white. Her teeth grit as fury burned in her chest. "Get out of him!" she roared, stepping forward, blade aimed directly at the thrashing glow. "He is not yours to puppeteer!"

The golden chains lashed in response, forcing her back, sparks exploding at her feet. Jemil's body rose slowly, unsteady, as though lifted by unseen hands.

Nyssa smirked, but her voice was a sharp hiss. "So this is your game, Mistress. Not just a mark—not just a chain. You're pulling his voice, his heart, his very self into your grip." Her shadows coiled tighter, trembling at the edges. "You want us to see him as yours. To break us from the inside."

The Mistress laughed softly through Jemil's lips, a sound that made the air itself tighten around them.

"Break you? No. I only wish to show you the truth. You thought you were his chains… but you were only his distractions. I have always been his first bond. His eternal vow."

The words cut deep. The wives' unity, already strained, quivered like a blade on the verge of snapping.

And Jemil, trapped inside the golden blaze, screamed silently against her hold.

Scene 3 – The Wives Fight the Claim

The chamber blazed in molten gold, a storm of chains thrashing like serpents unbound. At the center, Jemil writhed, his body half-lifted, half-crushed under the weight of the mark that burned across his skin. Every time the chains struck, sparks of his aura scattered—fragments of him torn loose, hungrily devoured by the glow that belonged to the Mistress.

Lyra was the first to lunge forward. Flames poured from her palms in great sweeping arcs, each wave hammering against the golden bindings. The chains shrieked like metal dragged across glass, bending, warping, but never breaking. "I won't let her take you, Jemil!" she screamed, her fire flaring hotter, brighter, until the very air shimmered with heat. But in the midst of her fury, a tremor wavered in her voice. She could see the Mistress's touch feeding off Jemil's flame, not extinguishing it, but twisting it toward her will.

Kaelina raised her sword, her body trembling with more than rage. Every chain that lashed near Jemil she cut in a single flash of steel, sparks scattering with each strike. Her blade carved through shackles that no mortal steel should have touched, her every swing a vow renewed. "If I must cut the chains from your soul itself—I will!" she shouted, but even she could feel it: the way her blade seemed heavier each time it clashed, as though Jemil himself resisted her rescue.

Nyssa, with eyes narrowed like a hawk, spread her illusions across the battlefield. Threads of shadow weaved around Jemil, veiling him from the Mistress's golden sight. Chains stabbed wildly, misled into striking each other, binding themselves in their own frenzy. Yet Nyssa's whispers carried bitterness: "It's not just her… He's hearing her. He's listening." Her illusions trembled, flickered, as though the Mistress's voice was unraveling her careful deceit.

Elira fell to her knees, her hands clasped, light spilling between her fingers in a trembling prayer. Her voice cracked, but her will did not. "By the vow we share, by the bond we swore, return to us!" Her aura spread over Jemil like a veil of dawn, softening the blaze of the mark, slowing its flare for mere moments. But as her light touched him, the chains responded like jealous beasts, thrashing harder, striking her back with a force that ripped the breath from her lungs. Still she prayed, lips bloody, eyes fierce.

And all the while—

The chains sang. Not with metal, not with echoes, but with a voice. The Mistress's whisper lingered, weaving through each clash, each cry, each desperate strike:

"Mine."

The word slipped into Jemil's ears, branding itself deeper than flame, sharper than steel, louder than prayer. His wives fought, but every blow seemed to drag him further toward her.

Lyra screamed his name again, Kaelina's blade cracked with sparks, Nyssa's illusions unraveled at the edges, and Elira's prayer bled into sobs—

But the golden mark only burned brighter.

Their voices collided in the storm—shouts, prayers, vows, flames, steel. The chamber became a battlefield of desperation, but Jemil could no longer hear them clearly.

The golden blaze drowned out their words, the chains thrashing in rhythm with his heartbeat. And through it all, the Mistress's voice slid into the silence between, velvet and absolute.

"Do you feel them breaking, Jemil? Their trust… their faith… their love. All crumbling. And still, they fight me. Why resist, when you already know where you belong?"

His wives clawed at the bindings, bleeding and burning themselves against the gold, but the mark only burned hotter.

And then—Jemil's head jerked upward. His eyes, for the briefest instant, glowed with her gold.

Lyra froze mid-strike. Kaelina's blade slipped. Nyssa's illusions shattered. Elira's prayer died in her throat.

"Jemil…" Lyra whispered, her flame flickering like a candle against the storm.

The chains coiled tighter, lifting him higher into the blaze. His voice, when it came, was not his own.

"…Mistress."

Next Chapter Preview – Chapter 80: Chains of Betrayal

The golden mark has flared beyond control. Jemil, suspended in chains, speaks the word none of his wives ever thought they'd hear: Mistress.

Shock splits the group. Lyra's flames sputter as doubt gnaws at her heart. Kaelina's sword wavers between cutting the chains and cutting Jemil himself free of the Mistress's influence—no matter the cost. Nyssa's sharp tongue trembles with fear she refuses to voice, and Elira's prayers are drowned by the weight of despair.

But the Mistress is not satisfied with a single word. Her presence presses deeper, forcing Jemil into a trial where his own desires are shackled against him. Each chain is no longer just a prison, but a reflection of the bonds he shares with his wives—now twisted, corrupted, turned into weapons against their love.

For the first time, the wives begin to question not only if they can save him…

But if Jemil even wants to be saved.

And in that moment of hesitation, the Mistress makes her most dangerous move yet—pulling Jemil's heart closer to hers.

The line between betrayal and survival blurs.

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