The Seal of Submission

The moment Theron announced the Seal of Submission, the Council Chamber fell into a profound, anticipatory silence. The Exiles leaned forward, eager to witness the taming of the Dragon Guard, the creature they feared and resented in equal measure.
Jerrick did not hesitate. The memory of the Queen’s whispered instruction—You must allow Theron to place the first binding rune on you—was the iron tether securing his resolve. He did not look at the Queen, whose pale face was currently fixed on the far wall. He did not look at Kael, who stood rigid with the children, his shadow stretched long and still across the rough stone.
Jerrick simply turned, dropping his powerful frame to one knee on the cold floor.
The act of submission was more agonizing than any Troll’s blow. It wasn't the pain of the stone; it was the psychological laceration of yielding the tactical high ground, of allowing a lesser man to approach him as a master. He was surrendering the core tenet of his identity: the absolute, physical defense of the Queen.
Theron approached slowly, savoring the moment. He was not just binding a dangerous guard; he was conquering the terrifying concept of the Elder God.
“Extend your arm, Captain,” Theron commanded, his voice tight with controlled triumph.
Jerrick stretched his left arm out, palm down. He focused on the rhythm of his breathing, using the deepest, most ancient Shadow Guard discipline to create a fortress around his mind. He was preparing the precise spot where the Elder God’s power coiled—and preparing to unzip the containment just enough to make the binding appear successful.
Theron pressed the iron stylus into the dark, viscous mineral paste he carried. The paste was cold, smelling faintly of sulfur and dried blood. He didn't rush. He used the sharp point to carve a complex, alien rune pattern onto Jerrick’s skin, tracing the veins that pulsed beneath the surface. It was a crude, hastily adapted version of a true suppression rite—a corrupted knowledge the Queen had counted on.
As Theron worked, Jerrick felt the beginnings of the foreign magic—the Exile binding—attempting to latch onto his power source. It was like ice seeking to adhere to fire.

The Calculated Breach

When Theron finally finished the tracing and pressed the full, dark circle of the rune into Jerrick's forearm, the Exile binding instantly tried to burrow deep, seeking the core of the Dragon-kin’s power.
This was the moment of maximum risk. If Jerrick resisted fully, the Exile magic would recoil and expose the Queen’s deception. If Jerrick yielded fully, Theron might gain access to the raw, destabilized power, leading to the Red Protocol.
Jerrick chose a third path. He opened the containment, not fully, but with a deliberate, calculated breach. He allowed the Elder God’s power—the searing, volatile force deep in his soul—to surge forward, but only under the strictest internal choke-chain.
The resulting collision was blindingly painful. Jerrick’s body seized up. His muscles locked, his jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might shatter. The cave torches dimmed momentarily in response to the massive, contained output of psychic energy.
The Exile binding rune sizzled, reacting to the sudden, chaotic burst. It was a perfect performance of failure and submission. Jerrick was allowing the power to escape until the binding caught it.
“Hold him steady!” Theron shouted, mistaking the agonizing surge for a desperate, final resistance. He pressed harder on the stylus, forcing the crude Exile magic to complete the circuit.
Jerrick let out a low, guttural roar—a sound of pure, unadulterated torment that echoed off the stone walls. In that sound, he channeled not the Elder God’s temper, but the raw grief for Lyra, the exhaustion of the flight, and the searing shame of his surrender. The sound was so convincing that two of the younger Council members flinched back.

The Shackle Takes Hold

The power surge peaked and then, with a wet, sickening snap Jerrick felt more than heard, the Exile binding completed its circuit. The foreign energy wrapped around the Dragon-kin power, neutralizing the volatile outburst. The pain vanished, replaced by a profound, agonizing emptiness.
Jerrick went limp, slumping forward onto his hands. He was sweating profusely, his whole body trembling with the aftershocks of the containment.
The visual was absolute: the terrifying Dragon Guard Captain, who could withstand an army, was brought to his knees by the Exiles’ knowledge. The dark rune on his forearm glowed faintly, a cold, humiliating mark of compliance.
Theron yanked the stylus away, his face etched with strained relief and triumph. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his confidence now fully restored.
"The Seal of Submission is complete," Theron announced to the silent Council, his voice shaking slightly, but recovering quickly. "The Elder God is quelled. His temper is managed by Exile authority. The Queen has paid the price of trust."
The Exiles murmured approvingly. Jerrick remained on all fours, his head bowed, his body presenting the perfect picture of broken defeat. The shame was suffocating, but he knew this humiliation was the shield the Queen needed.
The Queen, seeing Jerrick’s performance complete, finally moved. She looked at Theron, her eyes cold and steady.
"The price is paid," she stated clearly. "My Shield is bound. His temper is yours to control. Now, Exile Council, we proceed to the negotiation of your Cold Forges."
Theron turned back to the Council, his attention fully diverted back to the political asset. The distraction was now a complete reality. Jerrick was no longer a threat; he was a footnote.
Jerrick slowly, painfully pushed himself back onto his knee, and then to his feet. He swayed slightly, ensuring the Exiles saw his weakness. He found Kael’s eyes across the chamber—a swift, searing glance that communicated only one message: We survived the trap.
Jerrick placed his newly bound arm protectively across his chest, guarding the emptiness where the Elder God’s power had been coiled. He knew Theron had neutralized his outward power, but in doing so, he had swallowed a lie.
The true work—the work of the poisoned shackle—had just begun.