Chapter 236: Damon Wykes

The man ran.

Staggering.

Dragging what remained of his mutilated legs while screaming for help, leaving a grotesque trail on the cobblestones of the square. People began to notice something wrong—screams, blood, the metallic smell spreading in the air.

Elizabeth didn’t move immediately.

She stood still.

Breathing.

The elegant smile had already disappeared.

In its place was something more unstable.

The crimson mist still floated around her in thin threads, like residual smoke that didn’t want to dissipate.

She closed her eyes.

She inhaled.

She exhaled slowly.

And then she looked at the ground.

The first killer was no longer recognizable as human—scattered fragments, partially dissolved tissues, exposed bones. The second had left pieces behind during his escape.

The square was beginning to panic.

But no one approached her. No one dared.

Elizabeth reached out her hand.

Her fingers trembled slightly.

The mist responded.

It spread over the remains on the ground like a living veil.

And then it began to pull.

The blood that still remained scattered on the stones rose in thin rivulets, snaking through the air like liquid threads. Each drop left the surface, gathering in crimson spirals that converged on her open palm.

The smell intensified.

Iron.

Life.

Residual fear.

Elizabeth grimaced.

“What a… disgusting thing.”

The mist compressed, condensing the blood into a dense, vibrant sphere. She brought her hand to her face, watching the liquid pulse slightly.

“Impure. Unstable. Full of cheap adrenaline.”

She sighed, irritated.

Even so, she absorbed it.

The blood was drawn into her as if it were vapor, dissolving beneath her skin. The sphere vanished completely.

The remains on the ground began to lose color.

The flesh dehydrated rapidly, withering like dry leaves. Bones became brittle. Tissues collapsed.

And then—as if touched by an invisible wind—they disintegrated into a thin red mist.

She snapped her fingers.

The mist dispersed into the morning air.

Nothing remained.

The square was strangely clean.

Silent.

Elizabeth remained motionless for a few seconds.

Then she brought her hand to her mouth, wrinkling her nose in clear disgust.

“Ugh.”

She wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

“Absolutely horrible.”

Her stomach didn’t need to function like a human’s, but the sensation of contamination still lingered. The taste was aggressive. Harsh. Raw.

She closed her eyes again.

And compared.

Immediately the bond reacted.

Warmth.

Sweetness.

Stableness.

Deepness.

Damon’s blood.

The sensory memory came as a perfect contrast—dense, refined, harmonious. There was mana mixed in. There was something demonic and yet strangely pure.

She felt her body relax just from thinking about it.

“Much better…” she murmured.

The discreet blush that appeared on her cheeks wasn’t shame.

It was restrained desire.

She placed her hand on her chest, feeling the bond vibrate gently, as if responding to the thought.

“Compared to this…” she continued in a low voice, “…anything else is rubbish.”

The residual mist finally disappeared completely.

Elizabeth smoothed her dress.

She straightened her posture.

She took one last deep breath.

When she opened her eyes, her expression was already composed. Serene.

Elegant.

Untouchable.

As if she hadn’t just dissolved two men in the middle of the square.

She turned and walked calmly towards the registry office building.

Some people moved away.

Others pretended they hadn’t seen anything.

Guards hesitated.

None approached.

She climbed the steps lightly.

But, halfway up, she slowed her pace.

She brought her hand to her lips again.

“Seriously…” she murmured to herself. “What a horrible taste.”

A small smile appeared, involuntary.

“Damon is much tastier.”

The word escaped almost like an intimate thought, laden with genuine satisfaction.

The bond responded immediately, sending back a light wave of awareness—distant curiosity, still inside the building.

She felt it.

And the sensation was infinitely better than any stolen blood in that square.

“Just wait until I tell you I had to drink that,” he murmured with slight amusement.

Then he pushed the door open.

And went in, as if he were just a few minutes late for a routine appointment.

Damon was standing near one of the interior columns of the registry office when he felt it.

First came a slight tug on the tie.

Then, an emotional echo he already recognized.

She was coming back.

He turned his face the exact moment the front door opened.

Elizabeth entered as if she had only gone to get some fresh air.

Impeccable posture.

A neatly tailored dress.

A serene expression.

But there was something beneath the surface—a different vibe, a slight trace of irritation mixed with… satisfaction.

Damon narrowed his eyes slightly.

She walked toward him with soft steps, stopping a few inches away.

“Where did you go?” he asked in a low tone.

Not accusatory.

Just curious.

Elizabeth tilted her head slightly, as if the question were trivial.

“To take care of a little thing I’d forgotten.”

He held her gaze.

“A little thing?”

“Mm-hm.”

The connection brought a strange echo to him.

Metal.

Blood. Repulsion.

And… comparison.

Damon raised an eyebrow.

“Should I be worried?”

She smiled, too sweetly.

“No.”

Pause.

“It’s already resolved.”

He studied her face for a few seconds.

No sign of tension.

No urgency.

Just that elegant calm as always.

He nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

He didn’t insist.

If it were something too serious for him to handle, he would have already felt panic through the bond.

What he felt now was… slight annoyance and an almost comical note of disgust.

Like someone who had tasted something bad.

“You have a strange expression,” he commented.

“Do I?”

“It looks like you ate something you didn’t like.”

She made an almost imperceptible grimace.

“Technically…”

She interrupted herself.

“Nothing important.”

Damon let out a small sigh.

“I should stop asking, shouldn’t I?”

“Probably.”

She took a step closer, holding his hand again, intertwining their fingers as if afraid someone might question the gesture.

