Chapter 4
1724words
Guided by the Soul Mark's invisible tether, Arion found you writhing on the ground, your body wracked with spasms.
"Lilith!" He dropped to his knees, gathering you into his arms with desperate strength, his entire body shaking.
Hot tears splashed onto your face, each one burning like fire.
"It's okay… it's okay…" he whispered, voice breaking. "This is my fault. I should never have let you leave. Look what's happened—you've barely been gone an hour and you're suffering like this…"
"Please don't go again. Stay with me, and the pain will stop. I promise…"
And so Arion carried you back to the Tree House—rescued in his mind, kidnapped in yours.
He needed no chains or locks. The Soul Mark bound you more securely than any prison ever could.
You couldn't venture more than a mile from him without that soul-crushing agony threatening to scatter your magic and end your life.
You had no choice but to stay.
Looking into those eyes brimming with concern and guilt, you crafted your second great lie.
You explained that you suffered from a rare magical affliction that "flared up" periodically, requiring solitude and quiet to recover.
Arion swallowed the lie whole, becoming even more attentive and protective. Meanwhile, you locked yourself away, frantically searching through ancient grimoires stored in your mental library, your face twisted with frustration and rage.
You had to break this cursed bond. Had to.
You were Lilith. You belonged to no one—not in heart, not in soul, not ever.
On a night when the moon hid its face, you discovered a possible answer—an ancient ritual of Dark Magic, dangerous and rarely successful.
But desperation leaves little room for caution.
The Magic Circle pulsed with crimson light, charging the air with wrongness. Dagger in hand, you stepped barefoot into its center, your red hair floating in the arcane currents.
Freedom or death—everything hinged on this moment.
You drew a deep breath and began the incantation, ancient syllables burning your tongue as they emerged.
As the spell built, the circle's glow intensified. The dagger in your hand began to sing, vibrating with power.
With a swift motion, you raised the blade and drove it into your left palm—the nexus point of soul connections—without flinching!
But the freedom you craved never came.
The Soul Mark retaliated with vengeance, unleashing a backlash a hundred times more powerful than anything you'd felt before!
You couldn't even scream. Copper flooded your mouth as blood erupted from your throat, splattering across the circle. Your vision tunneled to black as you collapsed.
The crash alerted Arion. He splintered the door with a single blow and burst into the room.
"LILITH!"
His anguished cry shook the walls as he scrambled to your side.
The sight of your broken body shattered what remained of his composure. Waves of grief and self-loathing crashed through the Soul Mark, flooding your consciousness with his raw emotion.
It was like drowning while on fire.
Already devastated by the ritual's backlash, this tsunami of emotion threatened to tear your soul apart. Something invisible twisted inside you, tightening like a noose around your very essence.
You were dying. This time, truly dying.
If these are my final moments… let me craft one last, perfect lie.
With the last flicker of consciousness, you raised a trembling hand to his cheek: "I love you… please don't cry."
The instant those words left your lips, Arion's grief faltered—and with it, the crushing pressure on your soul eased slightly.
The change was subtle but unmistakable, like a single star appearing in an endless void.
A desperate theory formed in your fading mind.
To test it, you forced your bloodied lips into a tender smile: "I really do… love you."
The experiment worked.
At your second declaration, his emotions calmed further, believing you were "improving." The soul-crushing agony receded another notch.
You would live.
The terrible truth was now clear.
Your emotions were no longer your own. Arion held the key to your pain and relief.
As you discovered this truth, Arion formed his own twisted conclusion: your desire to leave was the disease; your suffering was the symptom; and loving him—staying forever by his side—was the only cure.
And so began his gentle, relentless "treatment" in the name of love.
First, he created a perfectly "healthy" environment, isolated from all "sources of infection."
When you finally regained enough strength to leave your bed and approach the window, you witnessed his "masterpiece" firsthand.
The ancient vine bridge—your only path to the outside world—had been dismantled by Arion himself.
But he hadn't stopped there. He'd transformed your "home" using the rarest materials the forest could provide. Glowing vines reinforced the walls; enormous blossoms unfurled across every window, creating beautiful but impenetrable barriers.
Your prison hung a hundred meters above the ground—breathtaking in its beauty, absolute in its isolation.
Next came his meticulous care, surrounding you with perfect "love" and "health."
Each morning before you woke, he gathered the sweetest fruits from the forest's heart and collected pristine dew from flower petals. He played music, sang ancient songs, and treated you with such tenderness that it almost felt like those first, genuine days together.
