Page 34 of Bound to the Marak

The door closed with a soft hiss, sealing them into the quiet together. The hum of the engine deepened, and the craft rose, gliding away from the platform like a bird in flight.

Below, Isora glittered like a thousand diamonds scattered across black velvet.

She watched it grow smaller, more distant, as they climbed.

Beside her, Karian said nothing.

But his presence filled the cabin like heat. Like gravity.

She didn’t look at him.

But she felt him.

And in the silence, as they soared into the stars, she finally understood:

She would never truly be free of him.

And, terrifyingly…

She wasn’t sure she wanted to be

Nineteen

The silence in the hovering craft was thick, but not uncomfortable. Not anymore.

They ascended smoothly into Luxar’s skies, the city of Isora now just a blur of lights below, growing more distant by the second. Leonie sat beside Karian, her hands resting in her lap, her heart trying to calm itself. Every now and then, she snuck a glance at him.

He was masked again, the silver contours of the strange faceplate catching the glow of the craft’s soft lighting. It rendered him unreadable once more, impassive. Regal. Alien.

But she had seen what was beneath it.

She had seen the pale beauty of his face. His eyes like black glass. The way his hair had spilled around his shoulders, sleek and shimmering. She hadn’t expected him to be beautiful. Powerful, terrifying—yes. But beautiful?

It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

The silence stretched until he lifted one gloved hand and held it out to her. Resting on his palm was the translator again—smooth and silver, like a flattened pebble.

His voice came through it, low and sure.

“I can see you are curious,” he said. “You may ask me anything you wish to know.”

That surprised her. For a second, she blinked at him, trying to gauge if it was a trick.

But there was no mockery in his posture. No threat.

So she swallowed, nodded once, and asked the first question that had been gnawing at her since the moment she laid eyes on him.

“What are you?” she asked, voice quiet. “Exactly?”

He regarded her for a moment before answering.

“I amMarak,” came the reply, rich and clear. “There are only ever seven of us alive at one time. We are born, not made. A Marak is not chosen—we are simply…born differently. It happens once every century, perhaps less. Always at random.”

She watched him carefully, trying to make sense of it.

“Seven. So you’re… like a king?”

“No.” He tilted his head slightly. “More than that. We are sovereigns, yes—but also weapons. Shields. Each Marak commands a territory of Luxar. Mine is Malvar—the greatest, the most vast. We are born to rule, to protect, to fight. Until we die… and another takes our place.”

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