The touch stabilized the bond immediately.

The residual discomfort she carried dissipated beneath the connection.

She sighed softly.

“Much better.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She glanced at the registry office reception, where a clerk watched them with evident nervousness.

“Well” she said softly “let’s register this.”

Damon followed her gaze.

On the counter were thick leather-bound books, quills, inkwells, official documents.

The human world.

Cool.

Formal.

He took a deep breath.

“Are you sure?” he asked, one last time.

Elizabeth turned her face to him.

This time there was no joking.

No irony.

Just conviction.

“I have.”

Silence.

Then she finished, with a small smile:

“Damon Wykes.”

The name hung in the air between them.

He felt something different hearing that.

It wasn’t submission.

It wasn’t loss of identity.

It was… structured belonging.

He repeated it mentally.

Damon Wykes.

It sounded solid.

Official.

Definitive.

One corner of his mouth lifted.

“Yes, let’s go.”

Elizabeth smiled back.

They walked together to the counter.

The clerk swallowed hard, clearly recognizing who she was. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the large register book.

“Full name of the groom? ” he asked.

Elizabeth answered without hesitation:

“Damon.”

She looked at him.

He completed:

“Damon Wykes.”

The man quickly wrote it down.

“And the bride’s?”

“Elizabeth Wykes.”

The clerk blinked.

“Already… already using the surname?”

She held his gaze for a second too long.

“Always.”

He asked no more questions.

He dipped his pen in the ink.

“Date of officialization?”

Elizabeth leaned slightly over the counter.

“Today.”

Damon observed every detail.

The scratching of the pen on the paper.

The dry sound of pages turning.

The stamp being prepared.

Something so mundane.

So human.

And yet, strangely significant.

The clerk pushed the book toward them.

“Sign here.”

Elizabeth took the pen first.

Her signature was elegant, fluid, firm.

Without hesitation.

She returned the pen to Damon.

He held it.

For a moment, he felt the symbolic weight.

Then he wrote.

Damon Wykes.

Without trembling.

Without pause.

The clerk stamped the document forcefully.

The sound echoed dryly.

Official.

“It’s complete,” he announced.

Silence.

Nothing mystical happened.

No light shone.

No energy exploded.

But the bond between them vibrated differently.

More stable. More… anchored.

Elizabeth glanced at him sideways.

“There.”

Damon exhaled slowly.

“So now we’re married twice.”

She smiled, amused.

“Strategic redundancy.”

He chuckled softly.

“You’re absurd.”

“I know.”

She intertwined her fingers with his again.

“But now it’s official.”

He squeezed her hand back.

“Official indeed.”

…

He ran until his lungs tore.

He tripped twice over his own mutilated legs, regenerated just enough to support him. The pain still throbbed where the red mist had devoured flesh and bone. Each step was a vivid reminder of what would happen if he failed to deliver the message.

Mirath stayed behind.

The streets gave way to back tracks, then to an isolated stretch between abandoned warehouses. A reinforced wooden shed, devoid of any symbol, awaited at the end of the alley.

He practically fell against the door.

Two figures emerged from the shadows immediately, hands on weapons.

“Code,” one of them demanded.

The survivor swallowed blood.

“Blade… third moon…” the voice came out faltering.

Recognized.

The door opened.

The interior was dark, illuminated only by lanterns attached to the beams. Maps of the city were scattered on a central table. Red markings indicated routes, lookout points, entrances, and exits to Mirath.

In the center of the room, with his back to the camera, stood the leader.

Tall. Erect posture. Hands resting behind his back.

He didn’t turn around immediately.

“Report.”

The voice was calm.

The survivor fell to his knees on the wooden floor.

The sound echoed dryly.

Everyone in the room noticed the smell even before looking.

Burnt blood.

Hastily regenerated flesh.

Fear.

The leader turned slowly.

His eyes narrowed as he saw the man’s condition.

“Where is your partner?”

Silence.

The survivor tried to speak. Nothing came out.

He forced air into his lungs.

“Dead.”

The word fell heavily.

A low murmur echoed through the shed.

“Describe.”

The survivor began to tremble.

It wasn’t theatrical.

It was involuntary.

“She… she knew.”

The leader didn’t react.

“Knew?”

“We were under the awning. Watching. She went into the office with the target. Everything normal. Then… she just… appeared behind us.”

One of the assassins in the back let out a low curse.

The leader raised a finger, silencing the room.

“Continue.”

The survivor closed his eyes for a moment, as if he could block the memory.

He couldn’t.

“There was no movement. There was no sound. Only… a voice.”

He clenched his fists against the floor.

“A red mist began to rise. It wasn’t ordinary magic. It wasn’t an element. It was… blood. But alive. As if it were breathing.”

The leader’s eyes became more attentive.

“And then?”

“She passed through him.” The voice faltered again.

“My partner… simply… fell apart. There was no fight. There was no chance.”

Absolute silence.

“And you?”

The survivor trembled harder.

“She left me alive.”

This made some of the men in the room exchange glances.

“Left?”

“On purpose.”

The leader walked slowly towards him.

He stopped a few steps away.

“What did she say?”

The survivor raised his face. There were tears mixed with sweat.

“She said to warn.”

Pause.

“Warn what?”

He swallowed hard.

“That the target… Damon…”

The name seemed too heavy to come out.

“Now he’s her husband.”

The shed fell completely still.

The leader showed no immediate reaction.

“Husband?”

“She said those words.” That he belongs to her. That if we continue… she will erase all traces of the organization from Mirath’s face.

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