Morax’s gaze travels down to your cornered, shaking form, eyes darkening once he notices the droplets of blood trailing in your wake.

“Look at what they’ve done to you,” he says, almost regretful as he encircles a gentle yet stern grip around your ankle. “See what happens the moment you leave my side?”

A few light scratches, he inspects, but nothing too deep to be of concern. He supposes he could thank how nimble you are on your feet for that.

Still, never will he fathom why you persistently defy his every word. Outside, dangers and foes alike lurk beneath the pretence of peace—whyever do you desire to escape the safety of his embrace? Does he not lavish you with riches befitting the consort of an Archon?

“Come now, cease your theatrics,” Morax shushes you, wiping your tears away. “Let us return home, and I shall personally tend to your injury.”

The two of you have agreed on a contract together. It is only right to honor its terms.