It started with a question.
Not Rhea's question—those usually came in the form of "Can I eat this?" or "Why don't they use fire magic to make toast faster?" (To be fair, her idea had some merit. Less so after the toaster exploded.)
No, this time it was my question.
Why had the contract grown?
And why had it started now?
Three days had passed since the bracelet of glowing runes curled around my wrist. It hadn't faded. If anything, it had settled in—like a tattoo made of moonlight and bad decisions.
It didn't hurt. It didn't pulse like a curse. But it didn't feel passive, either.
It watched.
Sometimes, when I reached out to pat Rhea's head or yank her out of a potential meltdown, I'd feel it buzz, like it approved.
Which was unsettling.
Very few body parts should feel smug.
Rhea, of course, insisted it was "adorable proof of ownership."
I tried to tell her people weren't furniture.
She responded by attempting to carve "ELIAS—PROPERTY OF RHEA" into a piece of toast.
With soul magic It burst into song.
I grounded her For two hours.
She used that time to draw a magical diagram on the floor that summoned a mouse with a monocle. The mouse gave me a tiny lecture on emotional repression and the importance of affection.
I grounded her again.
Eventually, I decided I needed answers.
Not from books, or from Rhea, or even from the monocle mouse (who I suspect was a figment of her imagination made sentient by sheer chaotic force).
I needed to go back.
To the ruins.
It was early morning when I left.
Rhea was still snoring, drooling onto a pillow embroidered with a demon sigil. Probably cursed. Probably expensive.
I left a note.
"Out for groceries. If you open a portal again, no sweets for a week."
Spoiler: I wasn't buying groceries.
The ruins were deeper into the forest than I remembered.
The path, overgrown and narrow, twisted like it was hiding something.
Leaves rustled overhead. A crow watched me with the smugness of someone who knew I was lost.
But eventually, I saw it.
The arch.
The collapsed altar.
The cracked obsidian stone where I'd first found her—naked, tiny, and radiating more magical pressure than a volcano on espresso.
I stepped carefully over the moss and rubble, brushing aside vines.
The stone shimmered faintly in the light.
And something was carved into it.
I crouched down.
The glyphs were faint. Ancient. But readable—barely.
I wiped the dirt away, revealing the full warning.
"DO NOT LOVE HER."
I blinked.
That was… not what I expected.
Not "beware the queen" or "cursed blood." Not "vessel of ruin."
Just "Do not love her."
A chill crept up my spine.
It wasn't the words. It was the tone.
This wasn't a warning to enemies.
This was advice To me.
I stared at the glyph for a long time.
The stone pulsed faintly. Magic still clung to it—old, raw, and cracked. Like someone had sealed her there with blood and hope and the last ounce of strength they had.
But it hadn't worked.
She'd come back as a child innocent. Confused.
And now… mine.
"Too late," I muttered aloud.
Behind me, the forest rustled.
I spun no one there just the wind. But it felt like someone was listening. I sat down beside the altar.
Took a breath. And remembered.
The day I found her, she hadn't cried.
She hadn't screamed or raged.
She'd looked at me with empty, ancient eyes and said "...You're late."
I hadn't understood it then.
I still didn't fully understand it now.
But I felt it.
Like a story too big to read in one sitting.
Like a promise that hadn't been made yet—but already mattered.
Back in the present, I reached for the cracked stone again.
The moment I touched it, the contract on my wrist flared.
Just once. Like a heartbeat. Like a reminder.
You are already hers.
I stood.
The glyph burned faintly in my mind.
Do not love her.
"Noted," I said quietly.
Then added, "But I don't think I get a say anymore."
Meanwhile, Back at Home…
Rhea woke up to find my note.
Her eyes narrowed.
Her tail flicked.
"I knew it," she muttered.
She opened her spellbook.
She drew a rune.
She summoned a talking mouse again.
"Track him," she demanded.
The mouse blinked. "You said no summoning me unless it was life or death."
"He might be buying the wrong kind of groceries."
"Is that life-threatening?"
"Yes."
The mouse sighed. "Fine. But you're paying me in cheese this time."
Back at the Ruins…
I traced the glyph one last time before standing.
In the silence, I thought of her smile. Her tantrums. Her fear of being abandoned.
And her voice in the night:
"Even if I sleep… even if I burn… you're mine."
"Not fair," I whispered to no one.
"She's a kid. I'm her guardian. I'm not supposed to love her."
Not that way. Not dangerously. Not like the stone warned. But the line was blurry.
Because love wasn't always romantic.
It was fear.
Protection.
That gut-deep panic when she was hurt, or scared, or nearly vaporizing the principal.
I stared up at the ruins one more time.
"Whatever you were trying to stop," I said, "I think it already happened."
A voice behind me said, "You always talk to rocks?"
I jumped Whirled. And found… Rhea.
Wearing her cloak. Holding the summoning mouse like a GPS unit.
"What are you doing here?!"
"You lied about groceries," she said smugly. "Also, your grocery list was suspiciously short. No snacks? Very suspicious."
I groaned. "You shouldn't be here. This place—"
"I remember this place."
She stepped closer.
Touched the stone. Closed her eyes "…I burned here."
I held my breath.
She opened her eyes. Looked at me.
"But you found me."
I sighed.
"You followed me through a magically protected forest with a talking rodent because you were worried I'd forget snacks?"
She held up a hand. "Also to check if the seal reacted."
"How did you even find me?"
She patted the mouse. "This is Gerald. He has a nose for tragic backstory locations."
I stared at the mouse.
Gerald winked.
I gave up.
She stepped beside me and looked at the glyph.
Her expression changed.
Serious. Old.
"…Do not love her," she read.
I waited. Then she looked at me.
"And?" I hesitated.
She stared, defiant.
I shrugged. "Too late."
She smiled.
And for once, didn't say a word.
To be continued…