The marble hall of the High Council was so silent Rowan could hear the faint hum of psychic fields buzzing above their heads.

Cold light spilled from the skylight, gleaming on the gold emblem behind the judges’ dais—a crowned lion, its mane threaded with chains.

Every match in the Guideverse began here, under the scrutiny of the Council and the public eye.

And every high-rank pairing was treated less like a ceremony… and more like a spectacle.

“Compatibility rate: 100%,” the announcer’s voice rang through the chamber.

The number glowed in crimson letters on the massive screen, casting an eerie glow over Rowan’s pale face.

He kept his eyes forward, though his stomach tightened. Perfect match. He hated those words. They didn’t mean harmony. They meant ownership.

His wrists were locked in silver-etched manacles, psychic dampeners humming softly against his skin. Even without them, he could feel the oppressive air pressing down on him.

Somewhere behind the crowd’s polite silence was the unspoken truth: an S-ranked Guide with a perfect match to an SSS Esper didn’t get a choice.

The heavy double doors opened at the far end of the hall. A ripple went through the audience.

The man who entered moved like he owned the air itself.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a tailored black suit with a crimson tie that caught the light like fresh blood. His black hair was slicked back, sharp lines framing a face carved in perfect control.

His presence was like a psychic storm barely leashed.

Alder Varyn.

Rank: Esper SSS. Codename: Dominion King.

Rumors wrapped around his name like barbed wire.

Four Guides before Rowan—two broken beyond repair, one vanished without a trace, and the last… dead.

The crowd’s whispers swelled, but Alder ignored them. His dark eyes found Rowan immediately, assessing him with a slow, deliberate sweep.

“Bring them forward,” Alder’s voice cut through the air, low and commanding. Not a request—an order.

Two Council guards pushed Rowan forward. The closer he got, the heavier the atmosphere became, Alder’s psychic pressure curling around him like invisible chains.

Then—contact. Not physical, but mental. A featherlight brush against Rowan’s mind, testing the surface. A warning and a promise in one.

Rowan straightened his spine. “I’m not your pet.”

Alder’s gloved hand caught his chin, tilting it upward until their eyes locked.

“No,” Alder said, his tone like velvet over steel. “You’re my Guide.”

Gasps rippled through the hall. The Council Head’s raised hand silenced them, signaling the start of the ritual.

A circle of golden light flared to life beneath their feet. Fine strands of energy rose like smoke, weaving into glowing chains that wrapped around Rowan’s wrists before slithering toward Alder. The psychic link clicked into place with a sharp snap.

A rush of sensation flooded Rowan’s mind—Alder’s power, raw and jagged, colliding with his own calm center. It was like standing in the heart of a storm while holding the only unshakable ground.

It was intoxicating. And terrifying.

Alder didn’t let go. He stepped close, the faint scent of smoke and leather brushing against Rowan’s senses. His lips hovered near Rowan’s ear.

“Try to run,” Alder murmured, low enough only Rowan could hear, “and you’ll learn exactly how unbreakable this chain is.”

The hall erupted into applause.

Rowan didn’t hear it.

All he could feel was the weight of the chain… and the dangerous pull in his chest, as if the link was already rewriting something deep inside him.

The applause faded into the marble walls, leaving only the low hum of the still-glowing bond circle. Rowan’s wrists ached where the golden chains had burned their presence into his skin, a heat that felt more psychic than physical.

The Council’s closing remarks were a blur—phrases like “Historic pairing” and “Fortunate alliance” swam uselessly in his ears. What mattered was the weight at his side: Alder’s presence. Even standing still, the man’s aura pressed against him, an unyielding gravity.

When the hall emptied, two guards approached to escort Rowan to the standard Guide quarters.

They never reached him.

“Leave,” Alder said without looking at them. The tone wasn’t loud, but it cracked like a whip in the psychic field. The guards froze, then retreated without a word.

Rowan’s jaw tightened. “I was told I’d be assigned my own room—”

“You were told wrong,” Alder interrupted smoothly, turning toward the massive double doors at the rear of the hall. “You’re coming with me.”

The walk through the High Council’s corridors was a study in control. Alder didn’t touch him, yet Rowan could feel the invisible thread pulling him forward, an aftereffect of the bond. Every step made the sensation sharper—like the chain was learning his rhythm, syncing with his pulse.

They reached a private lift. Inside, Alder pressed a gloved finger against the panel, and the doors sealed with a hiss.

The silence was suffocating.

Rowan broke it. “You’re wasting your time. If you think a perfect match means I’ll obey you—”

Alder’s head tilted slightly, as if listening to something far away. Then Rowan felt it—a psychic tug, deep inside his mind. Not invasive, but undeniably intimate. Like a hand brushing against the inside of his thoughts.

