Chapter 34 The Valemont estate was too silent. Marcella slipped from her chambers long after the household had settled into the hush of slumber. No maids bustling through corridors. No guards clinking armor outside her door. Only the muted beat of her own heart as she clutched the ancient tome Evelyne, tight to her chest. Her slippers made no sound over the cold marble floors. The corridors stretched ahead of her. Moonlight pooled through the windows, silvering the floors. Marcella had no choice. She could not sit back and wait to be shackled. She made her way to the old prayer room at the western wing, long abandoned after a fire had scorched part of it years ago. No one went there anymore. Perfect. The heavy wooden doors groaned as she pushed them open. Inside, the once-grand chapel stood in ruin - blackened beams, cracked stone, and wild ivy that crept through shattered glass. The altar was half-collapsed. Dust and ash coated everything. But there was space. And silence. Marcella drew the door shut behind her and knelt by the collapsed altar, setting down the book. She opened the tome carefully. Dust and ash clung to her fingers as she flipped to the page The first page was handwritten: To sever a bond yet still seal the flame, the vessel must awaken the fire within before the pact is struck. Awaken the fire within. ????? Marcella flipped hurriedly through the brittle pages, finding rituals, incantations, diagrams of sigils ancient enough to predate even the Church's oldest scriptures. One in particular caught her eye - a drawing of a woman surrounded by a burning halo, her hand raised to a night sky swirling with dark stars. Call the flame. Bind it to your will. If you cannot control it, it will consume you. Marcella bit the inside of her cheek. This was it. Her chance. Mustering herself, she stood and dragged the point of her finger across the old stone floor, sketching the sigil exactly as shown. Her pulse thundered. Sweat slicked her palms. When the circle was complete, Marcella closed her eyes, whispering the words written in the margins: Ash to ash, light to flame, grant me the fire unchained. At first, nothing. A dead silence, heavy as a coffin lid. Marcella reached inward, searching for the mark her father claimed she carried. At first, it was like reaching into mist. Slippery. Elusive. But then she felt it, a coil of heat buried deep within her chest, smoldering low and furious like a caged beast. Then- a crackle in the air. A subtle shift, like the room itself had inhaled. The sigil on the floor glowed - a dull, pulsing ember. Followed by a violent shudder, the stone cracked beneath her palms. Marcella gasped, falling backward as invisible claws raked across her soul. Searing heat slamming into her chest like a battering ram. The fire was wild. Unruly. It wasn't a river to be guided. It was an avalanche, and she had no shelter. Pain exploded through her. Her body twisted, spasming. Her fingertips scraped bloody over the stone floor as she tried to control it, to hold the flame, to tame it. But she failed. The sigil sputtered. The flame vanished. The silence that followed was worse than the pain. It was a failure, pure and cruel. Marcella lay gasping on the stone, tears stinging her eyes, her body trembling from the inside out. You're weak, a voice whispered in her mind. Just like last time. You think knowing the truth makes you strong? It doesn't. You're still nothing. Marcella pressed her forehead to the cold stone, the shame burning hotter than the failed flame. She thought of the wedding. Of the binding ceremony. Of being tied forever to Berith. Her mind reeled back to her past life - when she had wasted her days chasing meaningless court games, seducing Berith, playing politics, thinking clawing for hollow power was everything. She had been a fool. A hellion. The world had been burning beneath her feet, and she hadn't even smelled the smoke. But no. Not this time. Marcella dragged herself upright, pain throbbing in every nerve. Blood ran down her scraped palms. Tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them away. She would not die being their pawn. She would not marry the monster. She would not be the helpless girl begging at the altar. If the pact wanted a vessel-it would get a vessel strong enough to shatter them all. Gritting her teeth, Marcella redrew the sigil, each stroke carved with blood this time. The lines glowed faintly - sensing her rage, her fury. She dropped to her knees, voice raw as she chanted again: Ash to ash. Light to flame. Grant me the fire unchained. This time the response was immediate. A roar - a howl of ancient, vengeful fire rushing up from deep within her chest. It hurt. Dear god, it hurt - like every cell in her body was being torn open and rewritten. Marcella screamed. She would not break. She would not. The sigil flared, and so did the mark inside her - a searing brand over her heart, the Ashen Flame awakening. Her bones felt like they would shatter. Her veins burned with molten gold. But Marcella endured. Remember who you are. A queen reborn from her own ashes. The fire buckled, clawed, and tried to devour her. Marcella screamed in rage, grief and fury, as she grabbed it by the throat and forced it to kneel. The room shook. The burning sigil exploded in a storm of white-hot light then dimmed. The fire did not vanish this time. It obeyed. Marcella collapsed back onto the stone floor, panting, drenched in sweat, trembling but alive. Alive, and powerful. The Ashen Flame curled lazily inside her now, like a beast tamed by force of will. She could feel it now - the roaring, living fire inside her bones. She had done it. Alone. Not as a pawn. Not as a bride. As Marcella Valemont. The girl who would burn the chains before they ever touched her. Dojun, who married out of necessity and immediately left for a foreign country, suddenly appeared at his marital home and then at his company, without any prior notice. He brought with him several pho...