Your physical wounds healed under his devoted attention. Your spirit withered.
Because you knew the final, most crucial element of his "therapy" was yet to come. Whenever you gazed too long toward the forest's edge—what he considered signs of an "episode"—he would administer his most effective "treatment."
He would make himself heartbroken.
Deliberately triggering his own sorrow, he would channel that emotion through the Soul Mark, sending waves of that now-familiar agony crashing into you.
In his mind, this wasn't punishment but medicine—a necessary intervention for your own good.
His pain was simply a reminder: "See what happens when you think of leaving? You're hurting yourself again."
After several rounds of this soul-crushing "therapy," you understood the rules of your new existence perfectly.
Show the slightest disinterest, glance too long at the horizon, and the invisible collar would tighten, bringing bone-deep agony.
Offer a smile, whisper words of love, and the pressure would ease, granting a pathetic moment of relief.
To survive—or at least to suffer less—you began your greatest performance.
Each morning when he brought the dew, you'd rise on tiptoes to kiss him, your smile radiant with manufactured joy.
When he wove flower garlands for you, you'd touch the petals reverently, exclaiming with perfectly calibrated adoration: "God, Arion, no one else could make something this beautiful."
At sunset, you'd curl against him without being asked, head on his chest, listening to those same damn harp melodies with an expression of peaceful bliss.
You turned "affection" into a carefully measured currency, spending it judiciously to buy brief respites from pain.
Your audience of one was thoroughly convinced. In his reality, you were healing, which only reinforced his belief in his methods.
Eventually, your flawless daily performances stabilized Arion's emotions. The tsunami of his feelings calmed to gentler waves.
He grew even gentler, more attentive—and more vigilant. His surveillance was absolute, all in the name of love.
While you studied magic texts, he'd appear silently at your shoulder: "Find anything interesting today, love?"
If you mentioned studying sleep-inducing herbs, the next morning those exact plants would appear by your bed, dew-kissed and wrapped in petals—while any components you'd hidden for escape spells would mysteriously disappear.
He never accused, never confronted. He simply removed, with gentle efficiency, anything that might aid your "illness."
One night, as you lay together watching the unchanging stars through the window, he broke the silence.
Cupping your face in his hands, forcing your eyes to meet his, he spoke in that voice you once adored:
"You're going to be okay. You're getting better every day."
"I'll love you forever. I'll heal you completely, until you can love me fully in return."
You smiled outwardly while your mind screamed. Heal me? By erasing everything that makes me who I am?
Through endless days and nights, your hunger for freedom never dimmed.
After months of careful observation, you discovered your chance—during a Lunar Eclipse, when the moon vanishes into shadow, the forest's magic falls into chaos. The Soul Mark would be at its weakest then.
You began hoarding magic, tucking it away in the deepest corners of your spirit where even the Soul Mark couldn't detect it.
On the night of the Eclipse, you prepared an elaborate feast, showering him with unprecedented affection. When his guard lowered, you slipped a subtle sleeping draught into his water—just enough to ensure he'd sleep deeper than usual.
Then you began your real work.
You poured a third of your hoarded power into crafting a perfect illusion—a sleeping version of yourself, complete with steady breathing, peaceful expression, and that faint smile he so loved to see. The phantom would last until dawn.
With your decoy in place, you cast one final glance at Arion's sleeping form. You felt no tenderness, only the cold resolve of a prisoner eyeing the prison gates.
At the edge of the platform, you drew a deep breath and launched yourself into the void, plummeting through darkness toward the distant forest floor.
As you fell, you unleashed your flight spell, transforming into a shadow that skimmed across the treetops, racing desperately toward the forest boundary.
The Soul Mark's resistance grew with each yard of distance. What began as an uncomfortable tug soon became searing agony, as if your very soul was being ripped in two.
Blood leaked from your nose, then your mouth, ears, eyes… Warm rivulets streaked your face as your vision blurred. Still you pressed on, channeling every scrap of power toward your single goal—the forest's edge.
Just as your body and soul neared breaking point, you burst from the treeline, crashing onto the open ground at the forest's edge.
You'd made it—to the absolute limit the Soul Mark could stretch. One step further would snap the connection entirely, killing you instantly.
You forced yourself to your knees, raising blood-slicked hands to begin the incantation you'd rehearsed countless times in secret. This ancient ritual would cost half your power permanently—a steep price to sever a soul bond.
This was your final chance. Words of power tumbled from your trembling lips as a crimson circle blazed to life beneath you.