The air seemed to thin. Rowan stumbled back a step, hitting the lift’s wall.

“What—are you—”

“Testing,” Alder murmured, stepping closer. “Your limits. Your tolerance. Your breaking point.”

Rowan forced his breath steady. “And if I don’t break?”

A faint smirk touched Alder’s mouth, a rare shift from his otherwise impassive face. “Then you might actually survive me.”

The lift stopped with a soft chime, and the doors opened into a vast private residence—dark polished floors, towering windows overlooking the city, and an entire wall of dimly glowing screens tracking Esper activity.

“This,” Alder said, stepping inside without looking back, “is where you’ll stay. Guides assigned to me do not roam freely.”

Rowan lingered in the doorway, refusing to step further. “You’ve had four Guides before me.”

“Three,” Alder corrected. “The fourth was a pretender. They didn’t last a week.”

Rowan’s pulse quickened, but his expression stayed flat. “And how long do you expect me to last?”

Alder turned then, eyes locking on his with a weight that made Rowan’s breath hitch. “Long enough,” he said softly, “for you to learn that running isn’t the same as escaping.”

The bond pulsed between them, a steady, insistent heartbeat. Rowan could feel his own power resonating faintly with Alder’s, as if the chain they’d forged in the hall had followed them here—alive, watching, waiting.

And in that moment, Rowan realized the truth: this wasn’t the start of a partnership.

It was the start of captivity.

The silence in Alder’s penthouse was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the city beyond the glass. Rowan stood just inside the doorway, still unwilling to take another step.

Alder removed his gloves slowly, methodically, as though unwrapping a weapon. “You’ve guided before,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Rowan’s tone was flat. “And I’ve survived all of them.”

Alder’s gaze sharpened, the faintest flicker of something like interest passing through his eyes. “Good. Then you know what comes next.”

Rowan’s stomach sank. “Here? Now?”

“Do you think I wait until my storms break?” Alder stepped closer, the bond between them flaring to life. “I don’t let my power decide for me. I decide.”

The chain in Rowan’s mind tightened, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. It wasn’t painful—not yet—but it demanded his focus, pulling his awareness toward Alder. He could feel it: a low, steady thrum like distant thunder.

“You’re pushing,” Rowan said quietly.

“I’m opening the door,” Alder replied. “Step through.”

Rowan exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. Guiding wasn’t about submission—it was about connection. At least, that’s what he told himself as he let his mental barriers part just enough for Alder’s presence to slip in.

The first touch was heat. Not warmth—heat. Alder’s mind pressed against his like a stormfront, every edge sharp, every movement deliberate. Rowan anchored himself, sending a calm wave forward, a silver thread weaving into the black mass of Alder’s psychic energy.

The storm swirled, testing him. Lightning cracked in the distance—metaphor, but vivid enough to make his chest tighten.

“Too deep,” Rowan murmured, steadying his breath. “Ease back.”

“You think you can set the terms?” Alder’s voice was calm, but the pressure increased, coiling around Rowan’s mind like smoke and steel.

Rowan’s hands curled into fists. “You’ll burn me out if you push harder.”

“And you’ll hold,” Alder countered. “Because you’re mine.”

The words cut sharper than the psychic pressure. Rowan’s pulse spiked, and his focus nearly slipped—but he held. He fed another wave of calm into the link, letting it flow through Alder’s mind. The storm slowed fractionally, lightning dimming.

For a heartbeat, Rowan felt something unexpected beneath the chaos: an ache. Loneliness, raw and buried deep, so well-hidden it almost slipped past him.

He hesitated. “You…”

Alder’s presence surged forward, smothering whatever Rowan had been about to say. The storm roared back, this time with heat curling low in Rowan’s stomach. He realized with a cold jolt that Alder was using the bond not just to test him—he was tasting his reactions.

“Steady,” Alder murmured. It wasn’t a command this time. It was an observation.

Rowan forced the bond to stabilize, refusing to let Alder see the spike of adrenaline in his system. Slowly, the psychic storm eased, pulling back until it hovered just at the edge of his mind, restrained but watchful.

Alder opened his eyes first. “You didn’t break.”

“You sound disappointed,” Rowan said, his voice hoarse.

“Not at all.” Alder reached past him, taking his gloves from the table. “It means you’ll last.”

Rowan took a step back, his chest still tight from the lingering pressure. “If that’s all—”

“It’s not,” Alder said, slipping the gloves back on. “We’ll do this again tomorrow. And the day after. Until you learn not just to hold me… but to want to.”

The words hung between them, heavy as the chain in Rowan’s mind.

And as Rowan turned away, he hated himself for the truth he couldn’t ignore—somewhere in that storm, a part of him already did.